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Contents

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Contents

Publisher Page

Epic Website

Dedication

Chapter Zero

PART I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

PART II

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

PART III

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

PART IV

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

PART V

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

E7 Title Reveal

Epic Website-1

Acknowledgments

Author Bio

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Guide

Contents

Start of Content

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Publisher Page

The Devil You Don’t

Lee Stephen

Stone Aside Publishing, L.L.C.

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Epic Website

Lee Stephen’s Official Site

www.epicuniverse.com

Social Media

https://twitter.com/epicuniverse

https://www.facebook.com/epicuniverse

https://www.instagram.com/bayouwriter/

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCycskYtl0j3pw3elL5u7ImQ

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Dedication

Dedicated to

GOD

For your endless provision, love, and grace.

Philippians 4:19

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Chapter Zero

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.

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PART I

PART I

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Chapter One

Chapter One

Wednesday, March 28th, 0012 NE

2030 hours

Atami, Shizuoka Prefecture, Japan

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. Thump. Thump.

Groaning behind closed lids, Natalie Rockwell winced as the head-pounding sound assaulted her eardrums, its incessant rhythm waking her from her slumber like a rubber mallet to the skull. As the captain stretched her neck from the tortuously bad angle it was propped on the floor, she squinted. In a murmur, she inhaled and spoke a single word.

“Scott.”

Even as the name rolled off her swollen, busted lips, she didn’t quite know where it had come from. If she was awakening from a dream, she couldn’t recall what it had been about. Forcing her tired eyes open, she peered across the dimly lit chamber.

She was lying on the floor of a dingy room with concrete walls full of cracks and graffiti, the latter of which was scrawled in Japanese kanji, none of which she could interpret. This place—wherever it was—looked like a dump or some slumlord’s basement. Looking down, she saw that she was wearing the same bloodstained, mud-splattered armor she’d worn in the forest. She stunk of sweat and muck.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

That pounding—that pulsing. This was club music. Pure trance, or techno, or whatever the kids called it. It was like Natalie was hidden away beneath a rave. Where the hell was she?

“Tachiagaru.”

The voice—a woman’s—arose from behind Natalie’s head. Flinching too quickly to prepare herself for the pain that resulted, Natalie grimaced and rolled onto her side. In the back of the chamber, from its darkest, most shadowed corner, a young Japanese woman rose to her feet. She was a tiny thing, dressed from head to toe in…something. Dangling metal trinkets, mesh leggings on a single leg, a black leather jacket with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Punk chic, if such a thing existed. Her almond-shaped eyes observed Natalie beneath slanted, spiky hair that was half jet-black, half orange rust. Before Natalie could address the woman, she spoke again—her words backed this time by the subtle brandishing of a silver pistol. “Tachiagaru,” she said again, waving the pistol in an upward motion. “Up, up.”

Up, up. That, Natalie understood. Eyeing the Japanese girl warily, she rolled onto her knees to push to her feet. The moment her right arm pressed against the floor, a sharp pain stung her biceps. Eyes watering, she held herself up with her left hand and clutched her right arm against her chest.

A deep cut. Even in her foggy-headed state, she remembered clearly how it had happened. Someone from the EDEN strike team had sliced her arm with a knife. It’d been a two-on-one fight, with she and Becan McCrae facing off against the man. Oleg, Becan had called him. Natalie knew nothing about the man other than his name. Drawing deep breaths through clenched teeth, Natalie looked at her guardian again. The spiky-haired woman was still staring at her from the corner, handgun at the ready. Natalie dropped her chin and shook her head. “You don’t need the gun. I couldn’t do anything if I wanted to.” With every second of awareness, new pains were coming to her. Numbness on her face, the throb of a missing tooth, a dull hurt on her left shin—not to mention her arm. Natalie was a mess and in no shape to contend with anyone—not even a little punk princess like this.

“Tachiagaru,” the woman said yet again.

“God, can you speak vecking English?”

Crouching down slowly but with unwavering suspicion, the woman spoke. “Up. Get go.” She motioned with the pistol toward the chamber door. “Go.”

Natalie sighed. “Well, I guess that’s a start.” With her right arm still curled against her chest, she pushed herself up with her left one. Several agonizing seconds later, she was limping toward the door with the woman in tow.

With every step Natalie took down the catacomb-like passageway, the events of their escape from EDEN returned to her. She and her small band of outlaw survivors had fled toward the city of Atami. EDEN soldiers, some of them Vectors, had been hot on their heels.

So many dead. Colonel Lilan. Becan, Jayden. Half of the slayers Valentin Lukin gave us.

Every ten or so meters, the corridor branched into different directions, all of which were populated by young Japanese adults not dissimilar in fashion sense to the woman with the pistol. As she passed them, they all made fleeting eye contact with her, their expressions mostly curious. None of them seemed surprised by the sight of a weapon in their midst. These must have been gang members of some kind. Yakuza.

Yes—they were Yakuza. She remembered that now. Logan had made an emergency comm call to someone he knew in Japan. The next thing Natalie remembered, private vehicles were pouring onto the outskirts of Atami, engaging the police, aiding the outlaws in their escape.

What in the hell’s going on? Who does Logan know in the Yakuza? He’d mentioned something in the call about a favor being owed. Not once in all the time that Natalie had known him had Logan indicated to the faintest degree that he was associated with Japanese gangs.

“Tachidomaru,” the woman with the pistol said.

When Natalie glanced back for direction, her escort nodded toward a short hallway on the right. Looking down it, Natalie saw that it ended with a single door. Tacked onto the wall was the universal symbol for a women’s restroom.

“Ikimasu.”

Translation not required. The woman was telling Natalie to go there. Just the same, this base level of communication was wearing thin. “What’s your name?” Natalie asked, looking back as she limped toward the door. “I’m Natalie. Rockwell.”

Face devoid of emotion, the woman gestured to the door and said again, “Ikimasu.”

Jaw firming, Natalie set her sights squarely ahead. Where’s Logan? Where is everybody? For as vividly as she could recall the survivors diving into black SUVs to make their escape, what happened after that was a total blank. They’d begun driving through Atami’s streets—she could recall that. The rain was slamming onto the SUV’s roof. They were moving at high speeds, making sharp turns to evade the city’s blindsided police force. Then…

Natalie winced, as if the question of what happened next prompted a specific sensation to arise. Gently, she lifted her hand to rub the side of her neck.

A pin prick. She could sense where it’d gone into her skin. She could feel the raised bump with her fingers.

…we were drugged.

Despite the suddenness of the revelation, Natalie couldn’t bring herself to be wholly surprised. Slowly but surely, the pieces were coming together. Logan reached out for help from the Yakuza, and the Yakuza answered. Though they must have had some sort of relationship with Logan, they surely knew nothing of Natalie and the outlaws. The last thing they’d want was troublesome cargo. Unconscious cargo, though? They probably handled that on a regular basis. But where was Natalie now, and where was everyone else?

Pushing through the restroom door, Natalie scanned the room for any signs of life. There were two other women present, both of whom seemed stoned out of their minds and who were swaying in unison along the far wall. As soon as the woman with the pistol entered behind Natalie, she barked out orders like a yipping dog. Though Natalie couldn’t understand the Japanese, whatever she said sobered up the two druggies quickly. Darting away from the wall, they slid past Natalie and out of the door without a passing glance.

Waving her pistol in the direction of the room, the woman said, “Kigaete kudasai.” Removing the backpack that was slung over her shoulder, she tossed it on the floor in front of Natalie. As she repeated whatever it was that she’d said, she took a step back toward the door, letting it swing shut in her wake as she disappeared through it.

Having bent down to unzip the backpack, Natalie shuffled haphazardly through its contents. A white knitted sweater and pair of dark blue jeans, all folded up alongside clean undergarments. A life of luxury compared to the dingy, tattered mess she was wearing now. Her eyes returned to the bag, where they focused on a sticker of an anime kitten. And just like that, the punk princess’s moniker was born—at least in Natalie’s head.

Kitty, it is.

Outside, Natalie could hear Kitty’s high-pitched voice yapping into a comm. Assertive little thing, whatever it was she was saying. Picking up the backpack, Natalie wandered over to the sink nearest the stall, where she plopped it on the floor.

For the first time, Natalie could see herself in the vanity mirror. Through the cracks and black blotches that adorned the mirror’s surface, a woman was staring back that Natalie scarcely recognized. The whole left side of her face was purple and yellow, nowhere so much as around her eye, which displayed a shiner the likes of which she’d never earned before. Her lip was busted, her face nicked up. She looked like she’d been in a car accident. Tightening her jaw, she moved her tongue around her mouth to search for the tooth she knew she’d broken. She could feel the sharp edge and large gap it’d left. She glowered at her reflection. Even her chestnut hair was matted with dried blood.

Oleg might have been the one to do this to her, but he was working on behalf of EDEN. Or at least a part of EDEN that was at the very top. As far as she was concerned, that implicated the whole lot of them.

They used Scott’s brother against him. They were going to kill him just like Scott and the rest of us. What kind of organization does that?

Not the kind she’d signed up to fight with. Before she knew it, she was shaking her head in the mirror. “You fool.”

Natalie had had no objective way of knowing if Scott had been right about the recording device they’d hijacked the train to retrieve, but at this point, Scott wasn’t the one on trial. EDEN was guilty as sin.

But of course, that didn’t exonerate her. Heart in the right place or not, Natalie had been fooled twice now—first by Scott, then by EDEN itself. And if she’d been wrong about Logan in some way, with his involvement with the Yakuza…

…she didn’t know what to think anymore. The only thing she knew for certain was that staring at her reflection wasn’t going to solve anything. If Kitty wanted her to change into new clothes, then change she would. After glancing at the door to ensure her privacy, Natalie began removing her mud-crusted gear.

All the while Natalie cleaned herself off, her mind retraced every event that had led to this point. Her meeting Scott in Cairo. Her being betrayed by him. Or so she’d thought. She thought about Krasnoyarsk, where Lilan and the Falcons came into the picture for the first time, then about the stomach-flipping flight that took them to Northern Forge. Her turn to outlaw status had not come easily. It’d taken the testimonies of every person from Falcon Platoon. It’d taken the swallowing of more pride than she knew she had in her. It’d taken her putting herself in Scott’s shoes and asking if she would have done the same thing had their roles been reversed. When the answer to that question started to become maybe, that was when the true self-reflection began. She hadn’t definitively known what side she was on until she saw Mark Remington on that train. Until she saw that EDEN was willing to use an innocent cadet as leverage—to kill him, even—just to get to his brother. That spoke of something far more sinister than what Scott had done to her in Egypt. She regretted nothing about going on the doomed train mission that’d landed her where she was now. It had opened her eyes fully. It had shown her the truth about EDEN in a way Scott never could have.

Turning the faucet’s rusted knob, she ugh-ed in disgust when brown water gushed out. Summoning what little dignity she had left, she cupped her hands beneath it, lowered her head, and splashed a handful onto her face. After several more splashes and some serious rubbing, she looked at herself again. Clean, yes, but no amount of face-splashing was going to hide those injuries. It was what it was. Angling her head to inspect her grungy hair, she groaned in revulsion and lowered her head again. Holding her hair beneath the open faucet, she combed her fingers through it to get as much gunk out as possible. It wouldn’t be thoroughly clean, but at least she could keep it wet enough to slick back in a way that looked quasi-intentional. Finished with her work, Natalie looked into the mirror. She looked like a drowned, beat up rat. Hands on her hips, she shook her head. The wet look meets assault and battery. She sighed and tied her damp strands into a ponytail. Whatever. Sliding the white sweater down over her chest, Natalie shook her hair free from it then looked at herself in the mirror. Dressed to the nines but looking like the survivor of…well, a train wreck. After stuffing her dirty gear into the backpack, she zipped it up and turned to the door.

I need to find the Falcons. I need to find Logan. I need to find out what the hell is going on. With her mind set to forward, Natalie opened the door and stepped back into the hall. Once more, her eyes found Kitty, but this time, her escort wasn’t alone.

Standing next to the punk princess was a middle-aged Japanese man with jet black, parted hair. Wearing a black and orange satin outfit that skirted the line between ninja garb and a bathrobe, he stood beside Kitty with his dark eyes on Natalie and his hands lifted in something akin to a prayer pose. Several seconds after an awkward stare-down, the man offered a courteous bow. “Miss Rockwell.”

English, at last. As the trance music faded into the background of her mind, Natalie took a cautious step forward, just enough to let the bathroom door ease shut behind her. Wary but hopeful, she angled her head. There was no need to speak what she was conveying. The look on her face made it clear. She wanted to know who this man was.

“I am sure you must have many questions,” the man said, eyes rising again to meet hers, though the prayer hands remained. “Allow me to answer one of them now. My name is Nobu Tachibana. I am the…” Nobu paused, as if searching for the right words. “…oyabun, or father head, if you will, of the Ikeda-kai in Atami.”

Never before had Natalie heard of the term oyabun, but father head sounded a lot like godfather. Was Ikeda-kai the name of a Yakuza family? Was she talking to the man at the top of it?

Nobu gestured to Kitty. “I hope that my kobun, Youko Kita, was not too inhospitable.”

So, the punk princess had a name. Youko “Kitty” Kita. It was almost too perfect.

“We have much to discuss,” Nobu said, stepping to the side and gesturing for Natalie to join him. “Please, walk with me.”

“Where is my crew?” Natalie asked without moving.

Nobu paused before answering. “They are in my protection.”

“Like I was in your protection, with this chick holding a gun to my head?” She didn’t care if she sounded rude. It was exactly what she’d awoken to. Situations didn’t get much more frank than that.

Once again, there was silence. Nobu’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Natalie from the hall. At long last, a smile crept out. “The Ikiryō was right about you.”

“The what?”

“He said you were direct.”

“Who is the…” She let the statement hang for Nobu to pick up.

He didn’t. Gesturing again, he said, “Please, this way.”

With trepidation but no other options, Natalie followed Nobu and Youko up the hall.

With every step the trio took, the pulsing trance music grew louder, shaking the walls around Natalie with every thump of electronically enhanced bass. Each time they passed someone in the hall, be it a stoned-out druggie or a security guard, Natalie noticed that eye contact with Nobu was deliberately avoided. After passing through several doors and around several corners in the labyrinth, Natalie found herself following him up a short stairwell. Her shin was aching, but she sucked it up to keep pace. At long last, with the trance music reaching a volume that was bordering on unbearable, she caught sight of a metal door ahead. Sucking in her breath, she braced for whatever was on the other side. A guard by the door bowed as Nobu approached, then he pushed the door open.

Sound and lights. Those were the only things Natalie could register. She winced as violet laser beams illuminated the mob of dancers before her, their frenetically gyrating forms indistinguishable from each other amid the flashing lights and smoky haze. The music was pounding now—thumping her chest like a heart attack.

“This way, Miss Rockwell!” Nobu shouted over the noise.

Lost in sensory overload, Natalie could barely make out Nobu’s voice. Emerald eyes fighting to adjust, she was finally able to block out the strobe lights and find Nobu beside her. Youko placed her hand against Natalie’s back, pushing her forward as if directing a blind person.

This was a sight to behold. With every second that passed, more and more of the room’s details came into focus. It was spacious—a rave in every sense. There was a heavy smell of narcotics in the air, and the dancers were moving like they were tripping on acid. Keeping her head down, Natalie went where Youko pushed her, having long lost Nobu in the crowd.

At last, she saw him again, approaching a pair of guards who were protecting an elevator built into the far wall. Nobu had a brief exchange with the guards, both of whom bowed and stepped aside to allow him entry. Quickening her pace, Natalie slipped in with Youko behind her. Moments later, the elevator doors mercifully closed.

“God,” Natalie said, the word slipping out and laced with anguish. As the elevator began its ascent, the thumping of the rave diminished until it was bearable. Natalie winced as she closed her eyes and leaned her head back. Getting out of that room was a release.

There was no comment from Nobu or Youko regarding the scene they’d just witnessed. They simply stayed quiet for the ride. After having risen at least three or four floors, the elevator stopped, and a door on its rear wall opened. Once more, she was presented with a corridor. Its floor was made of dark wood that had a lustrous gleam, and the walls were painted like wheat. Thankful to just be in a place that looked clean, Natalie followed Nobu as he led her onward. At the end of the corridor was another door and another pair of guards, who after their customary bow allowed Nobu and his guests entry.

It was Nobu’s suite. There was no doubt about it. The living room the door opened into was wide and decorated with couches, wall-mounted televisions, and every luxury a crime lord could be afforded, from a wet bar, to a second wet bar, to an open dining room with a chandelier, to an assortment of Japanese decorations and electronic devices, none of which Natalie could identify.

“Please,” Nobu said, pointing to the leather couch as he slipped behind the nearest wet bar. As Natalie lowered herself onto the couch, Nobu and Youko shared a brief exchange in Japanese. Youko bowed, then promptly stepped to the front door, where she about-faced to stand guard.

There are no windows. The thought struck Natalie as her eyes wandered the penthouse suite. It wasn’t surprising, but it said a lot—none of which she wanted to think about.

“Do you have a favorite drink?” Nobu asked.

“Where is my crew?”

Chuckling again, Nobu placed two small glasses on the counter and filled them with clear liquid. Taking one in each hand, he sauntered Natalie’s way. “Awamori,” he said, identifying the drink in the glasses as he handed one to her. “Very strong, so go slow.”

“Answer my question.” Natalie didn’t want a drink, and if she did, it’d be a beer. “Where is my crew?”

Nobu smiled faintly and placed her glass on the coffee table. Unlike Natalie, he was all too prepared to take a sip himself. Ahh-ing with satisfaction, he sat down on the couch across from her, leaned back, and crossed his legs. “I can tell that you are slow to trust. I understand. I would be, too, had I gone through what you’ve gone through.”

This man had no idea what she’d gone through.

“It is imperative, however, that you learn to trust me. We both want the same thing.”

“The same thing, huh?” she asked. “And what, pray tell, is that?”

Angling his head almost curiously, he answered, “For you to leave.”

Okay—so that was unexpected. The tension in her shoulders relenting a bit, she leaned back into the couch, her gaze focused on the Japanese man as he continued.

“Your presence here poses a great threat to the Ikeda-kai. If you are found to be here, it will not be law enforcement that comes knocking on our door. It will be Vector Squad.” He smiled pleasantly. “I am a confident man, but I am not a fool. Not only am I in possession of the people Captain Faerber sought to capture, thanks to you, I also possess one of his soldiers. I do not think he would take kindly to my involvement in such affairs.”

He was talking about Lisa Tiffin. And he was right.

“And so that is why I urge you to trust me,” Nobu said. “It is the means by which we both will find what we seek: a swift resolution to our mutually shared problem.”

With all that she’d experienced recently, Natalie was in anything but a trusting mood. If she was being honest with herself, it just felt more satisfying to be disagreeable. But she couldn’t argue with anything Nobu was saying. And if he wanted her and her crew gone, well, there was no way she’d argue against that. “Okay,” she said simply, nodding. “I’m listening.” For the sake of getting out of there, she’d give Nobu the benefit of the doubt—and the trust that he sought.

Nobu’s smile slowly grew. “The Ikiryō says you come from the Nightmen.”

There was that word again. There was no doubt now that it was a reference to Logan. “Why do you keep calling him that?”

“Because it is the only name of his that bears meaning here. I do not know ‘Logan Marshall.’”

“What does it mean?”

Hesitating as if contemplating whether or not to humor the question, he eventually answered, “An Ikiryō is the spirit of a living man that leaves its host body to torment others.”

Good God. Why in the hell is Logan called that?

“It is an unusual concept to you, perhaps, but it has served your friend well over the years.”

Now acutely interested, Natalie leaned forward and cupped her hands together, staring at Nobu with intensity. “What exactly does Logan do here?”

Nobu chuckled knowingly. “That is a question better posed to him. I do not want to…put words into his mouth, as you say.”

“Was he a hitman?”

“Again, I will allow him to answer that question. It is not a word I would personally use to describe him.”

That answer had yes written all over it.

“He will be here shortly, as will the rest of your crew. You will have plenty of time to ask them all the questions you wish.” His expression growing more serious, he leveled off his head to stare intently at her. “In order for us to proceed, Miss Rockwell, I must be able to contact the Nightmen. I will need you to provide me with whatever contact information you can.”

Now that…was troubling. Half-shaking her head, Natalie said, “We were under strict instruction to avoid comm chatter at all costs. Now obviously, that didn’t work out for us, but still, in our current state, I don’t know how smart it is to tempt fate like that.” The last thing they needed, as Nobu had already stated, was Vector beating down their door. It would only take one second of intercepted comm chatter to make that happen.

“I assure you, we have means of utilizing the global comm network that are quite secure.”

“So did the Nightmen. As I’m sure you can see, that didn’t work out for us.” It was the understatement of the century. EDEN had known exactly when, where, and how to hit them.

Though the smile never left Nobu’s face, it did shift into something slightly more forced. “EDEN only knows to look for registered signals. We have many throwaway comms. This is the only means by which we can proceed.”

“I just…I can’t. I’m sorry, but—”

“Do you want to leave, Miss Rockwell?”

Mouth still open from what she was saying before he interrupted, she thought on the question. Of course she wanted to leave.

Picking up on her unspoken yes, Nobu said, “Then you must learn to trust me. I cannot tell you how the Nightmen’s signals were intercepted, if indeed that is how EDEN came to find you. But I can tell you that we are quite accustomed to communicating on underground networks.” Dipping his head to look deeply at her, he said, “Please, Miss Rockwell. Extend to me this trust. You already know I wish to avoid EDEN interference at all costs. This would be handled with the utmost caution.”

Natalie didn’t like the idea of this—not at all—but he was probably right in saying that it was their only option. What else were she and the survivors supposed to do? Stroll over to the airport and hop a flight to Norilsk? That wasn’t happening anytime soon. Pressing her palm to her forehead, she finally said, “All right. If you need their contact info, I’ll help you get it. You ought to be able to pull it from my comm.” She glanced at her backpack. “It’s in there along with my gear.”

“Thank you.” Nobu turned his attention to Youko. He spoke to her in Japanese, and then as she retrieved the bag, he said, “I will have my people begin this right away.”

As Youko marched with the bag to the door then out of the room, Natalie couldn’t help but wonder whether she’d made the right decision. In the end, it didn’t matter. They’d have searched the bag on their own anyway. Eyes returning to Nobu, she asked, “When can I see my crew?”

“I wanted the opportunity to speak with you before involving any of them. But now that we have spoken, they will be brought here at once.”

In other words, he’d planned to use them as leverage to ensure she cooperated.

Nobu continued. “Logan is already en route and will be here shortly.”

“I had a man who was burned,” she said, referring to Jakob Reinhardt. “A pilot. How is he?”

There was a brief pause before the oyabun answered, “I would be lying if I said that I knew the specific medical conditions of any of your crew members. But they are all able to be transported, and they will all be here soon.” Before Natalie could ask a follow-up, Nobu was rising from the couch and offering her a smile. “I am afraid, now, Miss Rockwell, that I must be going.”

“So soon?” she ask, dryly.

Nobu chuckled. “Yes. You have given me what I asked for, and I must now meet my end of the bargain. As soon as I make contact with your Nightman allies in Russia, I will make arrangements for you and your friends to be retrieved. As soon as it is safe, of course. EDEN patrols and law enforcement are combing the streets. Arranging any sort of transportation now would be far too risky.”

But apparently not too risky to transport my crewmates here. Something smelled fishy.

“For all of our sakes, I am afraid you must reside here until it is safe to move you. At that point, the arrangements will be made.”

“And how long will that be?”

Smiling in apology, he said, “I do not know.”

“I mean, give me a gauge, here. A day, a week? A month?”

“When the streets are clear from patrols, however long that may take. I will attempt to speed that process along by spreading word on the street that you have left Atami.” He bowed, a gesture Natalie was beginning to hate. “As soon as I have any information for you, I will provide it. In the meantime, please,” he said, gesturing toward the two doors, each on opposite walls at the end of the suite, “make yourself comfortable here. All of this suite’s amenities are yours to use. I will have Youko bring more clothes for you soon, if you wish to bathe.”

Of course, she wished to bathe. Almost as much as she wished to get her crew and leave.

“I am sure we will speak again soon,” Nobu said. Before she could find something to say in response, he was making his way toward the suite door. Several seconds later, he was gone.

Natalie turned her focus to the far wall. Her gaze became lost. How did we end up here?

“Shawa.” Barely into her reverie, Natalie looked back at Youko. The punk princess pointed in the direction of the rooms that Nobu had indicated. Once again, she said, “Shawa.”

“Shower. I got it.” Pushing up from the sofa and wincing, she made her way in the direction of the indicated bathroom. After the insanity of waking up on a concrete floor with a pistol pointed at her, walking through a rave, then having a disconcerting conversation with the godfather of a Japanese Yakuza clan, a little lathering would provide a much-needed reprieve. As long as she got to do it by herself—and concerning that, she was taking no chances. Locking the bathroom, Natalie wandered across the stone floor, removed her clothes, and prepared to feel renewed.

Five minutes later, she was unlocking the bathroom door and stepping back into the main room of the suite, fully dressed and just as grime-covered as before. As Youko raised a curious eyebrow, Natalie offered the most sheepish of embarrassed expressions. “I can’t figure it out.”

Youko cocked her head.

“I mean it,” said Natalie. “There’s like, a bench, a couple of buckets, and a faucet with a control panel. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” With a sigh, she waited for the punk princess to translate on her own.

With a smirk, Youko sashayed into the bathroom to teach the American how to bathe.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Date unknown

Time unknown

Kalar System

Akaarist Quadrant

HOW UNIMPRESSIVE it looked now. How trivial and overstated. As Svetlana floated in microgravity in the center of the Noboat’s prison cell—the very one in which she’d shared wall space with Tauthin—she rotated the dried out, shriveled piece of flesh that had once been her nose in her fingers. Dainty, her human comrades had called it. Supposedly upturned at that perfect angle that made it look delicate and refined. She used to crinkle it without even trying. For a woman with golden hair and eyes as blue as the ocean, that it was her nose that people noticed said something of significance. Or at least, that was the way she’d always seen it. But times change. Flesh dries out. Some things, when lost, never return.

Svetlana maneuvered the shriveled nose to the middle of her fingers. Jaw setting, she pinched them together. As the dried-out nose was squished, what little moisture remained were pushed up through its surface. It wasn’t even enough to form a droplet—it just glistened and got on her fingers. There was a morbid allure to it, a fascination with the act of mutilating one’s own severed, rotten flesh. Macabre, perhaps, but part of her was sad when there was no liquid left to squeeze.

Opening her fingers, Svetlana released it, and with a flick, sent it drifting across the room. With Nagogg’s spear firm in her left hand, she pivoted around in the air. Blood from Nagogg’s body still stained the hall behind her—it still stained her. As for Nagogg’s corpse—and the corpses of his followers—they were now safely disposed of inside Mishka’s stomach. Sick pleasure aside of seeing a crew devoured by their own pet, it was the cleanest way to get rid of the bodies. Watching Mishka eat them had been almost therapeutic.

Master?

Ei’dorinthal’s voice came to Svetlana’s mind. Her pupils shifted to look at the wall. Though she didn’t reply with a direct thought, her mental openness prompted the Ithini, who was still in the bridge, to continue.

We are here and waiting.

With a small dip of the head, she answered in her mind, I will be there in a moment.

There came a sensation of affirmation, then the mental link was closed.

Closing her eyes, Svetlana drew in a long, labored breath—one made much more difficult without a nose. She’d never considered the importance of it as a funnel for air until now. But she’d suck it up—literally and figuratively. There were important matters to tend to, and she didn’t want to leave her crew waiting.

Never could Svetlana have conjured up a nightmare as hellish as the one she’d experienced on that ship. To be stripped of her garments, to have her nose cut off, to be clasped to the floor next to Nagogg’s chair and christened with canrassi urine and drool. She’d once considered Novosibirsk hell on Earth. She’d had no idea how good she’d had it.

After the mutiny, Svetlana had ordered Tauthin to take the Noboat to the edge of the star system—to a place where they could drift undetected while she sorted things out. For some reason she was yet to understand, a Noboat could either dematerialize from view or have artificial gravity, but not both at the same time. She preferred being undetected, so dematerialized they remained. There was much she needed to learn about the way this ship worked. That was one thing on the agenda, though her understanding of Noboat mechanics was far less important than her decision as to what to do next.

One of Nagogg’s most heinous acts had been the destruction of an alien vessel—one belonging to a species called the Kalarael. Two Kalarael had been captured by the Bakma, one of whom Svetlana had “met” via Ithini connection. The being—a female—referred to herself as Yigôzien, invoker of custom, whatever that meant. Aesthetically, the Kalarael were magnificent. Their skin was smooth like white porcelain, and their down-feather hair was vibrant and colored like a peacock’s. Their eyes were dark-lined, their ears vulpine. Beneath sharp, canine noses were whiskers, and beyond those, freckles. They were a mishmash of beautiful features—a workmanship that could only be crafted by a God that loved its creations. Svetlana wondered how many of those beautiful features Nagogg would have mutilated had he not been overthrown. She shuddered at the thought that the same God who made the Kalarael made the Khuladi and the Bakma, too.

Yigôzien and her unnamed male counterpart needed to be returned to their homeworld. Svetlana’s first attempt at communication with Yigôzien had been a harrowing affair, the being’s sheer openness overwhelming Ed’s connection and rendering the Ithini unconscious. Whereas humans tended to guard their thoughts and emotions, Yigôzien’s flowed like a raging river. Thankfully, their second attempt went much more smoothly, and Svetlana was able to communicate enough to convey that she, too, was a captive. Now that the Kalarael—like her—were free, something needed to be done with them. Returning them to their homeworld seemed the only proper course of action. She’d certainly want that if she was in their shoes.

Which, as a matter of fact, she was.

Svetlana didn’t know the logistics of a return to Earth. Time scarcely had meaning anymore, so she wasn’t even sure how many days or weeks she’d been a captive. She knew enough about the physics of the universe to know that time, like all things, was relative. To some extent, interstellar travelers like the Khuladi must have found a way to work around that. But even if they did, what if there were small deviations? What if one day to Svetlana now was one-and-a-half to Earth, or the other way around? There was only one way to find out, and that was to make her return. Whatever tricks time dilation had in store would have to be experienced firsthand.

As Svetlana drifted toward the bridge, she ran her fingers along the hallway’s cold, metal walls. There was a warmth to it, not in temperature, but in familiarity. Much as the frozen wasteland of Novosibirsk had been home, so now were these frigid walls in the vastness of space. There was a pulse to this ship that she’d never noticed until recently. One she’d never appreciated. She felt it in her fingers and in her cold, bare feet. Almost a sentience.

Passing the threshold of the antechamber, Svetlana floated into the bridge. Tauthin was there, drifting next to the blinded elite, Kraash-nagun, at helm control. Ed was positioned subserviently next to the captain’s chair along with Mishka, the brown-furred canrassi that had become Svetlana’s personal pet. The beast was attached to the floor via a magnetic harness. At a console along the wall was Wuteel, the coward disguised as a zealot, whose betrayal of Svetlana was part of the reason she’d been captured and tortured in the first place.

The only ones who weren’t present were the two Kalarael. It was Svetlana’s decision not to include them in this meeting. The two beings had been through too much. Svetlana wanted to give them time to themselves—time to reconcile everything they’d been through, not the least of which was encountering extraterrestrial life for what was quite possibly the first time. Having long grown accustomed to not being alone in the universe, it was hard for Svetlana to put herself in that mindset now. But if this was indeed first contact for the Kalarael, the entire experience must have been reality bending for them.

Clearing her throat, Svetlana turned to the Bakma and addressed them in their native tongue—its fluency siphoned from the mind of Nagogg. “Before I discuss anything else, I need to know the status of this ship. Are all systems functioning the way they are supposed to?”

Tauthin’s gaze shifted to Wuteel, as did Svetlana’s. Her eyes narrowed. The engineer held a special place in Svetlana’s heart among those she wished to impale. Of all the atrocities against Svetlana that Nagogg had committed, at least his could be justified—however sickly so—by having never experienced kindness from a human. But Wuteel? She had treated his wounds on the battlefields of Earth. He had no excuse for what he was complicit in. She would not soon forget that.

Wuteel’s black, bulbous eyes looked at Svetlana briefly, only to be averted to the floor shortly after. His shame was evident. “We have enough energy to traverse the Akaarist Quadrant, but no farther. Not until our fuel cells rejuvenate. But all ship systems function, my lord.”

Lord. She’d caught that, and she sensed that her catching it was Wuteel’s intent. Tilting her head, she scrutinized his expression. His pupils—barely discernable in the middle of his near-pitch-black irises—were flitting between her and the floor, as if he wanted to look at her, but couldn’t quite muster the courage. “Nagogg’s title,” she said matter-of-factly.

“You are as he was,” said Wuteel back to her.

Ed’s voice emerged in her mind. Lord is the Khuladi designation for the leader of a military unit or vessel. It is the equivalent of the Earthae word captain.

Lifting her chin and with her eyes solely on Wuteel, she said to the engineer, “Lord is a title for a man. I am a woman, and you will recognize me as such. I am to be called lady.” She wanted them to acknowledge that difference. To remember, every time they spoke her name, that the female they underestimated now ruled them.

Dipping his head, Tauthin said, “Lady.”

“Lady,” said Kraash-nagun, a tad begrudgingly.

As Svetlana’s cold gaze returned to Wuteel, he bowed his head. “Lady Setana.”

Lady Setana. She could work with that. “What must be done to rejuvenate the ship’s fuel cells?”

“We must orbit close to this system’s star,” answered Wuteel, his gnarled talons working the console in front of him. An image of the system’s yellow star appeared on the view screen. “But if we do so, we run an extreme risk of detection.”

“Then I assume we must materialize in order to charge these cells?”

Wuteel nodded. “That is correct. No cells can be charged while a vessel is in the Zone.”

“The Zone,” she repeated. The word made her think of the term Zone Runner, the Bakma designation for what humans called a Noboat. Drifting down into the captain’s chair, her fingers disappeared into Mishka’s thick, brown fur. “Explain to me how this ship works.”

Tauthin and Wuteel swapped a look, their animosity momentarily replaced by shared hesitation, as if both understood the question but neither wanted to answer. It was Tauthin who finally cleared his throat. “If you are asking for technical information, you must understand that there are many working parts to this ship. Perhaps if you were more specific, an appropriate answer could be provided.”

“Explain to me why this vessel cannot have artificial gravity while it is dematerialized,” she said. “And what Nagogg meant when he used the term, ‘gravity wheel.’ And where this vessel dematerializes to in the first place. Why do you call it a Zone Runner? What is this Zone?” Leaning back, she waved a hand nonchalantly in front of her. “Is that specific enough for you?”

Several seconds passed before Tauthin responded. “This ship is called a Zone Runner because when it dematerializes, as you call it, it skims the surface of what we call the ‘Zone.’”

“And the Zone is…?”

“A temporary parallel universe created by a quantum resonator. It is an in-between layer that affects this universe—realspace—but is not a part of it.”

Svetlana tilted her head. “So, you make your own parallel universe?” Not that she was an expert in quantum physics by any stretch, but that explanation hardly seemed feasible.

Drifting toward her, Wuteel asked, “May I have a piece of your clothing?”

Reaching down, she ripped off a washrag-sized piece of sackcloth, its dusty filaments drifting in microgravity. She handed it to Wuteel, who drifted closer to take it.

“And the key to your shackles, my lady?”

Retrieving the key from the small compartment in the captain’s chair where she’d stored it, she handed it to Wuteel. As soon as the engineer had it, he drifted toward the nearest console, holding the key down flat on its surface. Ripping the piece of sackcloth into one larger and one smaller piece with his teeth, he placed the larger piece of cloth atop the key, pressing it down so that it conformed to the key’s shape.

“Imagine that this key is a Zone Runner and that the piece of cloth atop it is realspace.”

Easy enough.

“In this example, realspace is directly affected by the Zone Runner. It touches it. They are connected. Now,” he said, lifting the larger piece of sackcloth off the key and replacing it with the smaller piece, “imagine that this piece of cloth is the Zone, created by the quantum resonator.”

“The large crystal in the engine room,” Tauthin politely interjected.

Wuteel nodded. “Yes, the crystal. As you can see, the created Zone is much smaller than realspace—it is barely enough to cover the Zone Runner. But cover it, it does.” The engineer placed the larger piece of sackcloth atop the smaller piece, pressing it down so the key’s bulge could be seen beneath both pieces. “This represents realspace atop the Zone. Both pieces of cloth are separate. They are different pieces.” With wobbling fingers, he pressed down harder so that the key’s shape became more definable. “Though the Zone Runner, which is in contact with the Zone, is not touching realspace, the shape it occupies is still shared. The Zone Runner’s mass does not touch realspace at all, just as the key does not touch this larger piece of cloth. The bulge you see is due to the physical presence of the Zone, not the Zone Runner. The Zone Runner is there, yet it is not.”

“This explains,” said Tauthin, “why Zone Runners are susceptible to attack even while they are shifted. If that occupied space is intruded upon by one of your aircraft’s missiles, that space is affected both in realspace and in the Zone. If you touch a shifted Zone Runner, you are touching shared space, not the Zone Runner itself.”

“Shifted?” Svetlana asked.

The Bakma leader grunted. “Dematerialized is a human term and not an accurate depiction of the way Zone Runners function. The correct term for ‘dematerialization,’ as you perceive it, is a dimensional shift. The quantum resonator generates a rift, which the Zone Runner travels through to reach the Zone.”

She was wrapping her head around this as best she could. So Noboats, or Zone Runners as the Bakma called them, created pocket-sized, temporary parallel universes that shared occupied space with realspace. This meant that, just as in the real world, no two things could exist in the same place. Wuteel’s explanation that a Zone Runner is “there, but not,” was about as good as Svetlana could have understood it.

“You asked about a gravity wheel,” said Wuteel. “A gravity wheel is another manifestation of the quantum resonator. It creates a wheel-shaped Zone that exists vertically atop a Zone Runner. The wheel spins forward in its own temporary parallel universe, constantly asserting pressure on the downturn upon the vessel and its crew. In effect,” he said, gesturing, “it creates a sort of artificial gravity. It is a different kind of process for a quantum resonator, not completely identical to rift generation for the purpose of travel to the Zone—but it involves the quantum resonator just the same. This is why a Zone Runner cannot shift into the Zone and maintain artificial gravity. The crystal can only handle one or the other at any given time.”

And thus, the most nagging question she’d had about Noboats was answered—why there was a constant shift between artificial gravity and microgravity. Between walking and floating around. “What an incredible inconvenience,” she said.

“It is,” said Tauthin, “but one that is greatly surpassed by the many benefits that Zone Runners provide—capable of travel in both atmosphere and space, able to create artificial gravity, and then of course, disappearing from detectability. No other vessel in the stars is as deadly.”

Wuteel rasped in agreement. “They can even engage human airships while in the Zone—their weapons are just not as effective as they would be in realspace. You will often see Zone Runners popping in and out of realspace as they fire their plasma cannons. This is done to maximize weapon efficiency, not because the weapon cannot be fired while shifted.”

The more Svetlana listened, the more different aspects of the Noboat’s functionality began to make sense. The recharging of its fuel cells, for example. It made sense now why the ship couldn’t recharge whilst in the Zone. Just like a Noboat needed to materialize for its weapons to have any sort of effect beyond occupying the same space as their targets, it would have to be materialized to absorb whatever solar energy it needed to recharge.

This conversation was a good one. This would help her plot their next course—or at least, how to go about it. Her eyes shifted to Mishka. The beast’s fur was almost bristled when in microgravity. Leaning over in her chair, she looked down at the massive beast’s feet, both of which were tucked into sleeves on the floor. Every time the Noboat shifted between realspace and the Zone, Mishka went right for the sleeves, which worked in conjunction with a harness to keep the beast secured on the floor. He was trained to know exactly what to do and exactly when to do it to avoid floating off uncontrollably throughout the ship. “There are so many systems in place here,” she said, just as much to herself as to the Bakma. “I suppose there must be.”

“We have all grown used to the switch between gravity and weightlessness,” Tauthin said. “All of the Khuladi slave species are trained on Zone Runners long before beginning their official service. Oftentimes we do not even think when preparing for microgravity. It is ingrained in our minds as if instinct.” He nodded toward the canrassi. “Even they are trained in such a way. I am sure you have noticed the change in interior light color when a Zone Runner shifts.”

Indeed, she had.

“White lights are for operating in realspace,” Tauthin said. “Dark blue indicates a shift is imminent. When shifted, all lights in a Zone Runner are red. This has nothing to do with the operational aspect of a Zone Runner. It is a visual cue. When your companion,” he said, indicating again to Mishka, “registers those dark blue hues, he knows to prepare either for a sudden loss or gain of gravity, as do the rest of us. For the most part, Zone Runners engage their gravity wheels automatically when they shift into realspace. Many elements of this spacecraft are automated in such a way.”

She’d noticed that herself. The trough in Mishka’s pen shut automatically when the Noboat shifted. Certain pieces of equipment seemed to become magnetized, too, clinging to whatever metallic surface they happened to be sitting upon when microgravity engaged. In addition to that, there were straps and handrails everywhere. Everything in the ship, it seemed, was designed around the Noboat’s central function—the ability to enter the Zone at the cost of walking on two feet. A curious look came over her as she remembered another detail of their attack on the Kalarael vessel. Looking at Wuteel, she asked, “When Nagogg attacked the Kalarael, he asked for the Noboat to leave the Zone and place the Kalarael in the ‘updraft’ of the wheel. Was he talking about the gravity wheel?”

Dipping his head, the engineer answered, “Correct, my lady. Just as a gravity wheel can be a benefit to a Zone Runner’s crew, it can be a devastating weapon against an adversary.”

“Explain.”

“Imagine the wheel in full. We are at the front of the wheel, with force being exerted down upon us. But that wheel has a backside.” He outstretched his hands to demonstrate the position of two different spacecraft. “If we position our Zone Runner so that the backside of the gravity wheel catches the enemy vessel, then they will experience force being exerted in the opposite direction. The effects can be, if not devastating to the crew, very disorienting. We call the backside of a gravity wheel the ‘updraft.’”

Svetlana could understand why such a tactic could be devastating, especially if it came unexpectedly. Imagine minding your own business on a spaceship when suddenly gravity throws you to the ceiling. And then right after that, aliens board your vessel and attack. A gravity wheel attack would only have to last a second—just long enough to literally turn everything in the ship upside down then send it all crashing back down to the floor. A one-second flipping of the world. The Kalarael had probably still been peeling themselves off the floor when the Bakma attacked them. What a ruthless, diabolical way to weaponize the Zone.

She’d have to remember it.

“Is there anything else you would like to know?” Tauthin asked.

Raising her forefinger, she said, “Just one more thing. How long before the fuel cells recharge enough to take us to Earth?”

Wuteel answered, “It may take several Earth days, and we would require an additional recharge at another star while en route. We are, by Earthae standards, a week away.”

“Zone Runners come equipped with two drives,” Tauthin added. “A jump drive and a skip drive. A jump is a bending of spacetime—essentially, a momentary wormhole—created for the purpose of traversing long distances instantly. We are many jumps from Earth, and each jump requires a large amount of energy.” Turning back to the helm control, Tauthin brought up a map of whatever section of the galaxy they were in, with the location of the Noboat clearly indicated by a bright red marker. After inputting several commands, a path of connected dots appeared, leading all the way to the bottom of the screen. Halfway through the connections, a yellow circle pulsed. “That star is as far as we can go without a recharge. We must stop there to absorb solar energy before finishing the journey.”

Once again, Tauthin manipulated the controls. The view screen zoomed in rapidly to the solar system they were in. Another path of connected dots appeared, this time leading to the Kalar system’s yellow sun. “A skip drive is a smaller incarnation of a jump drive, intended for inter-system travel. While a jump drive can be used within a system, it is a great waste of energy. It is far too powerful a ship component to be used to traverse such a small distance.” He turned back to Svetlana. “Jump and skip drives are the innovations of the Ithini, before a portion of them were enslaved by the Khuladi. This is why you will find jump drives used by both the Khuladi slave species and the Golathoch. Both sides have borrowed this technology from the Ithini.”

For the first time in that conversation, Ed chimed in. It may be we who are to blame for the Khuladi threat. By visiting them and consequently giving them this technology, we may have given them the ability to traverse the stars as we could.

“May?” Svetlana asked, raising an eyebrow. “It sounds pretty clear cut to me.”

These events happened eons ago. Slave species are not given access to Khuladi historical records. But we are certain it was we, the Ithini, who provided the Khuladi with the ability to jump through spacetime. It is the only plausible explanation as to why both the Khuladi and Golathoch possess identically functioning technology. It is the same logic that applies to the canrassi, which must have come from one of our worlds.

Tauthin grunted in affirmation before going on. “Jump technology is the only technology that allows for practical traversing of the galaxy. Though engine-based drives that can accomplish such things are possible, they are impractical due to the effect mass and speed have on time. To fly fast is to fly into the future—who knows what one will find, or what will be different, when they arrive at their destination?”

“Do you think time between ourselves and Earth has changed at all?” Svetlana asked.

“It is impossible to say. Traditionally, Zone Runner lords keep vessel movement to a minimum for this reason. Nagogg kept with this practice. Just the same,” he said, tilting his head a bit, “this vessel does not possess thrusters nearly powerful enough to approach the speed necessary to cause a vast time differentiation.”

That was good. Svetlana didn’t want to stay away from Earth any longer than she needed to. The last thing she remembered was EDEN attacking Novosibirsk—who knew what had happened between then and now? She wasn’t even certain how much time had passed, much less how much time dilation had occurred. It felt like she’d been in space for weeks. The lack of a consistent sun schedule to give her a reference was causing all sorts of problems with her internal clock. When she’d slept as Nagogg’s captive, she had never known if it’d been for two hours or twelve. “I want to return the Kalarael to their homeworld as quickly as possible, then recharge our fuel cells. If we are a week away from Earth by our standards, then we have no time to waste.”

“As you command,” Tauthin said, “though I must warn you: this vessel was undermanned before Nagogg fell. The responsibility of operating this vessel has fallen to Wuteel and myself, when normally six Bakma would be required to run this room alone.” His voice fell low. “I humbly request your patience, particularly for Wuteel. He must be in two places at once.” Teeth baring slightly, he said, “My disdain for him is as fervent as yours in light of what he has done to you.” As he was openly discussed, Wuteel lowered his head. “But he is not in an enviable position as engineer of this vessel. An engineer typically remains near the quantum resonator at all times. Please afford him your leniency.”

She huffed. She’d give Wuteel all the leniency that Nagogg had given her. Her eyes narrowing, she looked at the shamed engineer. “I will afford what must be afforded, but no more. I gave you mercy once on my homeworld. It did not pay dividends.” Looking sidelong at Kraash-nagun, who’d been silent throughout the discussion, she said, “What can he do to help shoulder the burden?”

Seemingly aware that she was referring to him, the blinded elite grunted and answered, “Without eyes with which to see, what use could I possibly be on this bridge?”

“Lazy excuse.” Svetlana spat out. “Weak.”

“Weak? Do not forget, Earthae, that I played a part in your rebellion.” Kraash-nagun spoke through clenched teeth.

Svetlana’s nostrils would have flared, had she had them. “You joined my ‘rebellion’ only when it became apparent it would succeed. That is not heroism—it is the mark of an opportunist.”

“What do you expect from me?” Kraash-nagun snarled. “Shall the blind warrior pilot this spacecraft? Shall he chart a course? Enlighten me. Prove your worth as so-called lady of this vessel.”

She’d already proven her worth. There was nothing so-called about it. He wanted to cite a lack of vision? Not on her watch. “Ed, give him my eyes.”

Caught off guard from being thrust into the discussion, Ei`dorinthal relayed to her, Your eyes?

“You can read minds, bridge language barriers between species you scarcely know. You relay images, entire journeys through the subconscious. You can siphon.” She angled her head. “So, siphon what I see and send it to Kraash-nagun’s mind. Let him see himself as I see him now.”

Svetlana closed her eyes as she felt the swirling in her mind—the pressure in her brain, behind the very eyes she wished to share. Ed had found the way into that pathway of her mind. Svetlana opened her eyes just in time to see Kraash-nagun’s face when the siphon went into action.

The blinded elite’s mouth dropped as he stared ahead with his vacant sockets as if they were actually looking at something. Svetlana knew what they were seeing. She asked him about it, anyway. “What do you see, Kraash-nagun?”

Reaching forward, Kraash-nagun’s body trembled as he waved his hands back and forth slowly in the air in front of him, like he was feeling his way through something. In truth, that was exactly what he was doing. What he saw was what she saw. Himself, slowly waving his arms. Mouth still hanging, he uttered, “I see.”

“You see what?”

“I see myself.”

Angling her head again, she asked, “Would you like to know what I see?” She leaned forward, allowing him to more clearly see himself through her eyes. “I see a functional member of the crew—one who should have no trouble operating a station once he relearns how to move.”

Had the situation been less startling to Kraash-nagun, Svetlana might have expected a snappy retort. Instead, the blinded elite only stared at himself in wonder. Svetlana had had no idea if what she’d asked Ed to do was possible. The thought had popped in her head, and she’d just gone with it.

“Sever us,” she said to Ed. The mental pressure behind her eyes dissipated. Ahead of her, Kraash-nagun flinched as his world was plunged back into darkness. The expression that came to him was one of the saddest from a Bakma she’d ever seen.

Ed’s voice came to her. How did you know that was possible?

I didn’t. I just believed that if anyone could do it, it would be you.

The sensation that emanated from Ed was unlike any she’d felt from him before. It was a blend of apprehension, elation, and nervous energy. For the first time in his life, the Ithini was tasting pride.

Svetlana turned to Tauthin and Wuteel, both of whom stared at her in wonderment. Without missing a beat, she said to them, “Find a station that Kraash-nagun can operate that will relieve pressure on the two of you. When Ed and I return from our talk with the Kalarael, I will instruct him to stand behind Kraash-nagun to serve as his eyes.” She glanced at the Ithini. “I assume that you can relay your own sight to him, too, correct?”

Dipping his head, Ed answered, I am sure that I can.

“Thank you,” she said simply. “Now if you will all excuse me.” After unstrapping herself from the captain’s chair, she drifted up in microgravity. “I must speak with the Kalarael about returning them to their homeworld. Ed, please accompany me.”

Yes, master.

Svetlana gently pushed herself through the air toward the bridge door with Ed in tow.

As Svetlana drifted down the Noboat’s hall, she sucked in hard to get a breath through her nasal cavities. Beyond all the other things she was dealing with, there’d been a peculiar development unfolding as it pertained to the injury, namely in that it hadn’t become infected. Her nose had been sawed off with an unsanitary blade, left untreated, then drenched in canrassi urine and drool. It should have been red, swollen, and causing fever and chills. But while she couldn’t see the injury, she could most certainly feel it—and it felt totally normal. There was no pain, no heat, no touch of fever at all. Her body certainly wasn’t strong enough to fight it—not in its malnourished state. Something else was keeping infection at bay.

There was the folk belief back on Earth that animal saliva—particularly that of dogs—was a natural antibacterial agent. Svetlana had no idea if it was actually true, but one thing was for certain: she’d spent days with her head literally under a fountain of canrassi drool. She’d counted the slime as solely humiliation until the thought crossed her mind—only recently—that it might have been saving her life. That was, if old wives’ tales about dogs also applied to alien beasts. All she knew was that, when it came to Mishka’s tongue, she wasn’t going to change anything. The beast could drool on her to its heart’s content.

As Svetlana drifted toward the kitchen, where Yigôzien and her companion were waiting, she prepared her mind for another Kalarael conversation. “Are you ready, Ed?”

His answer came immediately. I am, master.

Rounding the corner of the kitchen, Svetlana sought out the Kalarael.

Yigôzien and her companion were clinging to a bench at the far end of the kitchen, their legs wrapped around the table legs to keep from floating off. As Svetlana made her way inside, the two Kalarael turned her way, their large eyes settling on her. Next to Svetlana, Ed’s oval eyes widened. In the second that followed, the connection was established. “Hello, Yigôzien,” Svetlana said.

Yigôzien’s whiskers twitched and her fox ears turned in Svetlana’s direction. As it had before, a wave of emotion washed over Svetlana—one of pure, unbridled appreciation. So overwhelming was the feeling that Svetlana had to catch her breath. With eyes shifting to the brightest of blues, Yigôzien addressed her. “Earthae Setana.”

Despite the connection that Ed had placed between them, Svetlana could hear the Kalarael’s language as Yigôzien spoke it. It was precise—clean, crisp, and purposeful. It was far more discernable than Bakmanese, which could be mimicked but not wholly duplicated by Human vocal cords.

Not wishing to extend the conversation any further than she needed to, Svetlana said, “I wish to return you to your homeworld.” Immediately following the statement, she thought to Ed, Are you going to be able to translate that accurately? The few “conversations” she’d had with Yigôzien had barely been conversations at all. They’d consisted more of emotion-swapping than the actual transfer of thought and intent.

Translation will improve with exposure, Ed answered.

How much exposure?

The Ithini projected uncertainty. Unknown. Many variables exist. Time must be taken to acclimate to cognitive syntax and reasoning.

Then do what you must to maintain basic communication. Just the facts, just the point.

As you wish, master. Ed’s focus returned to Yigôzien, and his eyes widened. He was relaying to Yigôzien the message intended for her.

The whole while the communication process went on, Svetlana kept her eyes on Yigôzien and her counterpart to see if there were any visible reactions that would indicate sudden understanding—that the connection was working properly. She didn’t care that she’d had successful communication with the beings before. For all she knew, one mistranslated word might spark an interstellar war.

Her gaze shifted to Yigôzien’s counterpart—the unnamed male. He was similar to her in body structure, somewhat effeminate though still identifiable as a male. Unlike her black, teal-streaked, down-feathery “hair,” the male’s mane was a rusty blend of reds, oranges, and browns. Like Yigôzien, his eyes had shifted to a bright, vibrant blue color, and his whiskers were in a constant state of twitching. What a strange mix of creatures the Kalarael were. Part fox, part peacock, part alien supermodel—or at least, that was how it felt to the woman with a hole in the center of her face. There was just such a grace to these beings—an elegance, a refinement, right down to the airy, translucent fibers of their tunics. Everything about the two aliens spoke of culture and aesthetic display. And those color-shifting eyes. They were reflective of their moods in some way, that much Svetlana had determined. Blue meant good, red meant bad. She was sure there were a million different variations within that spectrum.

At long last, realization. Yigôzien’s lush lips widened, and she dipped her head in what looked like reverence. For a second time, she spoke aloud, the language of her delicate tongue wafting through the air like the swaying of wildflowers. “Eyshlia lustae, sorie’niss.”

Svetlana could sense Ed’s presence in her mind, working out the translation. There was an almost fifteen-second delay before it came. It appears to be an expression of gratitude and wonder, Ed said.

“Explain to them that I must return them to their homeworld so that I, too, may return to mine.”

A pause indicative of a delayed translation ensued, before the teal-streaked alien answered, “Yao-zin’ja sinsi lesturisha. Ti’gen.”

Moments later, Ed translated. She insists you return with her to her homeworld.

“Tell her that I would like to see her homeworld very much, but that my species is suffering at the hands of the Bakma. I must return home as soon as possible.” What an opportunity this would be to pass up—but priorities were priorities. She had a Noboat. If she wanted to return to the Kalarael later, she always could. It was a wild thought considering the limitations of human spaceflight, but in this instance, it wasn’t untrue.

As you wish, master. Facing Yigôzien again, the Ithini’s eyes swelled with focus.

As she waited for the translation to complete, Svetlana reflected on her own mental and emotional state in light of seeing this new species of extraterrestrial. The fact of the matter was, as majestic as the Kalarael were, they were just another alien species. She had seen so many now in her lifetime. Bakmas, Ithinis, Golathochs, canrassis, necrilids, then in her vision, Khuladis, Nerifinns, Dishans, and the Annihl. There’d been a time when the discovery of other intelligent life in the galaxy—any other life in the galaxy—would have captivated the masses. Now, intelligent life was nothing new. In fact, there was yet to be an instance where the discovery of a new species had been a positive development on any level. Dreams of exotic alien trade routes, or multi-species space stations, or the sharing of wisdom and knowledge across star systems crumbled after the Bakma attacked Hong Kong. Aliens were as desirable as cockroaches—and at least cockroaches were easy to squish.

Yigôzien inhaled sharply. The color of her eyes shifted dark blue, then red. Whiskers pressing against the sides of her nose, the feathery-haired alien recoiled.

Well, that was concerning. “What is it?” Svetlana asked. “What is wrong?”

Words spewed out of Yigôzien’s mouth, her canine lips curled up in something akin to a snarl. The inflection of her words was different now—it was seething, passionate. When the brief monologue was finished, Yigôzien dipped her chin and breathed heavily, her red eyes transfixed on Svetlana like she was waiting for a response. The sheer ferocity in Yigôzien’s voice made Svetlana nervous. What in the world was all this about?

Startlement swelled in her mind with the connection. For one of the few times that Svetlana could remember, Ei`dorinthal hesitated. An unforeseen development.

“Unforeseen development?” Svetlana asked. “Explain.”

She has knowledge of the Bakma.

Svetlana blinked. “Knowledge of the Bakma? Do you mean this is not the first time her species has encountered them?”

It is not. A painful pulse emanated from the connection—it was from Ed himself. I must strengthen my connection to properly translate. I apologize. She is speaking more colorfully now than when we first connected to her. It is proving to be a challenge.

Now, Svetlana was interested. What knowledge could the Kalarael possibly have of the Bakma? She had distinctly heard it discussed among Nagogg’s crew that the Akaarist Quadrant—which was apparently what they called this part of the galaxy—was unexplored. Had the crew been wrong? Was something else amiss? She needed to know.

Pain struck her mind. At the same time, both she and Yigôzien winced. Ed was tightening his grip on their minds. Through the pain, she could sense an effort on his part to assure them both that he was in control. The open-mouthed Kalarael went yellow-eyed, shrinking back as her counterpart reached over to steady her. Through their shared mental pulse, Ed’s voice emerged. Speak to her directly…

He sounded weak. Struggling. On the verge of passing out.

Svetlana needed to act quickly. Fighting back the pain, she looked at Yigôzien. “How do you know the Bakma?”

When her words came to Yigôzien, the Kalarael’s yellow eyes widened. She looked up at Svetlana, a look of surprise washing over her—as if the clarity was unexpected. Through clenched teeth and shaking, she spoke back. “We…found…them.”

Their connection was stronger. Near-instantaneous. But it was taking its toll on Ed—the Ithini was starting to convulse. Eyes returning to Yigôzien, she asked, “Where?”

“Fifth…orbit.” Yigôzien’s shaking worsened. “Ship was…damaged. Taken.”

In Svetlana’s mind, the words reassembled. They discovered a damaged Bakma ship near the system’s fifth planet. They took it.

“Survivors…” the Kalarael said, “…captured.”

Survivors of the ship were taken into custody.

“Like…them…” Yigôzien pointed toward the kitchen doorway and into the hall. “And…another. Blackness. Violence. Form without form. Kept alive.”

When the realization struck Svetlana, she gasped through the pain. She was talking about a Khuladi. They had one.

The link between them was rippling—time was running out for Ed. Yigôzien extended her finger, shakily pointing it in Svetlana’s direction. “If they…war with you…they…will war…with us…next.”

The connection faltered as Ed’s opaque eyes rolled back. Svetlana grabbed him just in time before he could float off. To cross that language barrier, Ed had given everything but his life. It’d been enough—and now, everything made sense. Slowly, Svetlana lifted her head to regard her Kalarael counterpart. Yigôzien was already staring back at her. The fox-eared being’s eyes were bright, crimson red.

Yigôzien wasn’t just curious about Svetlana. She was trying to protect her own species. In that moment, Svetlana realized that her presence in Kalarael space went far beyond that of just being a new, visiting species. She was about to become a wartime ambassador. If they have a living Khuladi, I must see it. She’d only seen one once, and it was in a vision. To pass up the opportunity to see one in the flesh, considering the situation, would have been irresponsible. “Come,” she said, beckoning the Kalarael to the hallway. She needed to take them to the bridge, to find out which planet was their homeworld. It was the next place the Noboat would go.

Yigôzien dipped her head, then spoke to her male counterpart. After a brief exchange, they followed Svetlana, still carrying Ed, into the hall.

Though she hadn’t had the chance to ask for clarification during their shaky connection, Svetlana was acting under the assumption that the captured spacecraft Yigôzien was referencing was a Noboat, as well. Though there were a variety of ships in the Bakma—or perhaps more appropriately, the Khuladi—armada, the Noboat seemed to be the mainstay. She could count on one hand all the times she’d encountered a Coneship or a Carrier. If indeed it had been a malfunctioning Noboat that the Kalarael had discovered, what a stroke of good fortune that had been! What if it’d been a reconnaissance mission? What if a Noboat had done the very same thing in the humanity’s own solar system? What if the only difference between what happened in this star system and what’d happened back home was that here, the Khuladi had been caught? Perhaps her Bakma crew could shed some light on the situation. As she drifted through the doorway that led from the antechamber to the bridge, her Bakma companions turned their heads to regard her.

To the Kalaraels’ credit, they seemed to accept—if not warily—that the remaining Bakma on the ship were not a threat. Now that Svetlana had been exposed to Kalarael mannerisms, she could identify signs of displeasure or fear beyond just the shifting of their eye colors. Mannerisms such as pinned ears and whiskers, the slight bristling of their feathery hair. Though those things were present now, it was to a much lesser degree than she’d seen earlier.

Tauthin, Wuteel, and Kraash-nagun were clustered around one of the consoles at the far side of the room. By the look of it, Tauthin and Wuteel were indicating things to their sightless comrade, who was feeling around the console with purpose. Svetlana wasted no time as she propelled herself toward her chair with Ed in her arms. “The Kalarael have informed me,” she said in Bakmanese as the three Bakma faced her, “that her species recently captured a malfunctioning Noboat in this system.” Tauthin and Wuteel’s eyes widened. “The ship’s crew was alive and taken into custody. Can either of you explain why this would be?”

“What happened to Ei`dorinthal?” Tauthin asked, his eyes on the unconscious Ithini as he lay in Svetlana’s arms.

“He fell unconscious during a connection with the Kalarael.” Though holding him as she sat in the chair wasn’t ideal, it was better than Ed floating about the room. Once more, she directed her original question to the Bakma. “What of the Noboat in this system? What does that mean?”

“The Khuladi have never visited this quadrant,” Tauthin answered. “At least, not that we are aware. This is why Nagogg sought to come. He wished to take the Khuladi something new to curry a boon in his favor.” A low grunt emanated from deep within him. “But if the Khuladi were already here, that gesture would have been futile.”

“Why would they already be here?”

Turning from his console, Tauthin propelled himself with a gentle push toward the helm control. “It is unlikely that they were exploring for the sake of it. Everything about Khuladi culture is geared toward war.” Grabbing hold of the helm chair, he slid himself into it and manipulated the controls. The view screen zoomed out until the whole of the galaxy was visible, with dividing lines crossing paths at the galactic core.

In the back of the room, the Kalaraels’ eyes widened.

“The Khuladi divide the galaxy into four quadrants: the Unagu, the Kurriga, the Oraashka, and the Akaarist. The Khuladi exist primarily in the Unagu.” Tauthin pressed something on the control panel, causing the lower-left corner to brighten. The Earthae and Golathoch exist in the Kurriga, which is here.” Another press, and the lower-right side brightened alongside the Unagu. “What exists above the Kurriga Quadrant is the Akaarist.”

In the upper-right, Svetlana thought. The Unagu and Akaarist Quadrants only touch at the center of the galaxy.

“As you can see, the Akaarist is the least accessible of the four quadrants to the Khuladi. They must pass first through either the Kurriga or the Oraashka to reach it. Though they have visited parts of the Akaarist—possibly even more than Nagogg was aware—a vast majority of it has not been explored by them.” He touched the console again, causing the view screen to zoom in to the line near the Kurriga and Akaarist borders. A single star system pulsed bright yellow. “This is the system we are in now. While not near your star, it is nonetheless close to the border of the Kurriga. Our journey would have been much longer had Nagogg desired to venture into the heart of the Akaarist.” Swiveling in his chair, Tauthin faced Svetlana and the Kalarael, both of whom were still staring in awe at the screen. “The Khuladi have long desired to gain a foothold in the Akaarist. It is where they believe the Nemesis exists.”

“The Nemesis?” Svetlana asked.

“When the Khuladi declare war on a species, it is an event they refer to as judgment. Right now, it is you Earthae who are being judged, to determine how best you might amalgamate into the ranks of their slave army.” He scoffed. “The Nemesis are the only species to have escaped Khuladi judgment—to have defeated them in war. I wish I could tell you more of the Nemesis, but I cannot. The Khuladis’ war with them occurred long ago.”

As Tauthin spoke on, Wuteel’s breathing intensified. Glancing his way, Svetlana saw that his brow was lowered. It was the Bakma equivalent of a scowl. He didn’t like hearing this. Coward or not, Wuteel was a believer in the Khuladi divine mission to some extent. Svetlana returned her gaze to Tauthin.

“The Khuladi refer to this defeat as the Great Denial, and they have made it their quest, ordained by their god, Uladek, to seek out the Nemesis and exact revenge. They believe that the Akaarist Quadrant is where the Nemesis currently exist. They call this war to come the War of Retribution.” The Bakma’s tone lowered. “I spoke with the lord of your fortress about this in some detail.”

Svetlana raised an eyebrow. “The lord of my fortress?”

“You refer to him as Thoor.”

General Thoor. Of course. It made sense that the Terror would try to glean this information.

Tauthin continued. “Earth is a stepping stone into the Akaarist Quadrant—habitable worlds such as yours are not common in the galaxy. But there is no question that the Golathochs’ involvement in the judgment of your species has angered the Khuladi. Outside assistance taints the results of what they deem a sacred process. It would not be surprising, should the Khuladi be forced to reconsider their approach to your judgment, that they might seek out another world on which to establish an outpost.” He looked back to the view screen, eyes focusing on Kalar. “The worlds in this system would qualify.”

Everything Tauthin said gave validation to Yigôzien’s fears. “So, it is reasonable to assume that the Kalarael may be the next on the Khuladis’ list?”

“If they have already sent a scout, yes. They did much the same thing before visiting Earth.”

So she’d been right about that, too.

“It will be interesting,” Tauthin said, “to see the Khuladi reaction to their ship not returning. If the ship managed to get out a distress beacon, then the Khuladi may come for it—or abandon the ship to its fate altogether.” He angled his head. “Or more interestingly, still, they may wonder if the ship was destroyed by the Nemesis. I would imagine that would accelerate any movement into this system, for the possibility of finding the Nemesis again.”

On that part, Svetlana was a bit confused. “How did they lose track of this Nemesis?”

“Prior to the Great Denial, the Nemesis existed in the Oraashka Quadrant, though they have long since disappeared, abandoning their region of space before the Khuladi could return to avenge their loss. The Khuladi consider this the ultimate cowardice.” His lower lip curled up in a half-snarl. “They have spent ages searching for the Nemesis’ whereabouts. The War of Retribution will be unlike any this galaxy has seen.”

“This Nemesis,” she said, eyeing Tauthin almost suspiciously. “It could not be the Kalarael, could it? Could so much time have passed that they may have even forgotten it themselves?”

The Bakma’s answer was immediate. “No. They are far too inferior in technology. Imagine entire star systems lined with armadas. This is the kind of war the Khuladi wage. To even stand a chance against such formidable forces…” He shook his head. “No. The Kalarael could not be the Nemesis. They are of no significance.”

Drawing a breath, she pointed up at the view screen. “Bring up a display of the Kalar system—I will ask the Kalarael to show us their homeworld.”

“Yes, my lady.”

As Tauthin’s gnarled fingers worked the controls and the view screen shifted, Svetlana turned around in her chair to look at Yigôzien. “Kalar?” she asked, raising an eyebrow as she motioned toward the display.

Yigôzien seemed to get it right away. Pushing herself gently across the bridge, the teal-streaked invoker pointed toward the third planet from the star. “Kalar.”

And that settled that. Looking back at Tauthin and then at Wuteel, Svetlana said to her two alien comrades, “Prepare to…skip.” She hesitated, lifting her brow again. “Is that right?”

“Right enough,” answered Tauthin in a way that seemed genuinely satisfied. Looking briefly at Wuteel across the bridge, Tauthin nodded to the engineer. Together, the two Bakmas began plotting their course.

As Svetlana returned to her chair, she held herself in place with one hand and raised her other to wipe back her hair. The motion was pure habit, for her strands were far too stuck down with saliva and blood to drift in her face. Just the same, it was the first gesture of anything resembling relaxation that she’d expressed in as long as she could remember. Blowing out a breath that sounded more like a sigh, she closed her eyes as her hand rested atop her head.

If this goes the way I think it will go, I may soon be setting foot on an alien world.

At any other time, in any other situation, the mere possibility of that would have boggled her mind. She may not have even been able to comprehend it. But with all she’d seen lately—with all she’d experienced—it felt like just another day at the space-faring office. She’d already been kidnapped by extraterrestrials and led a mini-rebellion. She might as well add, “interstellar pioneer,” to that list.

Five minutes later, Tauthin announced to Svetlana that their course had been plotted. They were ready to begin skipping across the star system at her word.

She gave it without pause.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Wednesday, March 28th, 0012 NE

2236 Hours

Sydney, Australia

TIFFANY’S DAD would have killed her.

As the blond Valley Girl sat along the back wall of her cell in Sydney Confinement, thoughts of her father ran through her mind. Up until the point she’d found herself at now, as a captured traitor to humanity, her role in the outlaws’ schemes hadn’t bothered her. Honestly, they still didn’t. What bothered her was what everyone else on the planet must have thought of her. To them, she was a terrorist. Though EDEN would surely have to answer questions about how anyone from Falcon Platoon had survived, she was sure they’d come up with a creative story about how Falcon had been infiltrated by the Nightmen and how they’d turned on humanity. Whatever explanation they went with, the bottom line was that Tiffany would be found guilty in the eyes of the world. She’d be reviled, labeled a traitor. Had her dad been alive to witness it, it’d have shattered him into a million pieces.

After being intercepted and subsequently downed by Jon Mariner’s Superwolf, Tiffany had been plucked out of the water and unceremoniously plopped down in a Confinement cell in Sydney, the nearest base to where everything had taken place. Stripped of her gear, she’d been relegated to a drab brown t-shirt and fatigues. With a pair of guards outside the glass cell watching her every move, Tiffany literally had nothing to do but sit and think. And the more she thought, the worse she felt.

There was no way out of the situation she was in. There was no jet fighter waiting to be commandeered, no brazen escape within reach. This was game over. All she could do was pray that the mission had succeeded. She hadn’t heard a word about the train operation in Japan—not that she expected to. At the point where she’d met Mariner in the sky, she’d been on a strict no-communication rule with the hijack team. She had no way of knowing whether they’d succeeded or failed, lived or died. She supposed she’d find out eventually. Or maybe EDEN would just kill her.

As hard as it was to swallow the fact that she’d been shot down and captured, the manner in which it had all taken place felt even worse. She hadn’t lost to Mariner in some grand dogfight for the ages. She’d just rolled over and died, succumbing not to weapons fire, but to a man’s sheer reputation. When that Superwolf appeared—when that call sign that every pilot in the Academy knew announced itself over her comm—she’d lost the fight right then and there. Sin. That was the name Mariner went by. It was fitting for the way that she’d lost.

A figure approached Tiffany’s cell—a young woman, olive-skinned and proper looking, wearing a gray suit jacket over a white, button-up shirt. Observing Tiffany behind a pair of spectacles, the woman angled her head.

Tiffany had thus far been “greeted” by a myriad of folks, almost all of whom worked for Sydney’s security team. The most imposing had been the chief of security, a large black man by the last name of Willoughby. He came complete with a scruffy mustache and the thickest Australian accent she’d ever heard. To put it bluntly, he hadn’t been nice, and despite her best efforts to pin an explanation to her actions, he hadn’t been inclined to listen. This woman staring at her through the glass didn’t look nice, either.

Stepping to the callbox attached to the cell, the woman reached out and pressed the button. The crisp crackle of an open channel reverberated. “Hello, Tiffany.”

Another strong accent, this one Indian.

“I am Jaya Saxena, from the Intelligence office of EDEN Command.”

EDEN Command. Tiffany shouldn’t have been surprised. This entire ordeal was EDEN Command’s fault. For all Tiffany knew, Jaya was a part of the conspiracy herself. In any case, if Jaya was expecting to get a reaction from Tiffany, it wasn’t going to happen. Tiffany just leaned her head against the back wall of the cell, her hazel eyes meeting Jaya’s in silence.

“What did you think you were doing, exactly?” Jaya asked.

There was no way to know if the question was rhetorical, but Tiffany treated it as such. Closing her eyes, the Valley Girl leaned her head against the back wall. She offered no response.

Lifting her chin, Jaya inhaled a long, purposeful breath. “So let me tell you how this is going to work. Very soon, you will board a transport to be taken to EDEN Command. It will be in your best interest to cooperate when that time comes.” Jaya adjusted her spectacles. “If there is anything you wish to say on your behalf, now would be the time to say it, while you’re standing before a person who can help you.”

Now that prompted a reaction. Eyes opening in a way that bordered somewhere between suspicion and curiosity, Tiffany asked, “How do you expect to help me?”

“I report directly to the president, Miss Feathers. Much as is the case with our otherworldly captives, cooperation always yields better results—both for the captives and ourselves. So if you have something you’d like to share that can justifiably explain why you’d side with the very people who intercepted your former unit over the Great Dismal Swamp, I would very much like to hear it.”

“They didn’t intercept us,” said Tiffany.

Jaya looked down her nose. “I believe we both know that’s not true.”

“They saved us.”

The Indian woman offered a frown that bordered on sympathetic. “You were fooled, Miss Feathers. You were fooled by people who are very good at deception.”

Tiffany shook her head with adamancy. “We were intercepted by EDEN. One of the ships that shot us down was called the Pariah. It belonged to the Fourteenth before EDEN stole it to use in the attack. It was all a setup to make it look like the Nightmen had done it.”

“Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”

“It’s true.”

Angling her head, Jaya asked, “And you have proof of this where?”

“What happened to the Fourteenth?” Tiffany asked, ignoring Jaya’s question. When Jaya looked at her curiously, Tiffany rephrased it. “What happened to everyone in Japan?”

“Do you not know?” At last lifting her chin, Jaya said in a tone that matched the pointed disdain on her lips, “I am sorry, Miss Feathers, but your friends were destroyed.”

“What?” She gaped.

The corner of Jaya’s lip curved upward. Like she was unable to contain it. “Now, is there anything you’d like to say on your behalf?”

With her face a shade paler, Tiffany pulled her knees in tightly. No answer came as the blond pilot stared ahead.

Only when it became apparent that no answer would come did Jaya reach forward to rap her fingernails against the glass. “Cooperation, Miss Feathers. It will always be in your best interest.” With her narrowed, spectacled gaze lingering, Jaya took a step back then pivoted to face the door. After a parting nod to the guards at post, she made a swift, albeit purposeful exit.

Tiffany closed her eyes. Body shaking, the first tears she’d cried since her capture rolled down her cheeks. No effort was made to shy her head away from the guards—no care was given as to whether or not they saw her. In a Confinement designed for extraterrestrials, she felt like the most alien one there.

No one else spoke to Tiffany in the hours that followed. No one came to offer her the chance to defend herself. No one even swung by to gawk.

The pilot was left alone.

* * *

Wednesday, March 28th, 0012 NE

2204 hours

Atami, Shizuoka Prefecture, Japan

WELL…AT LEAST it was an improvement.

Natalie gave herself a good looking over in the mirror that hung in the bathroom. Though nothing but time was going to hide the bruises and bumps on her face, the fact that her face and hair were now truly clean at least provided her some measure of comfort and civility. Nobu’s bathroom facilities, as complicated as they might have seemed, were actually quite nice once one knew how to use them. Between the buckets, the spigots, and the rainfall showerhead that was so tucked away she hadn’t even seen it at first, there was a bevy of options when it came to dispensing water upon oneself. So far as clothes went, she was fine with wearing the same white sweater and dark blue jeans that Nobu had provided earlier—not that she had a choice in the matter just yet.

Allowing a final examination in the mirror, she turned to make her way for the bathroom door. When she opened it and stepped into the main suite, her emerald eyes widened.

“Lo!”

Dressed to the nines in a black suit, the Australian stood alone in the center of the room. “Hello, Nattie,” he said, his expression stoic.

As soon as she’d assured herself of their privacy, she hurried across the room, opened her arms wide, and embraced him. “Where the hell have you been?” Leaning back, she gave his outfit a once-over. “And who dressed you in that?”

Grimacing at her, he said, “God, you look awful.”

Her face fell flat. “Thanks for that. My confidence needed a boost.” Cutting right to the chase, she asked, “What’s going on? Where’s the rest of my team?” Before he could even open his mouth to answer, more questions came forth. “The Ikiryō? Really? What on God’s green Earth did you do here?”

Logan held out a hand. “Whoa, one at a time.”

“Start with whichever one you want.”

“How about you start with one of mine? Like why the bloody hell didn’t we surrender to EDEN?”

He was referencing the fight in the wilderness. “Fair enough,” she said, jaw setting as she leveled her head. “There’s some kind of conspiracy going on between EDEN and the Ceratopians—” She’d scarcely gotten the words out before he turned his head and scoffed. Blinking, she stared at him. “Okay, do you want to explain that?”

“Conspiracies, Nattie? Seriously?”

“Yes, conspiracies. Do you think I’d make this up?”

Shaking his head, Logan walked toward the wall. “You can’t honestly tell me that you believe in this tinfoil-hat nonsense.”

“Now wait one minute.” Eyes narrowing, she marched after him from behind. “If you think this is tinfoil-hat nonsense, why’d you come with me in the woods? I explained it all then!”

“Because you’re you!” he said, turning back around to face her. “Because at the end of the day, we stick together. It’s what we do.” Growling, he walked away again. “Bloody conspiracies. That bloke’s got you wrapped around his wanker.”

Now that—that got her mad. “Oh, no you didn’t.”

“If you’d have just stopped fighting and come with me, we’d never be in this mess.”

“First of all, don’t you ever talk to me like that again. Second of all—”

The Australian wasn’t hearing it. “Are you really this stupid?”

Natalie stared at him in silence, mouth hanging, eyes fixed. Stupid. That word—that outburst—said so much. Was that what he thought she was? Sucking in a long, deep breath, she set aside her pride, set her gaze forward, and spoke clearly. “What the outlaws have been through, what they’ve experienced—what I’ve experienced—can’t be ignored. Lo, they used Scott’s younger brother as leverage. They were going to kill him to get to Scott. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“And what if they were right to do it?” the Australian shot back. “You’re a greater good person, Nattie. If it costs a life to stop this nutter, maybe that’s worth it.”

“There’s right, and there’s wrong. The ends don’t justify the means.”

His face red with irritation, he cocked his head and asked, “Yeah, to what extent? Would you not take a life to save a hundred? A thousand?” He pointed behind him. “The whole bloody planet? Because that’s what Remington could be putting at risk in his little crusade against sanity.” He clenched his fists. “And we caught him, Nattie. We caught him. This could be over—we could be on our way back to Cairo, back to wherever, with all of this behind us.” Taking another step closer, he lowered his voice. “We could still do that. We can find out where they are, we can turn them in and totally justify what took place. I can say I turned to get on the inside and that everything you’d done was because you’d been fooled, but that you’d now seen the light. Everyone would have sympathy for you.”

She could not believe what she was hearing.

“It would work, Natalie. I promise you, it would work. We’re in a position to turn this to our favor, but we have to do it now. Take that step with me. End this. We’ll never have to see or think about any of these people again—they’ll just disappear and we can go back to having normal lives.”

Normal lives. That was what Logan Marshall cared about. That was what he wanted. It didn’t matter that any of this was right, wrong, justified, or not. All that mattered was that it was inconvenient. It wasn’t the kind of life that he wanted, and so all options were on the table to change it—even the selling out of innocent people. How could he—how could anyone—be so selfish? Shaking her head slowly as she took a step back from him, she said quietly, “I don’t know who you are.”

The Australian sighed, his shoulders sagging as he looked at her with disappointment. “Is that really where we are right now?”

“Your mercenary work. The Ikiryō. What I’m hearing from you now.” The sickness in her core was so intense. Gravity-defying. “You’re right. I was fooled.”

Lowering his head, he said, “Natalie…”

“I’m sorry that I got you into this. I’m sorry that I tried to…” Her words trailed briefly as she sought for them. “I’m sorry that I tried to change who you really were. As soon as I get my crew and we get out of here, you have permission to leave.”

“How can you stand being this bloody idealistic?”

“At least I stand for something.”

The Australian scoffed. “And like I need your permission. You’ve gone mad for this idiot. You’re just…” Arm waving as if to find the words, he settled on, “You’re just gone.”

Like the period at the end of a sentence, the words stung with finality. She was who she was, and he was who he was. Neither of them was going to change, not even for the other. Before she could even think of a proper response, the sound of a knob twisting caught her attention. Though the Australian’s eyes stayed on Natalie, she turned hers to whoever it was that was entering the suite. When she locked onto the big, brown eyes of Javon Quinton, a smile crept from the corners of her mouth. Leaving Logan behind, she made her way toward her comrade in arms.

There was no hesitation from Javon when he saw her—no exchange of proper formalities. The weary black soldier extended his arm to meet her uninjured one in a clapping handshake, then he jerked her in for a hug. Though she winced, it was okay. There was no need for Natalie to question if Javon was on the same page as she was. They’d both been to the same places. They’d both seen the same things. They both knew where right and wrong stood.

“Vee, is it good to see you!” Javon said as the two pulled apart, eyes alight as if seeing a long-lost family member. He looked genuinely gleeful.

“It’s good to see you, too,” she said. Brushing loose strands of her hair back, she leaned past his shoulder to see if anyone else was there. Standing in the hallway beyond the threshold of the door were Mark Remington and two men she’d never seen before. Natalie realized that they must have been the two surviving slayers from those on-lend from Valentin. Behind them, there was someone else, short in stature, dwarfed by the slayers who stood before her. Esther. Looking past her, she saw only Youko and a pair of unnamed lackeys bringing up the rear. “Where is everyone else?”

Javon shook his head. “I don’t know. We was all together. For a while I thought we were it.”

Had Natalie been the only one to wake up alone? Surveying the group as they trundled in, she could see they were all soaking wet. They must have been dragged through the rain. Just the same, they all wore civilian clothes. Stepping aside to clear the door, she gestured for the others to enter. “Come on in, everyone.” Though she looked at each of them as they entered the room, special mind was given to Esther, whose damp, dangling strands hid her brown eyes from view. As the scout wandered away from them, Natalie leaned her head closer to Javon and spoke quietly. “How’s Esther?”

Javon blew out a breath as he glanced toward the scout. Looking back to Natalie, he said, “She ain’t said a word. Not to me, not to no one. I dunno.”

Natalie knew. The girl had just seen her husband mowed down in the woods. She was destroyed.

“We got our eyes on her,” Javon said. “We’ll keep her steady.”

Esther looked anything but steady. She looked in another world. But there was nothing that could be done about that now. As Mark and the two slayers wandered deeper into the room, Natalie stepped back from Javon to take the group in. “Everyone okay? Anyone hurt?” The men shook their heads; Esther did nothing. “Well, I know about as much about what’s going on as you all do. Arrangements have been made for the Nightmen to retrieve us—or they’re being made, at least. The Yakuza who rescued us can’t afford to get found out, so until they can safely hand us over to them, we’ll be laying low here for a while. Whether ‘a while’ is a few days or a few weeks, I don’t know.” She prayed to God it wasn’t the latter. “We’ve been given the go-ahead to use this suite as we see fit, so please, catch a shower and get comfortable. Or get some rest. Whatever you all need.” Their schedule, apparently, was wide open.

All the while she’d been speaking, Logan had been lurking about in the back of the room, eyes and ears on her as she spoke. Regardless of how she felt about him now, they were alive because of him. Natalie felt it best to at least introduce Javon to him. Gesturing for Javon to follow her as she started across the room, she asked, “You got any reservations about being second in command?”

Javon blinked—a clear indication that the answer was yes, he had them. “Uhh. No. I mean—whatever you want, Vee.”

What she wanted was an XO she could trust. The pickings were slim—not that she could have thought of a better candidate than Javon, anyway. “You’re second if anything funny happens.” Before Javon had a chance to react, the two had approached Logan. “Quinton, this is Logan Marshall. Logan Marshall, Javon Quinton.” She drew a breath. Lowering her chin, she said, “Marshall served under me in Atlanta and Cairo. Quinton is one of the Falcon survivors and my acting XO.” Logan raised an eyebrow at that part, but said nothing.

“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Javon said.

Logan’s voice remained low. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

“Marshall is the reason we’re alive,” Natalie explained. “He had contacts in the Yakuza who came to our aid. We owe him for that.” She didn’t want her frustrations with Logan to show. These were formalities that needed to be played out. Looking at Javon, she asked him, “Am I right in assuming that you were drugged just like I was?”

The soldier frowned. “We musta been. I don’t remember nothin’ after we got picked up. None of us do.”

“Then perhaps,” she said, turning her focus to Logan, “you can shed some light on what took place between that time and now, seeing as you were the only one not induced into a sleep state.” When Logan looked at her curiously, she said, “You don’t expect me to believe that you were given the same treatment as the rest of us.” Especially considering he’d had time to conspire with Nobu. “These are your friends, after all.”

Laughing humorlessly, the Australian said, “I don’t know if I’d call these blokes friends.”

“The fact remains that you were the only one awake while the rest of us were drugged. Am I wrong in that assumption?”

It was clear by the slightly annoyed look on his face that Logan wasn’t too thrilled with that question. “You’re not wrong.”

Before Natalie could say anything else, Javon interjected. “Where’s Colonel Lilan’s body?”

Logan answered, “I don’t know. I assume Nobu has it.”

“You assume?” asked Natalie, eyebrow arched.

“That’s our colonel, man,” added Javon, voice rising, though a steady hand from Natalie kept his emotions in check. “We carried him out for a reason.”

Looking between them, Logan ran a hand over his shaved head. “Look, I don’t know where the body is, but if it has value, Nobu won’t be careless with it. He must have it somewhere.”

“Let’s make sure of it, okay?” Natalie asked.

Eyeing her flatly, he answered, “I don’t know. I’m purely speculating. Next time I see Nobu, I’ll ask.”

Natalie wasn’t sure if his answer was intended to sound like sarcasm, but it did. “We’re going to need that body. It’s going to need a proper burial, even if we aren’t there to see it happen.”

“I’ll pass that on to him,” Logan answered. When she narrowed her eyes, he widened his to appease her. “I will,” he said, his voice as placating as the Australian likely could manage.

Behind them, the door to the suite opened again. Natalie, Javon, and Logan—along with all the others present in the room—turned their heads to regard it.

It was Tom King. Immediately behind him was Feliks Petrukhin. Other figures could be seen entering as well.

“King!” Javon said, stifling a move in his compatriot’s direction before looking at Natalie as if to ask her permission.

As if she’d say no. “Go ahead.” Gesturing with a head nod in Tom and company’s direction, she said, “I’m glad to see them, too.” As Javon departed to greet his friend and fellow Falcon survivor, Natalie watched to see who else entered. Pyotr, the young Nightman teenager, was next in. Behind him and being rolled in in a wheelchair, was Jakob Reinhardt. The pilot had indeed survived.

Despite her relief in seeing so many enter, there were still two glaring absentees: Ju`bajai and Lisa Tiffin. While it was no surprise to Natalie that an alien and a prisoner hadn’t been ushered into the room, it still left the critical question as to where they were and if they were all right. She needed to know the answers to both, and so once again, she turned to Logan. “The Ithini and the Vector. Are they all right?”

This time, he answered with confidence. “They’re all right. Tiffin is in protective custody, locked away until she can be sold back—” Though he bit his lip to catch himself, it was too late.

“Sold back? As in, sold back to EDEN?”

Sighing, he answered, “Yeah, that’s kind of how the mob operates.”

“No. No, that’s not how this is gonna go.”

“I hate to break it to you, love, but you don’t exactly have a voice in the matter.”

It didn’t mean she couldn’t fight for one. “I want Ju`bajai released back to us, and I want to see Lisa.”

“Sure. Anything else? Sushi, spa treatment, drink with a little umbrella in it?”

“Can you stop being completely ridiculous?”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “Can you? You talk about not knowing me anymore, but what about you? Jugga-whatever, I assume that’s the alien? You’re naming aliens, now?”

This was stupid. “Aliens have names.”

“Yeah, but we’re not supposed to care enough to use them.”

“Ju`bajai. Lisa. Make them happen.” With nothing further to discuss, Natalie turned to step away—that was, until he reached out and grabbed her shoulder, not terribly hard.

“Hey, stop for a minute.”

The last thing she wanted to do was talk to him further. Tiredly, she turned back to him and asked, “What?”

The Australian’s gravelly tone softened a touch. “Can we not act like enemies? You wanted me to come with you, so I came with you—ended up losing a bloody Vector because of it, and I’d been working alongside them.” Despite his set jaw, a frown found its way out. “Just make me understand this. That’s all I’m saying. Make me understand why you believe in this so…” Pressing his lips together, he shook his head. “So bloody stubbornly.”

Make him believe it? She wanted nothing else as badly. But there were no words she could say that he’d believe. Natalie was a creature of intuition, but Logan needed something he could put his hands on. As it stood right then, she had nothing tangible to offer. But she did know one thing. “Just stick around.”

He looked at her curiously.

“If you hang around these guys long enough, you’ll start to see the truth. It happened for me.”

Logan looked at her for several seconds, saying nothing. At long last, a resigned looked crossed his face. “I never could say no to you.”

And that—that prompted an eye roll. “Don’t be romantic. You suck at it.” When his eyes narrowed, she turned to walk away. “Go talk to Nobu and run my requests by him. Report to me whatever he says.”

Hands on his hips, Logan watched her until she reached the other side of the room. Blowing out a defeated breath, he said, “Aye, aye.”

Separated from Northern Forge. Sequestered in a Yakuza suite. No knowledge of what had taken place in the aftermath of the mission. Those were but a few of the many challenges that faced Natalie and her team of survivors. The fate of so many remained a mystery, from Scott, now in EDEN custody, to Tiffany, who was who-knew-where. How thorough had this defeat actually been?

Once again, Natalie’s gaze sought out Esther. The scout was in the same place Natalie had last seen her, in the far corner of the room, with her back to the wall and sitting on the floor. Staring at nothing. I need you, Esther. You know more about what’s going on than anyone else here. Come back to us. A conversation between the two of them was due, that much was certain. But for the time being, she would give Esther space. She was sure that was what she needed more than anything else. As for what everyone else needed? She knew the answer to that one. They needed to know that the woman in charge cared about them. And that was a need that was easy to remedy.

Over the next hour, Natalie reconnected with each of the surviving members of the Atami ambush. Her first stop was with the wheelchair-bound Jakob. He’d suffered second- and third-degree burns across most of his back and shoulders. It was a testament to the protective capability of the V2 cockpit that it hadn’t been worse. Thankfully, he was expected to get a little bit better every day with the use of burn gel. The painkillers he was on would help him bear through it.

When she was finished talking to Jakob, Natalie made a beeline for Mark. Her heart went out to the boy, who seemed totally despondent. After finding out his brother had been labeled a terrorist, being held at gunpoint by EDEN and used as leverage, then having to escape through the forest with chaos rounds exploding around him, one could hardly blame the shell-shocked cadet for his state of emotional withdrawal. He needed to feel that he was as valuable to her as any other member of the team, even though, sadly, it wasn’t true. As it stood now, on a practical level, he was little more than a liability. She looked forward to finding out if he had it in him to change that.

As for everyone else, they weren’t a concern. Javon was a pro. He was handling this entire situation as well as anyone could have. The same could be said for Tom, his counterpart from Falcon Platoon—which was a pleasant surprise considering the soldier’s past displays of volatility. Natalie needed him as much as she did Javon.

She also needed Feliks, the last surviving member of the Cairo extraction team. Feliks, quite simply, was a machine. When she asked him how he was handling everything, he simply told her that he awaited his next task. When pressed on the details of the ambush from his own perspective, he provided an emotionless, point-by-point narrative of every fatal shot that a fellow Nightman had taken and every near miss that he’d dodged himself. Though her chat with the ginger-haired, droopy-eyed slayer had been a short one, its monotone, bullet-point firmness spoke volumes. It made her understand why Novosibirsk—the heart of the Nightman sect—went by the moniker The Machine. Inundated into this kill-kill-kill culture, there seemed little room for emotion to cloud ruthless efficiency. She found herself simultaneously admiring and pitying them.

As for the two surviving slayers from the six lent to them by Valentin, she found her conversation with them downright fascinating. The older of the pair, a clean-cut man by the name of Paul Kaverin, had a certain David Jurgen essence to him. The way he spoke to Natalie was almost fatherly. At least, it would have been had her father been part of a sociopathic cult that evaluated its members based on their ability to perform ritual homicide. Paul was such an even-keeled and pleasant conversationalist, it was hard to imagine him being a Nightman at all.

In contrast, the younger of the pair, a shaggy, blond-haired man by the name of Bedrich Zima, possessed an air of arrogance. Unlike Paul, she could completely believe that Bedrich was a Nightman. Just the same, that air of arrogance never translated over into a snippy remark or antagonistic attitude. He answered every question and word from her with “captain,” seeming to understand exactly where his place was in the hierarchy and having little desire to test its boundaries.

The only question mark among the slayers was Pyotr. He didn’t look so much at peace with the chaos around them as he looked outright oblivious to it. He and Mark’s responses to all this were on totally opposite ends of the spectrum. Mark was a nervous wreck. Pyotr simply didn’t seem to care.

All in all, with everything that the team had been through, Natalie couldn’t be displeased with their overall status. Had another firefight been looming, she felt they’d have been ready, even after the utter exhaustion of the previous day. They instilled in her confidence in them.

If she only knew now what to do with it.

Eventually, the group retired to the various bedrooms that were laid about in the suite—the Nightmen in one, and Natalie, Mark, Jakob, and the Falcons in another. Only Esther slept alone, having locked herself in a third bedroom far away from the action while Natalie had been making her rounds. There was concern in Natalie that the scout might try to harm herself, but a few simple words from Javon—“Just let her deal”—convinced her to give Esther distance. At least, distance for the time being, until the scout gave her reason to do otherwise.

And so, with a comfortable little cove picked out for herself on the floor—for it was unanimously decided that the burned Jakob was to have sole occupancy of the bed—Natalie sought out the replenishment of a good night’s sleep in the guest penthouse of a Japanese Yakuza lord. This was unlike any situation she’d experienced before, but such situations had been popping up a lot lately. She was beginning to get used to them. Perhaps more scarily, she was beginning to feel comfortable in them. That, possibly more than anything else, told her all she needed to know about her own state of mind. These were strange days, indeed.

She was more than ready for a new one to come.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Date unknown

Time unknown

Kalarian Orbit

SVETLANA HAD SEEN many magnificent sights in her life. She’d followed her father up the steps of the Winter Palace in Pushkin, the sound of freshly fallen snow crunching beneath her boots as she stared wide-eyed at the palace’s pristine, white exterior. She’d relished the scent of pine needles and birch trees from the shores of Lake Baikal, the August winds of the mountain taigas caressing her face as she air-dried from a dip. She’d gazed in wonder at the morning sun as it rose over her uncle’s farm in Vilnius, its orange and pink hues ushering in an endless blue sky.

None of it compared to the Kalarael homeworld. As Svetlana floated in microgravity at the front of the Noboat’s bridge, her eyes glued to the view screen that revealed the planet, the only thought in her mind was, I have never seen anything more beautiful.

Much like Earth, the planet’s two primary colors were green and blue—though there seemed far more landmass than water on this world. Beneath the white clouds in Kalar’s atmosphere, she could see mountain ranges, desert regions, and vibrant, lush expanses of green—even patches of pink, as strange a contrast as that was. But what truly took Svetlana’s breath away was not something on the surface.

It was Kalar’s rings.

There were three distinct discs to the ring system, each one reflecting a light shade of brown. While they may have been particles of ice and dust, they looked nothing short of magical. As she stared at that marbled world—that planet that looked like a paradise amongst the stars—she suddenly felt small. This was a whole world of beings that had never heard of humanity. Not of its wars, its trials, its religions. It was an entirely separate center of its own galaxy.

Far behind her on the bridge, Yigôzien spoke with awe in her voice. Svetlana didn’t need a connection to know what she was saying. The one word that stood out—the one word she understood—was the only one that mattered.

Kalar.

Kalar, indeed.

From helm control, the guttural voice of Tauthin cut Svetlana’s thoughts short. “I have detected several space stations in orbit around the planet, though none are in visible range. There are also numerous spacecraft in the vicinity.”

“Get close enough to put them on screen,” Svetlana said. “I will have Yigôzien point out which one she intends us to land on.”

“Unless of course,” the Bakma said, “she intends to land directly on the surface.”

Svetlana scoffed. “And infect this planet with our germs? She does not know what effect our presence on the planet would cause. For all we know, we might possess a bacteria that destroys all life.”

“The risk of that is infinitesimal.”

“It is still not one I am willing to take.” While there’d been nothing outwardly indicative from the Kalarael showing that they were harboring some deadly human bacteria, Svetlana wasn’t going to take the chance that something wasn’t lurking beneath their skin. Landing on a space station would be her first choice. That way, if there was a disease outbreak, it’d be limited to the station and not that beautiful, ringed world. As Tauthin manipulated the controls to bring the Noboat closer to the space stations, Svetlana turned to look at her Kalarael friend. “Show us,” she said, gesturing Yigôzien closer, then pointing at the view screen. Using her hand, she mimicked the sight of a spaceship landing.

Unfortunately for all of them, Ed was in no shape to provide them with a connection. Though the Ithini had woken up since his latest traumatic mental experience, he was resting in the corner of the bridge, tucked down beneath a console in the corner where he wouldn’t float off in microgravity. Svetlana would get as far as she could without him.

On the screen, a series of space stations were cycling, some in greater detail than others as the Noboat made its approach. Svetlana watched Yigôzien’s eyes with intent as the Kalarael scrutinized the view. As one of the stations came into view, Yigôzien pointed and spoke merrily. “Tsi`rist!”

If that wasn’t a glowing recommendation, Svetlana didn’t know one. “You heard her,” Svetlana said. “Take us closer.”

“As you wish, my lady.” With another manipulation of the control, the Noboat accelerated forward.

Suddenly, Yigôzien’s eyes widened. Reaching out, she placed her hand on Svetlana’s shoulder, her eyes turning dark yellow as if suddenly afraid. “Lukish manaka.”

Staring at the being, Svetlana spoke to Tauthin. “Wait. Stop our approach.” What was the matter? Angling her head as she looked at Yigôzien, she waited for the Kalarael to elaborate in whatever way she could. Yigôzien seemed to be thinking. Her vulpine eyes darted back and forth frantically, her hands outstretched as if she was looking for something to do with them. There was no doubt about it: Ed would have been a tremendous help. Svetlana considered trying to coax the Ithini to attempt another connection, until Yigôzien finally said something that made sense.

“Pew! Pew! Pew!”

Her eyes open wide, Yigôzien held her hands in front of her. Gliding one of her hands over the other, she shook the stationary hand and once again went, “Pew! Pew! Pew!” Opening the other hand widely, she went, “Pkssshhh!”

It took about two seconds for Svetlana to understand. The hard part was not to laugh when she did. Unaware that the Noboat was shifted into the Zone, Yigôzien was afraid that the space station would blow the approaching ship into a million pieces. Who needed an Ithini connection when they had top-flight communication such as this?

Extending her hand to reassuringly touch Yigôzien’s, Svetlana said, “It’s okay.” Though she was well aware that the Kalarael wouldn’t know what the words meant, she hoped that the tone alone would indicate that Yigôzien’s fear was unfounded. Pointing to the hand that Yigôzien had used as the space station, Svetlana shook her head, then covered her eyes as if she couldn’t see. Twice more the gesture was repeated, before Svetlana dipped her head and looked into Yigôzien’s eyes, in the only facially expressive way she knew to convey, “Does that make you feel better?”

And…it didn’t. Nothing about Yigôzien’s expression changed, except that she perhaps looked more bewildered than before.

Half-frowning, Svetlana patted Yigôzien on the arm and again looked ahead. “Tauthin, take us closer again.” Her Kalarael friend would get the gist when whatever guns were on that space station didn’t start firing at them.

“Yes, my lady.”

As the space station grew larger in the view screen, Yigôzien and her companion grew more alarmed. “It’s okay,” Svetlana said, over and over again. “It’s okay.” Keep it reassuring, keep it calm. Yigôzien and her companion began speaking back and forth, fast and frantically, as the space station grew closer and closer. And then…

…Yigôzien stopped. The feathery-haired being cocked her head in a way that looked quizzical. Glancing back at the brown-and-orange-haired male, Svetlana saw that his mouth was hanging open. Svetlana couldn’t help but smirk. Welcome to the future. Focusing her gaze ahead, she asked Tauthin, “Is there any sign that the Kalarael can detect us?” Just to be sure.

“No. A shifted Zone Runner can only be detected by another Zone Runner.”

As Yigôzien watched with diminishing trepidation, Svetlana examined the finer details of the station as it came closer into view. The station was not particularly large, though it did possess fanning, multicolored sails designed much in the style as the arrow-shaped vessel they’d destroyed. By “not particularly large,” of course, it was still vastly bigger and more complex than anything humanity had put in orbit—roughly the size of three Bakma Carriers, if Svetlana had to compare it to something.

Three horizontally stacked centrifuges made up the center of the station, the top and bottom centrifuges slowly rotating in opposite directions as the central centrifuge, which was also the largest, giving the station the appearance of gears that were constantly in a state of motion.

Yigôzien drifted toward the view screen, where the space station was now taking up their full view. Pointing to a row of circles that ran along the center of the station, she said, “Geishn.” Looking back at Svetlana, then to Tauthin, she said the word again.

Eyes narrowing, Svetlana scrutinized the indicated circles. As the Noboat inched ever closer, she saw that the circles were actually holes in the station. Docking bays.

“Geishn,” Yigôzien said again, before offering Svetlana what looked like a smile of reassurance. Propelling herself gently across the bridge, she came back to Svetlana’s side, where she reached out and touched the blonde on the arm. “It’s okay.”

It actually took a moment for Svetlana to realize what Yigôzien was doing, but when she did, she too offered a small smile of gratitude. The Kalarael had no idea what “it’s okay” meant, beyond knowing that Svetlana had used it to calm her own nerves and invoke a feeling of trust. This was Yigôzien’s way of saying, “it’s your turn to trust me.” And so trust, Svetlana would. Eyes returning to Tauthin, she said, “Take us to where she showed us.”

“As you wish, my lady.” Working the console, Tauthin brought the Noboat forward.

Leaning toward the view screen, Svetlana watched the space station draw nearer. It looked easily less than a kilometer away, which in the vastness of space, was virtually nothing. The Noboat slowed further as Tauthin took it within the station’s sphere of influence. Squinting her eyes, she could see now what was inside the circular docking bay. There was movement. Faint movement, but definitely movement. Kalarael. They were walking to and fro in the docking bay, no spacesuits to be seen, as if there was no vacuum of space around them. “Tauthin, are you seeing this?”

“I am.” Drawing the Noboat to a stop just beyond the docking bay, the Bakma stared ahead at the scene.

From the other side of the bridge, Wuteel spoke. “I am detecting high plasma readings at the precipice of the docking bay.”

“A plasma window?” Tauthin asked.

“It would so appear.”

Svetlana asked, “A plasma window?”

Wuteel’s knobby brow lowered as he looked her way. “It is a technology that the Khuladi have been unable to master. It is a plasma field confined within a magnetic field. It would allow for an atmosphere to exist side-by-side with the vacuum of space, with neither affecting the other.” He grunted. “But it is not without challenges. They are difficult to stabilize and prone to leaking. In addition, while a plasma window may keep air in and the vacuum of space out, the temperature of plasma is extraordinarily high. Any vessel passing through a plasma window, if not properly shielded, is prone to considerable damage or even destruction.”

From helm control, Tauthin nodded. “You Earthae refer to our weapons as ‘plasma’ weapons, but plasma is only a small part of the process. Were you being struck by bolts of pure plasma, no armor would save you. It is among your many misconceptions about reality.”

Svetlana turned her focus back to Wuteel. “Will we be able to pass through this plasma window?”

“Yes,” the engineer answered. “Because we are shifted into the Zone, the core temperature of the plasma window will not affect us. Our mass and the window’s mass will mutually affect each other, however, meaning that even while shifted, the moment we pass through the window, its fluctuations will surely be detected by the Kalarael.”

“How certain are you of that?”

Wuteel’s answer was immediate. “Certain. They would not implement such technology and not have a multitude of sensors in place.” Looking back at the screen, he grunted. “It is a wonder that such an inferior species has mastered this technology when the Khuladi have not. This falls into the realm of force field technology, which has always eluded them.”

Releasing a guttural scoff, Tauthin said, “Much would have eluded the Khuladi were it not for the Ithini. Almost all of their advanced technology is from the Ithinis’ research. They simply knew how to utilize it for warfare.”

Wuteel glared across the bridge at his Bakma counterpart. “The Khuladi found true purpose where there was none.”

“Okay.” Raising her hand, Svetlana stared at the two. “Let us focus on what is in front of us. If the Kalarael are going to know that we are crossing the threshold of this ‘plasma window,’ then it would be better to reveal ourselves right away. If they start running into the docking bay to investigate, they are liable to smash into the spacecraft and injure themselves. There should be no risk to the ship to materialize—” Catching herself, she cleared her throat. “I mean, to shift back into realspace right away, correct?” It was a challenge trying to relearn all the terms to which she’d grown accustomed. She should probably start ditching the word ‘Noboat’ for ‘Zone Runner,’ too, just for consistency’s sake. Easier said than done, but she’d try.

It was Tauthin who answered her question. “Though we do not know what weapons technology they possess, it is highly unlikely that anything on a ground operations level could threaten this spacecraft. Shifting into realspace after we cross the threshold should pose no risk.”

“Do we have any way of determining the atmosphere inside the ship? It would be similar to the atmosphere of the planet, would it not?” She already knew the Kalarael were oxygen-breathers. They must have been, considering they were still alive.

Nodding, Tauthin answered, “It would be logical. Their planet is similar atmospherically to your own, though oxygen levels are somewhat lower. It is not enough to be life-threatening.”

Not to be life-threatening, perhaps, but certainly enough to make breathing more difficult. Ceratopians dealt with that when landing on Earth, a planet with lower oxygen levels—presumably—than their own. Though formidable warriors in any atmosphere, eventually, they began to grow weary after extended periods of time on Earth’s surface. Svetlana couldn’t imagine breathing being any more difficult than it was now with her missing nose. There was nothing she could do about that, though. “What about gravity? On the planet? And the composition of the water?” Chances were, the centrifuges on the space station were spinning at a rate intended to match that of the Kalarael homeworld.

“Gravity is less than Earth, but only by a small degree. Though faintly noticeable, it is not as vast a difference as between Earth and the planet you call Mars.” He paused. “As far as water composition, the planet’s oceans feature a much higher level of salinity, though there are patches of inland freshwater.”

Satisfied with Tauthin’s answers, she said, “Let’s do it.” Looking ahead, she watched as they neared the threshold of the docking bay.

“Passing through in ten seconds,” Tauthin said.

The interior of the docking bay was fairly Spartan. It was just a big, flat, open room that was white and well-lit, giving more the appearance of a laboratory than a place to land. Still, there were some consoles and pieces of heavy machinery strewn about the place, the purposes of which were not immediately recognizable. And as for the floor, there wasn’t even an obvious landing platform—the whole surface of the docking bay was glossy white. Beauty in simplicity.

Tauthin said, “Passing through the field now.”

The white interior lights of the docking bay shifted red. From one side of the bay to the other, the Kalarael flinched, whipping their heads to face the open bay door that the Noboat was passing through. Wuteel had been right: their touching the plasma window had tripped all kinds of sensors. Invisible to the naked eye or not, the space station knew something was there.

Heart pounding, Svetlana found herself holding her breath.

From behind, Yigôzien placed her hand atop Svetlana’s wrist as she floated in microgravity next to her. The Kalarael smiled. “It’s okay,” she said.

Svetlana couldn’t think of a more simplistic phrase to have been chosen for such a deep, important relaying of assurance. But it helped. Jaw lowering, she watched the Kalarael run about the hangar like panicked ants, the clunky awkwardness of magnetic boots now apparent. “Are we clear of the plasma window?”

“Almost, my lady.”

“The moment we are clear, shift to realspace.” She didn’t want the Kalarael on the space station wondering what was going on any longer than they needed to. As terrifying as she knew it’d be to suddenly see an alien spacecraft landing in their space station, at least the Zone Runner’s visibility would provide an answer as to what was tripping all their sensors.

Glancing at the controls, Tauthin said, “We are cleared of the window. Prepare for realspace shift.”

On the other side of the bridge, Wuteel worked furiously from his own console. “Rift generated. Beginning shift into realspace now.” The lights above the bridge shifted, their red hues replaced by dark blue.

Svetlana watched as the Kalarael in the docking bay scrambled as fast as their magnetic boots would allow. In seconds, they would see something they would never forget. For the slightest of moments, she envied the sense of wonder they were about to feel. She almost envied the fear. To come face to face with the mysteries of the unknown, be they terrifying or not. There was just something awesome about that.

The dark blue lights faded. White lights kicked on. As the ever-familiar crackle of static electricity emerged, the Noboat—no, the Zone Runner—made its presence known. Leaning forward in her chair, Svetlana watched for the Kalaraels’ reactions.

Panic. Stumbling, falling, flailing panic. Even at a distance, she could see their open-mouthed horror—the immediate darkening of their eyes in fear. Emergency lights were still flashing in the docking bay, and for the first time, she could make out in realspace the wail of a klaxon.

“I will refrain from engaging the gravity wheel,” said Wuteel. “It would interfere too much with the station.” He continued. “Sensors are picking up a faint repulsor field in front of the plasma window. It is too weak to impact the ship.”

“Preparing to land,” Tauthin said. Moments later, there was a loud clunking sound as the spaceship touched down. “The docking bay floor is exhibiting weak magnetism. It is enough to anchor us to the floor but not to hold us there should we choose to leave. Shifting into the Zone will negate this effect.” His fingers were still flying across the panel.

It was as lively as she’d seen the two Bakma work their respective controls, and at times it was hard to tell which one was responsible for what. Svetlana turned to Yigôzien. They needed to move to the antechamber as quickly as possible so that the two Kalarael could reveal themselves. Floating across the bridge, she gestured for Yigôzien and her companion to follow her.

Svetlana knew which button to hit to lower the antechamber door. The only question in her mind was whether or not she wanted to be there when it went down—whether or not it was better for the Kalarael in the space station to see her or only their lost companions. Choosing the latter, she slapped her hand against the button to lower the ramp. “Good luck,” she said. “We will see you soon.” Though she knew the words meant nothing to Yigôzien, she hoped that at least a part of their meaning—a part of their intent—connected with the exotic beings. As the ramp lowered and a cold, sterile breeze blew in from outside, Svetlana floated backward through the antechamber and toward the small, hooked hallway that led to the bridge. The last thing she saw before she turned away was Yigôzien looking back at her. Before the door went down any lower, Svetlana disappeared out of view.

“Put the antechamber on screen!” Svetlana said. The view screen flickered briefly, the view in front of the Zone Runner replaced with the view of the two Kalarael in the antechamber. Both were in the same place she’d left them, staring ahead at whatever was taking place outside. “Can we see what they are seeing?”

Tauthin worked the console, and the view screen split into two scenes—the same view of the antechamber and a new one from a camera somewhere on the Zone Runner’s port bow.

Lowering her gaze to stare harder, Svetlana waited to see who would make the first move—their two Kalarael friends or the ones that had gathered outside to meet them. She could see Yigôzien moving her head—talking, though she couldn’t see her mouth from the angle they were viewing. “Can you give us sound?” Svetlana knew she wouldn’t be able to decipher anything Yigôzien was saying, but if something from her tone of voice could be measured—wariness, nervousness, desperation, or calmness—that would be worth something. Yigôzien’s delicate tones emerged through the bridge speakers. Looking down, Svetlana tilted her head just a bit to hear better.

Nerves. Or at least, it sure sounded like nerves from human standards. Earthae standards—we are called Earthae. The readjusting of her mind was in full swing. Every species that Svetlana had met referred to Humans as Earthaes. She felt like an Earthae, especially being so far away from her homeworld. She was proud of that green and blue planet, regardless of the messes its occupants occasionally got themselves in.

Narrowing her eyes, Svetlana watched as Yigôzien and her counterpart were approached by four beings, each covered from head to toe in armor. The suits were a resplendent, shining silver, with red, almost wing-like spindles fanning out from behind them. Their helmets, all featureless, were curved like hawk beaks with no discernable viewing ports.

Next to Svetlana, Mishka purred, the massive beast leaning the side of its head against her. Turning her head slowly in the canrassi’s direction, she considered how the approaching Kalarael would act upon seeing the canrassi for the first time—upon seeing any of this ghastly crew. The Bakma and canrassi were horrible looking, like monsters out of nightmares, and Ithinis looked like deformed, malnourished children. When the most aesthetically pleasing crew member was the blood-stained woman whose nose was cut off, that said something.

On the screen, Yigôzien and her counterpart swayed their hands out in front of their bodies and—for lack of a better way to put it—curtsied. She watched to see if the guards—paladins, as she thought of them in her mind—would do something similar, but they did not. So fluid and polished was the gesture, whatever it indicated, Svetlana knew it had to be something the Kalarael—or at least Yigôzien—performed often. A way of saying hello, perhaps?

Once more, Yigôzien dipped her body, this time pressing her hands together like prayer hands and swaying them from side to side, like an interpretive movement.

Sighing, Svetlana rested a hand atop her head and turned away from the screen. Who knew how long this was going to take?

“Activity in the docking bay, my lady,” said Tauthin.

Turning around again, Svetlana looked at the side of the view screen that was dedicated to the bay, where a vehicle—if that’s what this multi-armed, mechanized contraption could be called—was ushering in a massive, cylindrical tank. Both the tank and the vehicle were hovering, kept above the ground by sets of curved objects that ran along their undersides that seemed to be keeping them mere inches from the floor. Upon drawing within ten or so meters from the Zone Runner, the vehicle drew to a stop. The tank was gargantuan, with large white tubes jutting out and disappearing into smaller connected modules, then going back in. All around it were consoles and depressions. Squinting, she could faintly make out the general shape of a sealed door on the closer end of the cylinder. Her focus shifted to the antechamber, where the paladins were clearly pointing the tank out to Yigôzien and her friend. A second later, the two Kalarael were fitted with mag boots and following the paladins toward it.

This had to be part of some decontamination or quarantine process. If there was any concern about bacteria or the spread of extraterrestrial germs, putting everyone in the Zone Runner into quarantine would be atop the priority list. Her expressing her concern about such a thing now felt more justified. As Yigôzien and her counterpart were led inside the tank through what was indeed a door on the near end, Svetlana turned her attention back to the antechamber monitor. The paladins were still there, craning their necks as if to look around the antechamber corners. Trying to get a peek at what else was inside. She was fairly certain that the reality that awaited them was nothing like the fantasy that must have been in their heads. But that was for them to discover on their own. After turning her head away from the display, she floated past her captain’s chair to the back of the bridge.

This was going to take some time. Yigôzien would have to be questioned about everything before whoever ran that station was going to willfully step aboard the Zone Runner. That alone could take hours, during which the entire docking bay—perhaps even the entire space station—was liable to be cordoned off. Whatever was going to happen next, Svetlana was already prepared to have to wait for it.

After the freneticism of her time on the Zone Runner thus far, she was okay with that.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Thursday, March 29th, 0012 NE

0349 hours

Atami, Shizuoka Prefecture, Japan

Early next morning

THE POUNDING OF rainfall was so loud, Natalie could scarcely hear herself think. Everywhere she looked from beneath the awning she and Youko stood under—in every direction, in every nook and cranny of every shadowed alley—there was water pouring from the sky and pooling on the ground. She had no idea what the weather was typically like in Japan, but if this was it, they could keep it. Every minute she spent in the Land of the Rising Sun, the more and more she hated the place.

It felt like only a short while ago that Natalie was slipping into one of Nobu’s guest penthouse bedrooms to retire for the night and get some much-needed sleep. She’d barely shut her eyes when she was suddenly being awoken by Youko. Nobu was granting Natalie’s request to visit Ju`bajai and Lisa. The cover of darkness and the veil of street-slamming rain would provide the perfect opportunity to ferry Natalie to the safe house where they were located. And so, after a brief explanation to Javon of where she was going, Natalie was off with Youko. Having traversed the now-abandoned trance hall, Natalie and Youko found themselves staring out at literal sheets of rain.

Removing a mini umbrella from her purse, Youko flicked it out to the side, popping it open. As she held it upright over her head, she pivoted around to Natalie and barked, “Come, now!” Before Natalie could respond, the punk princess sashayed across the street through the downpour.

After bracing herself for a cold dousing from Mother Nature, Natalie shoved her hands into her pockets, tensed her shoulders, and trotted into the street behind Youko. The downpour was falling with the same intensity as it had in the forest, leaving Natalie with little choice but to lower her head and hunker down—all while following Youko, who seemed to be taking her good old time. That Natalie was drenched within seconds while Youko was strolling with cocked hips under the safety of her umbrella only made Natalie dislike the woman more.

Youko walked up to a small pink coupe, a pleasing chirp emitting as its lights flashed a single time. Even in her cold, miserable state, Natalie had to smirk. “Pink, huh?” she asked as Youko walked around the front of the car to the driver’s side. That Youko didn’t answer came as no surprise. What did surprise Natalie, though, was the punk princess’s reaction when Natalie reached for the passenger side door handle.

“No!” Youko’s eyes shot wide as plates—genuinely in terror—as she held out her hand to stop Natalie from opening the door. Her shout was so sharp and loud that it actually made Natalie flinch. “No, no!” Youko yelled, eyes fixed on Natalie as if the American was crazy.

“What? What is it?” Whipping her head around, Natalie bent her knees as if to duck or run for cover. Had her counterpart spotted an EDEN patrol? When she saw no one after them, she looked back at Youko.

The punk princess’s opened palm was still extended. Yelling through the downpour, she said, “You wait. No go in! Wait.”

“What the hell?” Natalie asked, holding her hands out to emphasize the words. She watched as Youko opened the driver’s side door, quickly pulled in the umbrella, and slipped inside. The door was slammed shut with violence. “Fine,” Natalie muttered, “I guess I’ll just stand here in the vecking rain.” She could see her breath in front of her. This was nightmarishly cold—the sweater she was wearing made it worse. Leaning her head to look through the windshield, she could make out the punk princess moving about. What she was doing was lost in the distortion of water.

Natalie stood in the rain for over two full minutes. She knew this because of a bright, flashing clock in the window of one of the many pop culture stores that lined the sidewalks. Briefly, she considered running into the shop to at least escape the constant bombardment, but the clinging hope that at any moment Youko would reveal what she was doing kept Natalie in place. As it turned out, the reveal did come.

Hopping out of the driver’s side again with umbrella in hand, Youko slammed her door then walked around the coupe to Natalie. There was annoyance in her dark, almond eyes—genuine revulsion. Huffing out the most ire-laced sigh Natalie had ever heard from a person, Youko said, “Get go fast—fast!”

“Fast?” Shaking her head, Natalie could only manage an, “Okay,” in a tone that made the word sound more like a question than acknowledgment.

Reaching for the door handle, Youko jerked the door open. “Go, go!”

Natalie was going—truly she was. Placing her hand atop the coupe’s open doorframe, she prepared to hop inside like a jackrabbit. That was, until she saw what Youko had been doing in the car. And at that moment, any attempt to be hasty was cut short.

Towels. Youko had been lining the passenger seat with towels. She didn’t want the seat to get wet.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Turning her rain-drenched head to Youko, she stared flatly at the young woman.

“In! In!” Livid, Youko shoved Natalie into the car hard, almost knocking the American’s head against the door frame in the process. Natalie plopped into the seat atop the towels, and the door was slammed shut behind her.

The whole while Youko marched around the front of the pink coupe, Natalie’s emerald glare tracked her. Youko leapt into the driver’s seat, closing her door before her umbrella was even fully retracted. Muttering what sounded like Japanese curse words, Youko pulled down the vanity mirror, meticulously inspecting her spikey black and orange hair then snarling when she spied water droplets.

Natalie, whose own chestnut strands were plastered to her face, was not about to show sympathy.

Spouting a truly passionate ugh, Youko engaged the coupe’s engine and started the car forward.

For what it was worth, the coupe was nice, and in the nearly ten minutes’ worth of driving that it took to get to their destination, Natalie almost forgot that she was cold and miserable. With several heater vents blasting warm air at her, Natalie was able to lean her head back, close her eyes, and just lose herself in her thoughts while she air-dried. She was determined to enjoy every second of it, knowing full well that another march through the rain was likely waiting. For the briefest of moments, she contemplated swiping Youko’s umbrella while the punk princess was focused on driving, but she thought better of it.

When the car finally stopped, it was along the side of the road on a dimly lit street. Sure enough, the moment Youko turned off the engine, she snatched the umbrella, opened it, and quickly stepped out beneath its shelter. For a second time, Natalie’s eyes followed Youko as she walked around the car to retrieve her. The door was opened from the outside, and Natalie once again disembarked. As the door was shut and the car locked, she found herself once again following Youko’s lead through the rain.

Be it mental preparedness or a genuinely shorter walk, Natalie’s second romp didn’t seem nearly as bad as the first. A person could only get so wet. As splashing footsteps brought her closer to their destination, Natalie lifted her eyes against the rain to survey the structure.

With boarded windows and no lights to be seen, it looked like a blighted property. The door, covered by pieces of plywood, didn’t have so much as a handle. As Natalie followed Youko under a narrow but rain-stopping overhang, she glanced down both sides of the street for any signs of life. There was no one. No people walking, no homeless.

After pounding her fist solidly on the door, Youko hesitated for several seconds before leaning her head toward it and shouting, “Kita!”

The door opened several seconds later.

If the outside street was a scene out of a zombie movie, the inside of the building was where the survivors had gathered. As she entered behind Youko, who was busy flapping water droplets off her black, leather sleeves, Natalie counted at least ten people in the lobby area. The inside of the building was lit well—far more than the boarded-up windows had indicated. The wafting odor of cigarettes hung in the air. So far as the occupants went, several were standing near the front door with weapons—some visible and some clearly tucked away under thick jackets. There was a card table off in the far corner of the room; several were gathered around it. All in all, it was exactly the kind of seedy, shady place Natalie expected it to be.

A dialogue ensued between Youko and one of the lackeys, which the dripping wet American failed to decipher. Whatever was said, the end result was that Youko and Natalie were ushered out of the lobby and down a long hallway to a wooden door.

The Japanese gibberish continued to flow as Natalie tried her best to make out any proper names, without success. Marching toward the door, Youko turned the knob and yanked it open. The punk princess stepped back and looked at Natalie, motioning with a sweeping arm gesture for Natalie to lead the way. “Go,” she said simply.

“If you insist.” Behind the door was a wooden staircase leading downward. Natalie, at point, began her descent.

The bottom of the stairwell emptied out into a lower lobby. Just as was the case upstairs, there were couches, tables, and a few other furnishings placed about. “Okay,” Natalie said, identifying a set of doors at each end of the room, “which way do I—” Turning around, Natalie stopped mid-sentence. Youko was gone. Gone as in vanished. Striding toward the stairwell, Natalie looked up the stairs for her Japanese escort. She saw no one.

And I officially have the creeps. Youko had been right behind her as she’d trekked down the stairs. How could she have just disappeared? “Kita?” she called up the stairs. No answer came. “Youko, you up there?”

“She’s not here.”

Natalie nearly jumped out of her skin, and she gasped and spun around. The distinctly British voice had come from behind her, in a direction where there’d been no one a mere moment earlier. But there now, standing with one arm across her chest and the other propped against it, was the last familiar face Natalie expected to see. Squinting as if she couldn’t believe her eyes, Natalie said, “Esther?”

The mocha-skinned woman surveyed Natalie’s battered and bruised face. With her fingers playing with her high ponytail, she said, “Well, you certainly look like you’ve seen better days. Did you fall out of a tree?”

“How in the…?” Turning around, Natalie pointed to the stairway, her words trailing off as her mind sought to reconcile what she was seeing. How was this possible? How was Esther here and also back at the guest suite? Mouth still hanging, she turned back in the scout’s direction. “How are you here?” A ponytail? Esther hadn’t sported a ponytail since Cairo. Natalie’s gaze traveled to her wardrobe. The scout was wearing a white, body-tight uniform that was adorned with blue, hexagonal patterns. For some reason, it struck her as familiar.

As Natalie’s mind raced, a small smirk formed on the scout’s lips, almost as if the mere act of Natalie thinking was prompting it. As if the mocha-skinned woman was reading her mind. And it was right then that Natalie remembered. That white, hexagonal-patterned uniform. She had indeed seen it before—on the most atypical comrade with whom she’d ever served.

“Ju`bajai.” When Natalie said the name, that familiarity hit her. Natalie had been touched by the Ithini’s mind a time or two before—once in Cairo, the other in gearing up for the train mission. But in neither of those experiences had she witnessed something like this. “How do you…? How do you look like Esther?”

After lowering her arms, Ju`bajai wandered toward the nearest couch. “Well, I don’t really.” Falling backward onto it, she stretched her arms in both directions atop it. “Only in your diminutive mind.”

“Did you make Youko disappear?”

“What do you think I am, a sodding magician?” She waved her finger around. “None of what you see here is real. This is what we call a ‘construct.’ An illusion, minus the passage of time.” Ju`bajai lifted her chin. “In the world as you know it, you’re about halfway down that flight of stairs. Mid-step, actually, so watch yourself when this all comes crashing to an end, or you will, too.”

“Does everyone see you like this?”

“Heavens, no. If I looked this good all the time, I’d have to beat the boys away with a stick.”

Natalie pressed her hand to her forehead. “I am so mind-blown right now.”

The comment was ignored, as Ju`bajai motioned with a hand wave toward the couch across from her. “We need to talk.”

Natalie hesitated, standing motionless in the middle of the room as she stared in wonderment at the Esther clone—the construct, as Ju`bajai called it. It was remarkable.

“Oh my God, please,” said Ju`bajai, rolling her eyes. “Stop lusting and take a bloody seat.” Lifting one hand, the construct snapped its fingers.

The next thing Natalie registered, she was sitting on the couch. The transition happened so suddenly, she nearly leapt up in startlement.

“Whoa, easy, girl,” Ju`bajai said.

Heart thumping, Natalie’s eyes fixed on the construct. How was this alien able to do this? To create an entire alternate reality that it could control with the snap of a finger? “How is this possible?”

Shifting from her spot on the couch, the construct answered, “There are many things about my species that you will never understand. Your brain doesn’t have the capacity to.” Lifting her hand, she brushed a few loose strands of her chocolate-colored ponytail off her forehead—so natural was the gesture, it almost seemed based in actual reality. “As I’m sure you may surmise, this is a relatively new experience for me, as well. I can’t say I’m accustomed to feeling quite so liberated—or feeling at all, really.” Allowing her eyes to wander, the Esther construct waved a hand around at the room. “In this realm, I am free to express myself in ways I’d never before imagined. Self-expression comes to you humans so naturally. It actually makes me quite jealous. This expression, this emotion, it’s quite an alien thing to me. It’s what your species is best at.”

All of that was well and good, but it still didn’t answer the question at the forefront of Natalie’s mind. “But why Esther?”

At that, Ju`bajai smiled. “Because Esther represents the ultimate incarnation of human expression. Esther will do as Esther will do, to hell with what everyone else thinks. I envy that.” Slowly, the contented look on the construct’s face faded. Uncrossing her legs, she leaned forward to look at Natalie in earnest. “How is she?”

In the midst of the whole bizarre experience, Natalie found it within herself to answer the question. “Not too good.” Ju`bajai closed her eyes, a look of focus coming across her. All at once, Natalie felt it—that probing of her thoughts, that searching through her experiences like a researcher flipping through the pages of a book. The memory of Natalie’s most recent experience with Esther drifted to the surface—as limited as it may have been. As her gaze stayed on Ju`bajai, Natalie saw the construct inhale and wince. The memories subsided, and the construct opened its eyes.

“I see,” said Ju`bajai quietly.

So she did. This explained how Ju`bajai must have known how to mimic Esther with such perfection. She must have scoured through the scout’s brain. “Has she ever seen you like this?”

The construct smiled sweetly. “It’s the only way she sees me, now. We’ve grown rather close.”

“So when she talks to you, it’s like she’s talking to…herself?”

“A version of herself, yes.”

Natalie massaged her forehead. “She really is Poly--Esther.”

The troubled look on Ju`bajai’s face returned. “I’d kept her unconscious for as long as I was able. I tried to fill her mind with dreams. Of Jay, of her life at Novosibirsk. Of happier days.” A sigh escaped her lips. “Once I was out of range, though, that all came to an end. I’d hoped the comfort I’d given her would be enough to soothe her even after I was gone, at least for a time. But that doesn’t seem the case.”

This was all well and good, but talking about Esther wasn’t the reason Natalie was there.

Ju`bajai picked up on it. Eyes returning to meet Natalie’s, she narrowed them. “Yes, Lisa is here. But I’m afraid that if you’re hoping to add her to the muster roll in the span of a single little chat, well, good luck with that.”

“Could you help me?” Natalie gestured to the room at large. “The way you’re doing this, the way you’re making me see things that aren’t actually here, do you think you could do something like that with her? To show her the truth?”

“But do you even know the truth?”

Nodding her head, Natalie answered, “I know what happened on that train. I know what I saw with my own eyes.”

“Do you know how EDEN knew you were coming?”

Angling her head as if unsure whether or not the alien was toying with her, she tentatively asked, “Do you know how EDEN knew we were coming?”

The construct crossed its legs and leaned back. “Because of a helmet.”

“A helmet? I don’t understand.”

“A helmet was found at Hami Station, where Iosif Antipov sent the Fourteenth to recover satellite codes before destroying the place.” As confusion came to Natalie’s face, Ju`bajai explained. “I took it upon myself to have a little peek inside Lisa’s head whilst we’ve both been here. I must say, she’s quite acclimated to a connection. Though I was able to slip in and out of her brain without being detected, she’s already built up an awareness of my species’ abilities. Vector must train for it, and they must train hard.

“While probing about, I came across a recent memory in which she and her comrades listened to a conversation between Antipov and your little crush.”

Quirking a brow, Natalie asked, “My little crush?”

“Remington.”

“Whoa.” Waving her hands and leaning back, Natalie said, “I don’t have a crush on Scott Remington.”

Making a drawn out ehh sound, Ju`bajai finally said, “Crush was probably the wrong word. It’s more like a burning sexual desire to rip his clothes off and pin him to the wall—it’s quite peaked since he got captured.”

Natalie’s face flushed. “Stop it.”

“Seriously, girl, you have a problem. I know that clock’s ticking, but you’re hornier than a—”

“Stop!”

Hands raising, Ju`bajai said, “Fine, fine.”

Beet-faced and with set jaw, Natalie said, “You were saying, please.”

“So in this conversation between Antipov and the man who in no way, shape, or form is the object of your unrelenting lust…”

Natalie scowled. “God, you are Esther to a T.”

“…several key things were discussed, among which were the purpose of the Hami Station raid and quite specific details about the train hijacking. They even discussed the Nightman migration to Chernobyl. And Lisa was able to hear this conversation because of that helmet I talked about. A Vector by the name of Pablo Quintana—basically, their Boris—was able to tap into the comm frequency the helmet was using. That conversation between Antipov and Remington…they listened to it live.”

It felt like the bottom was falling out of Natalie’s stomach. That was how they knew. That was how they knew everything. The outlaws might as well have handed them a schedule of events.

“So consider this before you speak with Miss Tiffin: no matter what you say to her, no matter what you do, you’re going to have to convince her that the empirical evidence she heard with her own two ears was either a misinterpretation or a falsity.” Ju`bajai’s head tilted. “As much as I would love to assist you in this little endeavor, being as mentally perceptive as she is, she’s going to have to intentionally allow me in to show her your experiences. Do you think she’d allow that? And if she did, do you think she’d trust them?”

“She’d have to trust what she sees with her own eyes.”

The construct shook its finger. “But it’s not with her own eyes. It’d be with yours, as conveyed to her by an Ithini with the power to manipulate the mind. That’s not exactly one of those just-trust-me things.”

“But couldn’t you appear to her like you’re appearing to me now?”

Ju`bajai leaned her head back and cackled. “Oh, Venus, you silly little thing.”

Natalie eyed the alien flatly.

“First and foremost, she’d detect my presence. I’m telling you, the girl is clever. But secondly, if you’re looking to turn Lisa Tiffin, you will not do that with Esther. These two girls have a bit of a history.”

Raising an eyebrow, Natalie asked, “A history?”

“They were in the same scout class at Philadelphia. As to why Lisa’s a sniper now, I couldn’t dig into that too deeply without risking detection, but I can tell you that she has quite a passionate distaste for the Fourteenth’s little double agent. Apparently, Lisa was dropped out of the Academy’s scout program and endured quite the bit of mockery from one Molly Polyester. That wound has recently been reopened in light of recent events, so it wasn’t terribly hard to detect.”

And this…was not surprising. “Esther mocking someone for failing.” Natalie sighed and looked off to the side. “Yeah, I can buy that.”

“Lisa’s behind door number two,” the construct said, indicating with a head nod to the door far behind them, on the other side of the sublevel. “I must warn you before you speak to her that what you say can and may be used against you in a court of Yakuza law. In other words, there’s a camera in there.”

Natalie wasn’t exactly sure what kind of risk that presented, but it was good to know nonetheless. “What kind of condition is she in?”

“She’s got an impressive lump on the back of her head, but if the two of you are going head-to-head in a busted face contest, you’ve got nothing to worry about.” Cheeky grin subsiding, the construct’s face grew serious. “I would like to discuss, if I may, my penchant for being in a constant state of custody. As I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, I’m not literally roaming about this posh little room.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“I’m currently locked in what seems to have been a wine cellar at one point, judging by the rotting wooden racks and the lovely aroma of dust and must.” She angled her head curiously. “I’ve also discovered cockroaches, and I must say, they’re utterly terrifying. One crawled on my knee and I nearly had a stroke.”

Natalie smirked at the remark before her serious demeanor returned. “I’m working on getting you some freedom. I can’t make promises, but…” She hesitated. “This is uncharted territory for me. Nobu trusted me enough to let me come here, so I’m hoping he’ll trust me enough to let you return to us. But that’s a lot of trust being asked of someone who I’m fairly sure is untrusting by nature.” It wasn’t the answer she wanted to give. Hopefully Ju`bajai could tell that.

For several seconds, the construct just stared at Natalie, its dark, Esther eyes fixated on the American captain’s face. Almost as if the being was in deep thought. At long last, the corners of her mouth lifted. “You’re a good creature, Natalie.”

The thought of creature being used to describe her made her chuckle inwardly. But she felt like Ju`bajai meant it in a good way. “I try.”

“You’re not nearly as nasty, irritating, intolerable, repugnant, or useless as Esther thinks you are.”

And there went the feel-goods.

“Or uptight, or stuck-up, or annoying, or slap-worthy, or—”

“Okay,” responded Natalie flatly. “I get the point.”

That smirk returned. “Good luck with Lisa, Natalie. And I meant what I said earlier.” Raising a warning brow, she pointed toward the stairwell. “That next step’s a killer.”

The world around Natalie vanished. Forward momentum took over. In the same instant that she gasped, her right toe got caught up on the edge of the next step down. Desperately reaching to catch the wall, Natalie caught only air. The tumble began.

Crash! Bang! Thump!

Natalie hit six steps on the way down, and she felt every one of them. Grunting as she rolled awkwardly onto the floor, she leaned her head back in eye-watering pain.

Behind her, the dark eyes of Youko opened widely. Spouting out something in Japanese, she hurried down the steps to assist Natalie to her feet.

“I’m fine! I’m fine,” Natalie said, waving her escort away as she pushed gingerly to her feet. Scowl crossing her face, she searched the bottom room for any sign of Ju`bajai. Though the room looked exactly like it had in the vision, the alien was nowhere to be seen. “Dirty little thing,” she muttered under her breath.

“O-kay?” Youko asked, still staring at Natalie like the captain was a half-crazed klutz.

Summoning what little pride she had left, Natalie nodded. “Yes.” Rising to her feet and with no new broken bones, she ran her hands down her blue jeans to dust them off. “A little worse for wear, but what else is new?” When her gaze locked with Youko’s again, she sighed and nodded again. “I’m fine. I’m okay.”

Youko didn’t look like she believed it, but she nodded just the same. Pointing toward the door at the far end of the room—the same door that Ju`bajai had indicated in the vision—she said, “There.”

With no desire to delay this visit any longer—be it in reality or an Ithini-induced fantasy—Natalie made her way toward the door.

All right, Natalie—how you gonna handle this?

When Natalie had turned outlaw, it was because of the survival of Brent Lilan and Falcon Platoon. It had been their testimonies, the fact that they were alive, that had cut through Natalie’s hatred toward the Fourteenth enough to allow her to think with an open mind. But Lisa didn’t have any of those experiences. All she knew was what she’d been presented, and that was the labeling of the Fourteenth and company as outlaw terrorists. It was the same thing the world at large thought.

Lilan was supposed to have gotten a video message out. Where the hell did it go?

None of that mattered now as Natalie reached out for the doorknob. She would have to rely on what she had on her—a heartfelt testimony of what had truly taken place. Hopefully Lisa would be willing to listen to it. Turning the knob, she pulled the door open and stepped inside.

Lisa was sitting against the back wall of the rectangular room, hands bound and with each leg clasped to a ball and chain, like she’d been taken prisoner by ancient pirates. But the Vector wasn’t alone. At the corners by the door, two lackeys were sitting in chairs, pistols at their sides. Their eyes widened as they saw Natalie appear, though the quick emergence of Youko behind her held them at bay. After a few sharp words from the punk princess, the lackeys’ postures relaxed. Natalie turned her focus to Lisa.

Lisa was awake, and her narrowed green eyes were already on Natalie. Natalie paused, unsure if the Vector knew who Natalie was or that she was a part of the train hijacking attempt. They’d never crossed paths on the battlefield. Before Natalie could ask the Vector if she recognized her, Lisa affirmed her suspicion on her own. “Who in the bloody hell are you?”

The bitterness in Lisa’s tone was expected. It reminded Natalie of herself not too long ago. Taking a step farther, she crouched down to get on the same eye level. Here goes nothing. “My name is Natalie Rockwell. I’m part of the reason why you’re here.”

The instant Natalie said her name, Lisa blinked in confusion. Natalie could see the younger woman’s gears turning. “Natalie Rockwell? Weren’t you captured by the Fourteenth?”

The faintest of smiles emerged from Natalie. She tried her best to make it warm. “That’s right, I was.”

“And you’re…?” After shaking her head a bit, Lisa peered at the American harder. “Are you a prisoner here, too?”

“No…not exactly. But at one point, I was a prisoner—just not here.”

The words deepened Lisa’s already-confused countenance. Almost taken aback, she stared at Natalie from top to bottom as if trying to determine whether the woman crouched before her was indeed who she was claiming to be. Confusion gave way to realization—and realization quickly turned into anger. “Wait one bloody minute…if you’re about to tell me you’re with them…”

Natalie held out her hand. “I understand how that might be confusing.”

“Confusing?” Her face twisted with fury. “Do you know how many people are actively trying to find you? To rescue you? And you’re with Remington?” Lisa leapt to her feet. Though her chains kept her in one place, the movement was sudden enough to prompt Natalie to jump back and the guards to reach for their weapons.

Shooting a look at the drawn weapons, Natalie held out her hands. “No! Put them back, it’s okay!”

Youko yelled something in Japanese, the high-level lackey’s eyes wide with adrenaline. The guards froze, weapons out but lowered, looking between Youko and Natalie with ramped nervous energy.

Her focus back on Lisa, Natalie put up both hands in defense. “Take a breath. I’m not here to confront you, I’m here to talk.”

“Were you with them from the beginning?” Lisa asked, her words running together with emotion. “Was this entire thing a ploy?”

“No.” Trying her hardest to keep her tone level, Natalie dipped her head to convey an attempt to reason. “I wasn’t with them. What happened in Cairo was real, and I got caught up in it.” Lisa angled her head with mounting suspicion. “I switched sides when I realized that EDEN was lying.”

Lisa’s gaze was narrowed; she was practically seething. The captain continued.

“Do you remember Falcon Platoon? When the Nightmen supposedly intercepted and shot down the unit with Klaus Faerber’s son?” The question was rhetorical—Lisa was in Vector Squad, of course she knew. “It wasn’t the Nightmen who shot them down. It was EDEN. They set it up to make it seem like the Nightmen had done it.”

Lisa cocked her head hard, her dark ponytail flopping to one side. “And I suppose you have proof of this, right?” she spat.

“Falcon Platoon is alive.”

And there it was. The bitter scowl on Lisa’s face shifted; her pointed little nose crinkled. A trace of confusion.

It was exactly what Natalie was hoping for. “After they were shot down over the swamp, one of them managed to commandeer a Vulture and fly it to Novosibirsk while the rest of them hid. The Nightmen are the ones who arranged the rescue. Colonel Brent Lilan, Javon Quinton, Tom King, Catalina Shivers, and Tiffany Feathers were all retrieved by the Nightmen. Lilan was killed here in Japan—during the train operation—but the rest are still alive.” Or at least, she hoped Tiffany was. She hadn’t heard anything about the fate of their blond-haired pilot.

For what it was worth, Lisa wasn’t interrupting. Natalie wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

“I know this sounds crazy, I know this sounds insane, but you have to believe me.” She considered name-dropping Logan as another one to have turned, but she felt that might have more potential to derail things than to help. “Look, I was like you. The Fourteenth tried to explain these things to me and I was reacting just like you are now. That was, until I heard the testimonies of Falcon Platoon and saw for myself what EDEN was capable of.” Her voice grew firm. “This is not the organization you think it is.”

The Vector hesitated. “And what is the point of this conspiracy? What’s in this for EDEN?”

“We don’t know yet. What I can tell you is that we have virtually confirmed communication between Judge Benjamin Archer and a member of the Ceratopian government.”

Raising an eyebrow, Lisa asked, “Virtually?”

“Supposedly, there’s a recording that exists of Archer and the Ceratopians talking. We thought it was on the train—that’s why we went after it. We were looking for that evidence.”

“And that justifies attacking a train?”

“We didn’t even pack lethal rounds. Our guns had rubber bullets. We didn’t want anybody getting hurt; we just wanted to get the evidence and leave.”

The corner of Lisa’s lips curved. “And did you get it?”

It took a moment for Natalie to recognize the jab, but when she did, she almost snarled.

“Listen,” Lisa said, “I don’t care who you are. I don’t care what you believe. There’s zero justification for the things you and your friends have done. Let me guess—there was something you were trying to recover at Hami Station, too.”

“I wasn’t at Hami Station.”

Lisa cocked her head. “That’s too bad. You missed all the pyrotechnics when Scott Remington blasted it to hell. But that’s all right. We have our own surprise cooking that I’m sure you’ll hear of soon enough.”

Their own surprise? “What are you talking about?”

“Chernobyl Crater. Or at least, that’s what they’ll be calling it from now on.” When Natalie angled her head, the Vector continued. “We knew that the surviving Nightmen from Novosibirsk were migrating there. We had a little gift in store for them when they arrived. A little air delivery.”

An ache rose in the pit of Natalie’s stomach. Despite the coyness of her words, there was no mistaking what Lisa was saying. EDEN had planned to bomb Chernobyl. Whatever horrified expression was appearing on Natalie’s face, she knew it must have been easy to pick up on. Lisa’s smirk only grew.

“You didn’t know that, did you?”

No, she did not—and she was quickly sorting out in her mind what it all meant. The leader of the Nightmen—Antipov, a man she only knew by name—had been en route to Chernobyl. If he and the rest of the Nightmen migrating with him were dead, then that meant…

…that meant Northern Forge was all they had left. A Northern Forge without Scott Remington or anyone from the train hijack team. Though she scarcely knew the keeper, Valentin Lukin, he hadn’t struck her as the kind of person to voluntarily take up arms to fight the good fight. All of these factors were adding up in her head to form a single, awful conclusion: Natalie and the survivors there in Japan may have very well been all that remained.

But wait…the Ikeda-kai are in contact with the Nightmen. That means there must be someone left at the forge.

Or did it? Nobu stated that he needed Natalie’s comm codes in order to reach the Nightmen—that didn’t mean there were any Nightmen left to reach. Did she really expect Valentin and whoever was left to start negotiating for Natalie’s release? That was highly, highly unlikely.

Flipping her ponytail, Lisa leaned back with smugness. “Well, this little chat’s taken a dramatic turn, now, hasn’t it?”

Natalie couldn’t help it; emotion took over. The next thing she registered, her open palm was swinging for the side of Lisa’s face.

Smack!

Behind Natalie, Youko and her henchmen flinched. Lisa’s mouth opened as she blinked up in shock. The seconds that followed were a blur. The Vector lurched forward as much as her chains would allow. Youko grabbed Natalie from behind and pulled her out of the room. As Lisa was shoved back down by the guards, the Vector screamed, “They’re going to come for me! And when they come for me, they’ll come for you!” In the second before the cell door was closed, she tacked on, “Tell Esther hello for me!” And that was it. The door was shut.

The attempt to turn Lisa was a crash and a burn.

No sooner had the door been shut between Natalie and Lisa, the former found herself being shoved in the chest by Youko. The Japanese woman was spouting off something angrily, though Natalie couldn’t understand a lick of it. Translation was scarcely required. She was reaming Natalie out for what’d just taken place.

This is why Scott never told me the truth. Things might have devolved into something like this. He couldn’t take the chance.

After pushing her fingers up through her spiky strands, Youko got on her comm and queued up someone. It seemed a million words a minute were coming out of her mouth as she addressed the person on the other side, who could barely get a word in edgewise. Though the conversation was in Japanese, the voice sounded like Nobu’s. Wherever Youko stood in the hierarchy, it had to be up there. Natalie couldn’t imagine a run-of-the-mill lackey being allowed to address their leader that way. With another hard shove from behind, Youko forced Natalie toward and up the stairwell. Passing the briefest of glances toward the cellar door on the sublevel—the one Ju`bajai was somewhere behind—Natalie thought out into the void, I’ll get you out of here. She had no idea if the Ithini was listening, and she received nothing in reply, but just in case, she wanted the alien to know.

Natalie’s second ride with Youko almost made the first one seem pleasant. If there’d been no effort before to keep Natalie dry, now it felt as if Youko was going out of her way to get Natalie as soaked as possible—and that the rain was coming down harder didn’t help. But even sopping wet and freezing to the bone, Natalie found herself numb to the misery of the elements. Her mind was too far elsewhere. Her priorities had rearranged.

What if the bulk of the Nightman force—the force that was supposed to rally and regroup at Chernobyl—had been wiped off the face of the Earth? What if Valentin, now free from any influence of Scott Remington or a Nightman leader, had no intention of rescuing Natalie or negotiating with Japanese crime lords? What if Natalie and her band of survivors were all that remained? This could be the end. Her only hope—her only prayer—was that when Nobu reached out to Northern Forge, he got a reply. She didn’t want to think about what might happen if no one answered back. The oyabun might just find his captives more trouble than they were worth. And if that turned out to be the case…

…hopefully he’d have the decency to kill them quickly.

By the time Natalie had returned to the suite, the survivors had already begun to stir. Their eyes were glued to an English news broadcast that was discussing the bombing of Chernobyl. The stone-faced looks on their faces told her all she needed to know. They felt the same sense of dread in their souls as she did. Despite whatever new information the broadcasts would present, Natalie didn’t care to hear about any of it. Instead, she slipped back into the bedroom and curled up on the floor in the corner to go back to sleep—only the drug-induced Jakob remaining in the room with her. His steady breathing provided just the right level of ambient noise to put her quickly to sleep.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Date unknown

Time unknown

Kalarian Orbit

“SETANA, AWAKEN!”

Jolted awake by the gnarled hand shaking her shoulder, Svetlana’s blue eyes opened and she lurched upright. Blinking, she stared at Tauthin, who stood over her. With her head still spinning from a dream, she surveyed her surroundings. She was nestled against the floor of the bridge next to the antechamber door.

Swallowing and with her heart rate slowing, she ran her hand over her hair. She’d been out like a light. For how long?

Tauthin addressed her again. “The Kalarael are here.”

Eyes flickering to the view screen, Svetlana looked at the camera view of the antechamber, where four of the paladins stood in a semi-circle with weapons ready. The Kalarael greeting party.

“What will we do?” Tauthin asked.

There was only one thing they could do. “Let us go and meet them.”

“Shall all of us go?” Tauthin asked.

“Yes—but I will lead.” Yigôzien had surely told her Kalarael counterparts of Svetlana’s role as savior. If any of this crew was going to get mercy, it’d be her. Turning to the rest of the bridge occupants, she gestured to the door. “Come. None stay behind. Not even Mishka.” Reaching out, she pressed the button on the wall panel. The antechamber door slid up as a rush of cold, sterile air hit her. The paladins came into full view.

When the paladins saw her, every single one of them shrunk back. Even from a distance, Svetlana could see their grips tightening on their alien weapons. They stood tense as if at any moment, she might charge them or unleash some supernatural attack. If they only knew the nerves that were twisting in her stomach. She saw one approaching her. Holding his hand out to her, no doubt an offer to support her in microgravity with his magnetized armor, he went still.

This was it. An eerie silence hung in the air as their first words were about to be spoken. Svetlana could sense them coming from the Kalarael. Even in his armored suit, she could hear him draw in a breath in preparation. The captain of the alien guard was about to speak. What phrase would he utter? What greeting would humanity receive? She only wished—whatever it was—that she’d be able to understand it.

“Itsukae.”

She blinked. Angling her head, Svetlana stared at the paladin as he stood, arm still outstretched.

Once more, he spoke. “Itsukae.”

It’s okay. Her words to Yigôzien. Yigôzien’s words back to her. The most trivial phrase in the world had just become we come in peace. While Svetlana wasn’t exactly knowledgeable in the realm of ambassadorial etiquette, she was pretty sure this could be chalked up as underwhelming. But if it worked, it worked, and so nodding her head slowly and with her own eyes on his…beak…she said back to him with assurance, “It’s okay.”

“Itsukae,” the paladin said, dipping his head as she did.

And here came the trust. Reaching out, Svetlana held her breath and then allowed herself to drift toward him. Clutching his armored hand tightly, she found herself pulled toward him.

If the air in the docking bay was cold, the temperature of the paladin’s metallic armor was downright glacial. When Svetlana touched it, she inhaled sharply, prompting the paladin to start back in fright at suddenly holding a gasping alien. Breathing heavily through his helmet, he said, “Itsukae! Itsukae!”

“It’s okay!” she said back, averting her eyes from him in an effort to be less intimidating.

His heavy breathing barely slowed. “Itsukae…” Now the trembling word seemed as much for the alien as it did for her.

Whatever chip had been on her shoulder in the Zone Runner was completely gone now. Now, she was in their world—helpless, vulnerable. As the paladin turned around to carry her toward the cylinder, she found herself tensing up from head to toe. It was as equally terrifying to cling to him as it was to imagine letting go and drifting off into the docking bay.

And on that topic…

As Svetlana looked at the docking bay entrance, she was surprised to discover that the plasma window had been completely sealed up. There must have been a blast door in the ceiling that they’d lowered. There was no way for the Zone Runner to escape, now.

She spared a glance back to the spacecraft, where several of the other paladins were tentatively approaching. It wasn’t until that point that Svetlana considered Mishka’s role in all of this, and whether or not the beast would play nice with these new beings. Thankfully—at least by the look of it—the Bakma themselves were going along with whatever it was the Kalarael were doing. She could even make out Tauthin holding Mishka by the harness, presumably preventing the canrassi from attacking. Would they all, too, soon be clinging to their own paladin escorts? She wouldn’t have a chance to find out, as she was ushered toward the large, cylindrical tank.

The tank was roughly the size and shape of a bulk commodity trailer. There were console panels, manual wheels, and widgets of every size and sort, none of which she could properly identify. As soon as the paladin drew within meters of the tank, a ramp-like door lowered to the ground. For the first time, the interior came into view.

Hoses were everywhere, hovering in microgravity from the ceiling, along with an array of what looked like showerheads. The most distinguishing feature of the tank, though, was the brilliance of the lighting. There were rows of lights built flush into the floor, walls, and ceiling. It was the closest to natural sunlight that Svetlana had seen from something artificial. There was depth to the light—a hard clearness to it. It couldn’t have been more splendid if she’d been standing in a sunlit meadow.

After guiding her to one of the side walls, the paladin reached out to pull down a short lever that turned out to be a lowering mechanism for a seat. Upon easing her into it, he pulled down a strap to fasten her safely. Craning her neck, she looked to see if any of her Bakma comrades were following behind her, though none were. She was in the tank alone. The door closed, sealing her and the paladin inside. The paladin took a standing position across from her. Hands clasped to his sides, he lowered his beaked helmet as he seemed to be taking her in.

So, what now?

A jostling prompted Svetlana to grip the chair tighter, despite the strap that was holding her in place. Eyes wide, she looked across at the unyielding, armored paladin. They were moving. Looking at one of the windows, she could see the outside of the docking bay moving along as the tank was being transported. Wherever they were going, they were going quickly.

For roughly five minutes, the tank moved through the docking bay then into a corridor that seemed specifically designed for it. Then came a stoppage, then came the uneasy feeling of a rapid descent—and it was during that descent that she realized what was happening. The tank was being moved into the centrifuge. With every few seconds that passed, she could feel that familiar sensation of gravity pulling down at her. Whatever tunnel they’d been in must have had some way of seamlessly connecting to the centrifuge itself. Within another couple of minutes, the force of gravity felt nearly normal. Nearly normal. Tauthin had said the gravity on Kalar was slightly less than that of Earth. Perhaps she was feeling the centrifugal equivalent of Kalar’s gravity now. Sure enough, no sooner had the thought crossed her mind, the tank’s descent slowed until it stopped.

Across from her, the paladin angled his head subtly—as if focusing on some sound she wasn’t privy to. Like he was hearing something through a helmet comm. Sure enough, several seconds after his head moved, he spoke a single word, obviously not intended for her. A moment later, he was walking to her side of the tank to unfasten the seat strap. Following his beckoning, she rose to her feet and followed him to one of the hoses. The paladin took her hand with one of his, while his other grabbed a hose from the ceiling. After positioning her arm so that it was extended outward, he angled the hose nozzle away from them both and gave his own armored hand a half-second’s blast of what looked like pure water. Turning her direction, he held his dripping hand over her arm with the greatest of caution. As soon as several droplets had landed on her skin, he pulled his arm away and grabbed a different hose. With his other hand, he grabbed her other arm and stretched it outward in the opposite direction.

Svetlana realized right away what he was doing. She was an extraterrestrial to these beings, and they had no idea what kind of reaction she might have to whatever they used in the decon process. For all they knew, she was some strange lifeform that was allergic to water. And so they were doing the only thing they knew to do—exposing her in miniscule doses to make sure their cleaning agents didn’t eat her skin off. Under normal circumstances, she was certain they would perform all manner of biology tests before even attempting this, but this was no normal circumstance. With what was clearly a gruesome wound in the center of her face, the Kalarael probably felt a need to rush the process for the sake of Svetlana, herself. Whatever got her cleaner, faster, was okay with her.

Squeezing the other nozzle, the paladin sent a blast of a white, frothy liquid onto his other hand. Once more, he allowed several drops of the liquid to fall on her extended arm before quickly pulling his hand away. Releasing the second nozzle, the paladin tuned her way and watched her.

While Svetlana didn’t know what these chemicals were, she certainly didn’t feel any sort of instant reaction or itch going on. But how long would it take for the Kalarael to be satisfied? When the paladin attached a pair of straps to the ceiling to help her hold her arms out, she had a feeling it would be a very long time.

It was.

Two minutes became five. Five became fifteen. Fifteen minutes became what felt like an hour. And all the while, Svetlana stood there, arms outstretched as harnesses held them in place—and thank God for them. Even with their assistance, this quickly became an agonizing endurance challenge. She understood their caution, appreciated it even, but there came a point during the process in which she honestly didn’t care what these chemicals did to her, because she just wanted her arms down.

At long last, the paladin approached to study the two spots on her arms where the liquids had touched. With his superiors, wherever they were, apparently satisfied, he released her arms from the harnesses and allowed her to put them down. So glorious was that feeling, she actually groaned in relief.

Stepping up to her again, the paladin took her by the arm to gently escort her to the center of the room. With several showerheads built into the ceiling, there was no doubt in her mind that a dousing was imminent. Upon setting her in place, the paladin gestured with an open hand. “Itsukae.” Stepping to the wall, he removed what looked like a small cutting tool from a holder on the wall. Reaching out, he began cutting away her makeshift garments.

For the next few minutes, Svetlana closed her eyes and waited for him to finish removing her clothes. Despite the weeks, it seemed, that she’d been a stripped-down prisoner of Nagogg’s, the removal of what little clothes she had on was as uncomfortable as she could have imagined it. Beneath Svetlana’s closed eyelids, tears began to build. This was such a different feeling from being stripped down on the Zone Runner. There, survival had taken precedence over shame. But here, in front of a species as beautiful as the Kalarael, this just felt wrong.

Only seconds after the last of her garments were removed, a cold, high-pressure blast of water erupted over her. Gasping at the sudden frigidity, she lowered her head with an open mouth, sucking in hard breaths as the tattering pelted the back of her scalp from above. Reaching up with her hands, she wiped her hair back over her head. She opened her eyes just enough to see the crimson-stained water from her body swirling through the holes in the floor. The remnant of what she’d adorned. The blood. The saliva. The urine.

For weeks, all of those things had remained dried up and sticky on her body. In her hair. The foulness of it all had come to represent the relentlessness of her spirit—her refusal to surrender to tortuous circumstances. To a living hell. And now, for the first time in God knew how long, the stains of her captivity were washing away. Svetlana had not seen herself during all the time she stayed chained next to Nagogg’s chair. Not in a mirror, not in a reflection of metal or water. And now, seeing the sheer amount of bloodied water that was disappearing into the drain beneath her, she was so thankful for that.

The showers were barely on for a minute before the consistency of the liquid changed, the water replaced by the same frothy, white liquid that’d come from the second hose. It was thick, and the weight of it on her head reminded her of Mishka’s christening. Mercifully, this new spray lasted only seconds before it was cut off. Shaking her head just enough to whip the froth from her eyes, she reached up to wipe her face with her hands to see. The paladin had once again approached the wall, where he was retrieving a long-handled instrument with what looked like a cloth of some sort attached to one end. A long-distance lathering device. There was no need for that. Extending her hand out, she said simply, “No.” The paladin turned his head toward her. “Please.” Sliding her hand along her arm to show that she was fully capable of scrubbing herself, she said quietly, “It’s okay.”

Silence prevailed as the paladin stood motionless, watching her as she continued to stare at him with her hand rubbing her arm to demonstrate. When that arm was fully lathered, she proceeded onto the next. Seeming to understand what she was trying to indicate, the paladin ceased in his efforts to retrieve the tool and lowered his hand. After dipping her foamed head in appreciation, Svetlana slowly turned around so that her back was to him. With as much privacy as she was going to get, Svetlana drew in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and began the process of cleaning herself up.

As much as this was a matter of practicality, it was also a matter of just wanting to do it. Of just wanting to literally soak in the sensation of soap on her skin. With the paladin watching her from behind, Svetlana took time to clean every crevice of her body. Beneath her arms, between her toes, inside her ears. When it came time for that froth to be rinsed away, she wanted to be truly, truly clean. After all she’d endured, after the nightmare she’d survived, she’d earned that much. And so lather she did, until she’d covered everything. Particular time was afforded her hair, which had so much caked-in gunk in it that her fingers almost couldn’t work their way through the strands—though eventually, the froth did the trick. She only wished she had a mirror now so she could see it shine when that water came down. She hoped it’d be blinding.

And then—of course—came the worst of it. The gaping hole in the center of her face. As soon as Svetlana realized there was no pain emanating from it, she went to work as one would expect a combat medic to. She massaged her foamy fingers into the open injury. She wanted every bit of dried up blood and grime gone. If she was going to wear such a grotesque disfigurement, it could at least be clean.

All in all, Svetlana spent nearly twenty minutes going over every inch of her body, far more than she was sure the Kalarael had prepared to give her. But she didn’t care. No one came in to stop her, so she took full advantage of the allotted time. This was more than an outer cleaning. It was an inner cleansing. She needed this. With a final smoothing back of her hair, she wiped the foam from her hands and turned to regard the paladin. After several seconds, when it became clear that she was finished, the paladin angled his head and spoke a word to whomever it was listening in the helmet. Seconds later, the waters resumed.

As she lowered her head, she felt the froth slide from her body. She opened her eyes through the trails of water only to see it pool on the floor at her feet, then disappear down the drain. Gone was that blood. Gone was that urine and drool. Gone—she hoped—was that vinegary reek of acetone from the Zone Runner. Even stripped of her clothes, she almost felt civilized. It’d been so long since she’d felt that way, she’d almost forgotten what it was like. Rolling her head from side to side, she embraced the spray. She embraced what it felt like to be new. It was so unspeakably wonderful. This was clean by the purest definition of the word. This was reborn. Leveling her head off—for she couldn’t look up, lest water pour into her nasal cavity—she lowered her hands and just allowed herself to be pelted. For the seconds that it lasted, she took it in completely. When the water finally stopped and the sounds of spray were replaced by water droplets falling from her skin, she almost wished to be filthy only to experience the cleansing once more. She’d never felt anything like it.

For several seconds, the tank was completely silent. Behind Svetlana, the paladin who’d escorted her in front of the docking bay remained motionless.

After wiping her eyes, Svetlana turned her head to regard him. What a moment this must have been for the Kalarael guard—for all of the Kalarael who were watching, as she was sure there must have been cameras in the tank somewhere.

At long last, as if he were coming out of a trance, the paladin turned and walked to the other side of the tank. Opening a small, sliding door, he retrieved a towel and a set of light blue, almost translucent garments. They reminded Svetlana of the strange fabric that Yigôzien had been wearing. As he walked across the tank toward her, one clunking metallic step after another, the towel and garments remained extended in his hand.

There was no reason for him to say Itsukae or anything else. Svetlana recognized a hospital gown when she saw one. Dipping her head cordially—a gesture she was well aware the paladin might not recognize as anything—she accepted the garments. Two arm holes and a hole for her head. Some things didn’t change. After as thorough a drying off as she could manage, she slid her arms through the long sleeves and popped her head through the top of the outfit. Taking hold of her damp hair, she pulled it through the hole then let it flop behind her head. When everything was done, she turned her eyes upon the paladin to see what the next step would be.

There was a loud clunk, and the lights in the tank shut off. Svetlana flinched as she was plunged into darkness. It lasted barely a second before the soft glow of ultraviolet lights appeared, emanating from the flushed lights embedded into the walls, ceiling, and floor. Several seconds later, singular lights appeared in rapid succession, moving in a circular motion around the circumference of the corridor and accompanied by a pulsing sound. Every two or three seconds, the pulsing lights and the hum repeated.

Ultraviolet lights. Back on Earth, they were used in hospitals to kill germs and bacteria. The same principle must have been in application here—though she had to assume, to a much more potent degree.

There was another clunking noise, and once again, they were plunged into darkness. A second later, the same brilliant, natural-looking light from earlier reappeared. Ahead of Svetlana and the paladin, the door opened. With the gentlest of gestures, the paladin urged Svetlana forward.

Much to her surprise, it wasn’t a corridor that the elevator opened into. Rather, it was a small, square room that couldn’t have been more than fifteen by fifteen feet. On one side of the wall, a flat, rectangular object that looked similar in size to a single bed floated in midair. There was nothing else in the room. Not a piece of furniture, not a color beyond white, not so much as a shadow beyond those cast by the floating cot. Turning around to find the paladin, she flinched when she saw that a glossy white wall was sliding down in the direction whence she’d come, sealing off both the elevator and the paladin who’d stepped back into it. Before she could think enough to gasp, the wall was already down. She was alone, in a stark, white room, no exit to be seen.

There was no doubt in her mind that this was an observation room of some sort. Despite going through the ultraviolet bacterial decon, the Kalarael still had to assume that she could pose some sort of biological threat. Compared to human observation rooms and their treatment of extraterrestrials, this was actually nice.

Turning to the floating bed, she angled her head to look for anything that might be lending to the appearance of it defying gravity. But sure enough, there were literally no strings attached. Approaching the object, she knelt down to pass her hand under it—just to know for sure. This thing really is floating. Rising again, she placed her hand atop it, just to see how it felt. When she applied pressure with her hand, her hand sunk snugly into the material like memory foam. But even though the white, rectangular cot conformed to her hand, it didn’t sink down so much as a centimeter. Placing both hands atop it, she pushed down as hard as she could. Again, its surface softly conformed to her handprints, but the bed itself remained motionless in air.

This is incredible…

She angled her body to sit down on the cot’s edge. If this was indeed meant to be a bed, she wasn’t about to leave it untested—not after spending weeks sleeping on the rigid floor of the Zone Runner. With her hands against the bed to steady herself, she carefully sat atop it. Upon pulling her legs entirely on the cot, she leaned back and lay down. As the foam softly conformed to every part of her body, she released a long, pacified breath. There was nothing on Earth that compared to the way this material felt. It was like lying down on a flat, cushiony hammock. All that was missing was a breeze and the chirping of garden birds. With her eyes closed in serenity, Svetlana felt as if she was back in Russia on a sunny spring day.

Until she opened her eyes again.

Svetlana nearly leapt off the cot. In front of her, where there had only moments ago been a solid, white wall, there was now a clear, glass partition. And standing on the other side, clustered around one another and staring with wide, yellow eyes, was a throng of Kalarael. Svetlana swung her legs off the bed and jumped onto the floor. So fast was the movement, even the Kalarael on the other side of the partition jumped. And then, staring at each other as if they were frozen, Svetlana and the Kalarael went still.

She counted seven of them in total, each with different colored down-feather hair and vibrantly patterned wardrobes. Moreover, they were varying in skin tone, with skin colors ranging from porcelain white like Yigôzien, to shades of brown, orange, even blue. Where had they come from? Had the opaqueness of the wall simply faded away? It didn’t matter. They were in sight of her, and she in sight of them. The Kalarael were seeing an Earthae for the first time. Even as extraterrestrials, the expressions on their faces were unmistakable. This was awe and fear. And who could blame them? They were staring at an alien.

Her focus honed in on a tall Kalarael at the front of the group. Besides his height, he was easily identifiable by his sleeveless, blue and silver outfit. Atop his head was a long mane of white, orange, and purple down feathers, and his skin was the color of sandstone. Bending down, the tall Kalarael seemed to be manipulating an unseen control panel. From the ceiling, a crisp sound emerged, like an open mic. A second later the Kalarael spoke, though no sound emerged from anywhere in the room.

Svetlana scrutinized the Kalarael more closely. There was no doubt he was talking, but if this was indeed an open mic she’d heard above her head, she certainly wasn’t hearing him. All the while he spoke, his yellow eyes stayed transfixed, until at long last, his mouth stopped moving. Standing upright again, the tall Kalarael waited. Above Svetlana, as if by a time delay, an extraterrestrial voice made its presence known.

“Hello.”

Svetlana blinked. That greeting…it was in Bakmanese! Taken aback, Svetlana answered purely out of instinct. “Hello.” Yigôzien had told her that they’d captured living Bakma. Whoever had them in custody—whoever was studying them—must have picked out some words of the Bakmanese language. But to what extent?

Once again, the mouth of the Kalarael in charge was moving, and once again Svetlana heard nothing. He must have been speaking to a translator. The Kalarael’s mouth stopped moving, and after another brief delay, spoken Bakmanese emerged from above. “Koti-Raen the name.”

His name was Koti-Raen. The word placement was a bit off, but she understood what he was trying to say. Though she didn’t show it outwardly, inside, she was relieved. This was doable. More than doable. At this point, Bakmanese might as well have been her native language. Pointing to herself, she said, “My name is Setana.”

Once more, the translation went through, except this time, there was a visible reaction from the Kalarael. The yellow in their eyes collectively brightened. As the Kalarael behind Koti-Raen murmured amongst themselves, Koti-Raen actually smiled. Leaning forward again, he addressed the unseen translator again.

This was exhilarating! Svetlana couldn’t restrain a smile from escaping her lips. She was communicating with a new alien species via a common language. This took the phrase, “it’s a small world,” to a whole new level.

The voice emerged once more. “Test biology. Sickness potential?”

They wanted to run tests on her—to check for a sickness. Nothing about this was unexpected. “Yes, you may test my biology.” She wanted to be careful to use as many of the same words they were using as possible. Their level of Bakmanese fluency was likely limited.

“Doctor come,” came the semi-delayed answer. “Prepare you not afraid.”

Svetlana nodded her head. “I understand you.”

A human-sized, circular hole spun open in the wall to her right. Standing in the center of it was a Kalarael in a full-bodied suit. Unlike the armored paladins that she’d seen thus far, this suit had a clear visor that allowed her to see the Kalarael inside. Though she couldn’t see his features, she could see his eyes. Like the others, his eyes were yellow, a color that seemed to be correlated to apprehension or nervousness. Here was a Kalarael stepping inside the equivalent of alien confinement. He had a right to be scared.

As for the suit itself, it was stark and clinical compared to the other multi-colored outfits worn by the observers. It was composed of a tight, form-fitting silver fabric. Beyond the visor, there were no real distinguishing features at all. In one of the being’s hands was a small, cylindrical black object. In the other hand, he held a tray.

With every step closer the doctor took, his tray rattled more. He was terrified. Clearing her throat—an act that in and of itself caused the doctor to stop in his tracks—Svetlana said aloud in Bakmanese, “Tell him I will not hurt him.”

Several seconds of silence passed in the room before the speakers activated and the voice she’d been conversing with spoke—this time in the delicate tongue of the Kalarael. Her message, being relayed. The doctor again drew closer.

“Sample wholeness of blood, skin, hair, saliva,” the voice above her said in Bakmanese.

“I understand,” Svetlana answered.

Bending down, the doctor placed his tray on the floor. He approached Svetlana with the small, black cylinder.

“Your hand to give,” said the translator.

Svetlana complied, extending her hand for the doctor to do whatever he needed to do. Upon taking her hand, the doctor examined it carefully, feeling and poking until he’d come upon the fleshy part of her palm, beneath her thumb. Reaffirming his grip on the cylinder in his other hand, he pressed it down against that part of Svetlana’s hand.

Slurr-pop!

Multiple needles stuck into her hand from the device, causing a sharp pain that made her eyes water and her body flinch—which consequently made the doctor flinch, too. But the deed seemed to be done, as the doctor quickly drew the black cylinder away.

Well, I guess that’s the “blood” part.

As for the skin, hair, and saliva, those were less painful to provide, as the doctor simply produced a small blade to scrap off some surface skin, something akin to a tweezer to pluck out a hair, and a small, clear cup for her to spit in. All of these things were placed inside their own separate containers and put inside the box on the tray. It was at that point that the doctor pulled a tiny, black sphere from the box. Svetlana arched an eyebrow. The voice in the speaker said, “Movement you cease.”

“I understand,” she said.

Holding the sphere out, the doctor pressed his hand against a touch sensor atop it, causing it to levitate forward and in front of her. As the doctor stepped back, the device popped open, revealing several pinpoints of light within its frame. As instructed, Svetlana stood motionless as the device orbited, the lights flickering and flashing all the while. The only explanation she could come up with was that this must have been a scanner that was getting a layout of her body. She was surprised that she wasn’t asked to remove her sackcloth garments first, but they were so scant, it likely didn’t matter. Within thirty seconds, the scan was complete. The sphere closed up again and then drifted toward the doctor, who promptly took it.

It was in the moments that followed, as the doctor hastily collected his things on the tray, that a thought came to Svetlana’s mind. “Wait,” she said in Bakmanese before the doctor could go. When the translator repeated the phrase in Kalarael, the doctor paused and looked at her. Pointing to her nasal cavity, she said, “Test blood here.”

All the while she’d been captive, that disgusting wound had been left untreated beyond spit from Mishka. She wanted to know if there was any level of infection present at all, even if on a smaller level than she could feel. Perhaps—just perhaps—one of those little black cylinders could tell her.

The voice from the speaker said, “Explain the reason.”

“This is not how my species looks,” answered Svetlana, gesturing to the hole where her nose once was. “My nose was cut off while with the Bakma. I fear the wound may be infected.” Those were harder words to throw out there considering the simplicity at which she was communicating with this disembodied voice, but hopefully he’d be able to make out enough to understand what she was saying. Apparently, he did, as after several seconds more words were spoken in Kalarael. The doctor acknowledged, then produced a second, unused black cylinder. Carefully, he approached Svetlana’s face with it.

This was going to hurt. Those little sucking needles had sent real pain up her arm, and now they were about to puncture the middle of her face. But the pain was a necessary evil to find out what exactly was going on with that injury, if indeed the Kalarael had the know-how to determine it. The end of the cylinder was placed against the open wound. Svetlana closed her eyes and braced herself. The tears welled before the trigger was even pulled.

Slurr-pop!

“Ow!” Try as she might, nothing could stop the yelp from bursting forth. Every muscle in Svetlana’s face tensed when the needles stuck into her face—right into that fleshy part that had once been a nose—and it took every ounce of strength she could muster not to shrink back when the needles withdrew. But alas, the deed was done. Bending forward with shimmering eyes—for she couldn’t help it—Svetlana didn’t even see the doctor collect his things and hurry for the exit. She was too focused on the throbbing pain.

“You feel pain,” the voice said.

To say the least. But with every second that passed, it subsided a little more. Sucking in through her cavities, she wiped the moisture from her eyes.

“Kalarael assist Setana.”

The smallest breath of laughter escaped Svetlana’s lips. “How?” she asked, her head still downcast despite the observers before her. They might have been fascinated by this new, exotic alien creature, but right now, Svetlana wanted nothing more than to just be alone. Poked and prodded, she felt miserable.

The disembodied voice spoke again. “Results soon. Kalarael assist Setana.”

“I am an extraterrestrial. How will you get results so soon for a lifeform you have never seen? You do not know how my body is supposed to function.”

“Technology.”

Softly, she laughed. “Must be good technology.”

Several seconds passed before the voice spoke again. “How is the breathing?”

“My world has higher oxygen. Breathing is difficult for me here, but I can survive. The wound on my face is more significant.” Without them having ever seen a reference before, there was no way for them to know what a human being was supposed to look like. Looking at them again, she gestured to her nasal cavity. “Earthae have a nose, similar to yours, which helps us to breathe. That nose is gone for me, now. It makes breathing even in my own atmosphere difficult.”

She could see Koti-Raen receiving the information on the other side of the partition. There were subtle clues she was beginning to pick up on, mostly thanks to her time with Yigôzien, such as the perking of Kalarael ears when they were listening. They pivoted and twitched just like a dog’s.

“Give Kalarael time,” the voice said.

Time, she’d give in spades. “I will. Thank you.” Angling her head a bit, she asked, “What is happening to the others that were with me?” The fate of her comrades in the Zone Runner was, at present, a total mystery.

This was a question, apparently, that prompted discussion, as the whole of the Kalarael turned together to converse. Even paladins from the back of the room approached the quasi-huddle. This went on for almost a minute before Koti-Raen faced her again, mouthing whatever answer would be translated in the moments to follow. Svetlana listened intently as the translation came. “Darishu watch Bakma.”

Svetlana blinked. “Darishu?”

Koti-Raen angled his body, gesturing to the paladins. “Darishu,” she could see him mouth. Sure enough, the translation confirmed the Kalarael word.

So that was what the paladins were called. Darishu. Drawing a breath, she asked, “What will be done to them?”

Her question was answered with a question. “Did Bakma cause wound?”

“No,” she said firmly. This part, she had to make sure they understood. “The Bakma who caused my wound are dead.” You owe me one, Wuteel. “The Bakma on the spacecraft are different. They helped me escape.” And they weren’t the only ones. “There are two other lifeforms that helped me, too. One is small and white. We call their species the Ithini. That Ithini’s name is Ed.” There was no reason to force the Kalarael to try and pronounce Ei`dorinthal. “There is a large, brown animal, as well. We call them the canrassis. That canrassi’s name is Mishka. He is my pet.” Her pet that could probably bite through one of those darishu in one bite. “If Mishka shows aggression, he is only afraid. Bring him to me, and he will listen.”

Those were a lot of terms to take in, and she wasn’t sure they would all survive translation. For a second time, her answer prompted a group discussion amongst the Kalarael, as they convened to discuss their response. Svetlana knew the Kalarael considered the Bakma a threat. Hopefully she’d earned the benefit of the doubt in their color-changing eyes. At long last, an answer was given her. “No harm to them.”

Thank You, God.

“All must be tested.”

She understood. “You must test their biology,” she said in Bakmanese. “I understand.”

“Anything for you needed?”

An easy question with an easy answer. “I need to drink and eat.” Quite desperately.

“How do we feed?” the disembodied voice asked.

“I have been eating Bakma food,” she answered. “It is called calunod. It is on the spaceship.” As revolting as the seaweed-like substance was, she had to give it credit. It had sustained her, even in limited quantity. There was no questioning that she’d lost tremendous weight, but she was alive. “There is no food on the spaceship for my species. I will try any food that you offer. I will also need water to drink.”

Another brief discussion ensued before she received her answer. “Kalarael will test biology, then provide food. Will provide water.”

She’d take it. “I understand, thank you.”

“Rest is for you now.”

For a second time, she approached the cot, pressing her palm upon it to see it depress inward. Climbing atop it, she once again lay down, closing her eyes and wincing a bit at the brightness of the ceiling. As if it were known that that’d be her reaction, the room dimmed. Though she wasn’t quite in the proper spirits to outright smile, she came close. If it wasn’t for the fact that she was light-years away from home and locked in an alien quarantine, this might actually be nice.

Drawing a deep breath through her mouth—the easiest means by which she could breathe at present—Svetlana rolled onto her side, tucked in her knees, and fell asleep.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Thursday, March 29th, 0012 NE

1020 hours

Sydney, Australia

IT WOULDN’T BE long now. Leaning against the wall in her cell in Sydney, Tiffany closed her eyes and waited for what she knew was inevitable. The young official from EDEN—Jaya—had told her that a trip to EDEN Command was on the horizon. Tiffany thought she’d meant that night. But now it was late morning the next day, her scant breakfast of bacon and eggs was digested, and she had nothing to do but wait to hear that cell door open. It’d been a sound she’d been waiting for with eyes closed for almost two hours. When she finally did hear it, it almost didn’t seem real.

Hazel eyes opening, Tiffany pushed up to her feet as Willoughby, the large, mustached black man observed her from the door. Wearing a dark blue beanie, he looked more like a scruffy, unkempt fisherman than a chief of security. Just the same, there was no mistaking his gravelly Australian voice when he addressed her. “Up and at ’em.”

There was a part of Tiffany that wanted to make a smart aleck comment—to tell Willoughby where to go or where to stick it—but she couldn’t quite conjure the energy. And so with heart gutted and face dour, she lowered her head and simply did as she was told.

“Turn around.”

Tiffany complied as a pair of handcuffs were slapped on her wrists. Staring down at them, she felt an eerie sense of familiarity. What she wouldn’t have given to be back at Novosibirsk with those old cuffs still in place and Travis at her side. At the time, she’d felt as if being attached to Travis was the worst thing in the world. Now she’d have given up anything to be in those shoes again.

To her surprise, she wasn’t pushed ahead forcefully. Willoughby simply said, “Nice and easy,” as he eased her toward the hall leading out of Confinement.

Under normal circumstances, Tiffany would have been fascinated by the prospect of being in a Confinement facility. Each base had one, for which access was reserved exclusively to scientists and higher-ranked officers who were there for specific purposes. She’d heard the outlaws talk about Scott’s ventures into Novosibirsk’s Confinement, which had amazed her at the time. The fact that her first foray into Confinement was as a captive was horribly depressing. She’d always hoped to get a peek into one some day, but she never dreamed it’d be like this.

Willoughby’s grip on her shoulder tightened as they neared the security checkpoint. Smiling at him, a female guard cocked her head and asked, “Shall I have her cell cleaned, captain?”

The captain replied bluntly. “Is that not the SOP?”

Smile quickly fading, the guard said, “Yes, captain, I’m sorry.” As Willoughby led Tiffany through the checkpoint, the guard got on her desk-mounted comm. “Cleaning crew, Yellow-7 is clear.”

Yellow-7. What a cheery sounding name for such a depressing place to lay her head. She barely had time to think about it before she was pushed ahead again, out of Confinement’s entranceway and into the corridors of whatever part of Sydney they were in. As a pair of soldiers walked by, she hung her head in disgrace. There were no feelings left to show—no tears, no fight. She was in a place with no escape. Mustering just enough dignity to lift her head to look ahead, she saw the long hallway from which she’d originally been led in. She remembered the signs on the walls, the fire extinguishers, the office doors and branching corridors. At the far end of the hall would be a left-hand turn that would take her through a set of double doors to the airfield. This walk of shame would be burned into her memory forever. Lowering her eyes again as another gawker walked by, she picked up her pace—just to see if by some chance, Willoughby would allow her to shorten the torture. She fully expected him to slow her back down.

What she didn’t expect was a full stop.

Grabbing her firmly by the shoulder as they passed a hallway to their right, Willoughby yanked her back to him. “Easy does it.”

There was nothing easy about the pull, and though she complied, she found herself turning to look down the corridor they were supposed to be going down. Her eyes squinted in confusion. That was the direction to the airstrip, wasn’t it? She didn’t have time to stare long, as the security chief pushed her down the smaller, right-hand hall.

They didn’t walk far. Stopping at the first door on the left, Willoughby once again grabbed her by the shoulder. Tiffany looked at the unmarked office door. “Hold, now,” the man said, his gruff voice noticeably lower. Tiffany’s nerves swelled as Willoughby looked in both directions as if to see if anyone was watching. Reaching past her, he turned the doorknob and pushed it open. “In. Quick.”

Heart rate increasing, Tiffany did as she was told. The room was dim, lit only by a plug-in construction light in the far corner. The halls were bare sheetrock, and the light panels on the ceiling were completely absent. There was even a ladder and toolbox in the far corner, revealing a room that was clearly still under construction.

On the other side of the room, a pair of figures moved, prompting Tiffany to gasp and slam to a halt. Willoughby closed and locked the door behind them. The figures moved into the light.

It was two men, both slender and with blond hair—one with a crew cut, the other a short ponytail. When they took a step toward her, the panic hit. Stutter-stepping backward, Tiffany spun to do the only natural thing that came to her. Run. Unfortunately, Willoughby was there to stop her. “Whoa, calm down. Away from the door, stay quiet.”

“I don’t—” She was stammering. “Please, I-I don’t want—”

“We just want to talk.”

Chest still heaving, Tiffany locked eyes with Willoughby’s. While there was still a gruffness in his expression, it had softened to a degree. His hands were out in front of him, but he didn’t look so much as if wanted to restrain her as calm her down. “We…?” she asked, exhaling heavily as a confused look came over her. “What?”

He gestured away from the office door and toward the far side of the room. “Please, we don’t have much time.” Though her heart was still pounding, the earnestness in Willoughby’s voice prompted her to obey.

The two blond men followed, each keeping enough distance to avoid threatening her personal space, and each looking at her in a way that seemed more confused than purposeful. Both men were wearing officers’ uniforms—the one with the crew cut a captain and the one with the ponytail a lieutenant.

“Hello, Miss Feathers,” the captain said, his Australian accent thick. “My name is Rex Gabriel, I’m captain of a unit here at Sydney.” He gestured to his counterpart. “And this is Reginald Custer, one of my lieutenants.” The indicated Reginald stared at Tiffany with discerning calculation. “Though we’ve never met you,” Rex said, “my unit and Remington’s have crossed paths in a way I’d describe as significant.”

The instant that context was applied, Tiffany’s eyes widened. Her heart pounded again, but now for an entirely different reason. Were these people here to help?

“I’ll get right to the point,” Rex said. “Remington’s unit saved our lives. The man EDEN is portraying doesn’t sound like the one I met and fought side by side with.”

Willoughby cut in. “Captain Gabriel came to me as soon as you were brought in. Said something smelled fishy. I’m open to hearing whatever it is you have to say.”

To say that she was taken aback was an understatement. This was the last thing she’d expected from anyone there, let alone the security chief who’d been ordering her around since the moment she arrived. What vested interest could he possibly have for hearing her out?

“Look.” Rex pressed his lips together and hesitated. “We just want to hear what you have to say. That’s it.”

“Preferably quickly,” Willoughby said, “before I actually do have to transfer you.”

Quickly. She could do that. Drawing in a breath and then blowing it out, she organized her thoughts. Begin at the beginning and end at the end—that was the way retellings worked. Ready or not, that was what she would give them.

Tiffany proceeded to summarize everything that’d taken place that’d put her in the association of the outlaws. She told them about the arrival of Strom Faerber in Charlie Squad and the mission that’d doomed them. About the EDEN aircraft that’d tried to kill them and the landing party that touched down to finish them off. About her sneaking into the Pariah and having it fly her on autopilot to Novosibirsk. She told them about Travis, and the handcuffs, and the Fourteenth—about Thoor’s interrogation of her as soon as she’d arrived. From Novosibirsk, to Krasnoyarsk, to her commandeering of a Superwolf, the only stone Tiffany left unturned was the precise location of Northern Forge, which she referred to only as a “hidden base somewhere in Russia.” If there was a detail—about the genuineness of Scott’s belief in a conspiracy, about Natalie’s turning outlaw, about the train operation in Atami—she told them about it.

And all the while she spoke, she watched their reactions. They were listening, ears attuned, leaning forward, arms crossed or propped against their chins. There was even an alarmed physical reaction from Reginald when she talked about Natalie—though Tiffany couldn’t imagine why.

When the story was finished, the office was left in silence. All three men stood in front of her, quiet and thoughtful, as she blew out a long, weary breath and then waited for their reaction. Waited to see if they counted anything she’d told them as truth. Thirty seconds into the silence, she was waiting for anything at all. When something finally came, she almost couldn’t believe what she heard.

“Well, pack her up and move her out,” Rex said, his green gaze turning to Willoughby.

“Right.” Reaching for Tiffany again, the large black man grabbed her by the shoulder much in the same manner he’d done when he was moving her through the halls.

Blinking as she was unceremoniously jolted back to captive status, Tiffany could only manage a, “Seriously?”

“Come on now,” said Willoughby, pushing her more forcefully toward the office door. “Don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Stumbling forward, Tiffany spun around to face Willoughby as soon as there was some distance between them. “After all that, just this?” On the other side of the room, Reginald sighed and rubbed his hand down his face.

Upon spinning her back around, the security chief prodded her again toward the door. No reply was offered her.

Seething, she said, “Like, I am totally just a fool. I seriously cannot believe this just happened.”

“You can’t believe a prisoner got asked questions by a trio of officers?” Willoughby released her to walk around her for the door.

Tiffany opened her mouth, but no words came out. She didn’t know what to say.

Flapping his hand out nonchalantly, Reginald spoke, the man’s accent purely American. “Come on, guys, give her something.”

“There’s a transport waiting to take you to EDEN Command,” Willoughby said, scowling in irritation when Tiffany quickly backed away from the door.

The Valley Girl shook her head. “No! I will not just accept that you guys heard nothing of what I said. You have to believe me, every word I said was true. This is a conspiracy!”

This time, it was Rex who spoke forcefully. “He’s a lot bigger than you, girlie. I wouldn’t get him mad.”

While not exactly mad, Willoughby did look considerably annoyed. He stormed across the room toward Tiffany to retrieve her. “Come on, let’s go.”

“No!” The blonde was almost tear-stricken. “You have to believe me—I wouldn’t lie to you!”

“Guys,” Reginald said again.

Willoughby grabbed her by the handcuffs and jerked her forward. “Move it, girl.”

“Please,” she cried, tears now rolling down. “You have to believe me. I’m not a liar!”

“Come on, guys, tell her!”

The words were screamed out by Reginald, and they prompted both Willoughby and Rex to turn his way. The ponytailed man was staring back at them, eyebrows lowered with intent. He looked fed up. From behind Tiffany, Willoughby exhaled an exhausted breath.

What in the world was going on?

Finally leaning in from behind her, Willoughby spoke sternly into her ear. “Ignorance is more than just bliss. It could save your life.”

Her brow quirked. “What?”

“What he’s trying to say,” said Rex as he faced her, “is that the less you know—”

“We’re on your side, okay?” said Reginald, cutting off Rex, who glared back at him. “But if we start telling you what we think, EDEN’s gonna torture it out of you. We can’t afford that.”

Willoughby threw his hands up. “That’s fantastic, Custer, well done.”

Torture it out of her? Tiffany’s stomach turned. Torture was supposed to be banned, even for extraterrestrials.

Continuing on, Reginald said, “Here’s what you need to know: we all heard you. Whatever we do from here, you can’t have knowledge of it. Understood?”

She was still stuck on the word torture. But she nodded her head.

Rex and Willoughby were still glaring at Reginald. Exasperated, Reginald pointed toward her. “The girl was terrified. What were we supposed to do, just let her go like that? She looked like she was about to have a heart attack.”

Silence prevailed. As the three men traded narrowed gazes, Tiffany simply stared ahead at nothing. How had things ever come to this? To a place where she was being questioned in a locked room by three men she didn’t know at a base where she was being kept prisoner? This was so surreal, so overwhelming. What the ponytailed one—Reginald—said sounded sincere. But how did she know she could trust it? What if they were trying to glean information from her by capturing her trust? What if this three-way glaring contest was merely their attempt to sell it? Had that woman from EDEN Command, Jaya, gotten to them? Unfortunately, if any of those questions turned out to be the case, her paranoia was too little, too late. She’d already told them everything she knew.

Almost.

They don’t know the location of Northern Forge. If they’re bad, then that’s a good thing. But if they’re good… If they were good, was that something they needed to know? If they knew where to find the outlaws, did that mean they’d help them? Or would they let the rest of EDEN in on it so they could destroy them? Tiffany realized right then that the location of the secret mountain base was either something they absolutely had to know or something they couldn’t know at all costs. And she was the only person who could make that judgment. Tiffany was terrified—and so she did the only thing she knew to do. Not what Scott would do, or what Esther would do, or even what her best friend, Catalina, would do. In all of her bubble-gum innocence, in all of the fear that must have been so evident on her face, she threw stealth and composure to the wind. Turning her hazel gaze upon them and with quivering lips, she said, “Please tell me if you’re all lying to me.” The words barely made it out before her eyes shimmered. “Please. I can’t tell.” So jarring did the words seem to the three men, each one angled their head to peer curiously at her.

Everything about her words was real. The shaky way in which she spoke them, the moist eyes that accompanied them. The nature of the words themselves. But they were also her greatest weapon. Not one of strength, or tactical brilliance, or bravado. It was a weapon of sincere misdirection—an art form the Valley Girl had learned to master. A weapon that screamed, “I don’t know what’s going on. I’m not smart enough to understand this. I’m not a threat.” No one feared an adversary who spoke in like’s and totally’s. No one feared a dumb blonde. But occasionally—occasionally—people pitied a scared one. It was deception without deception. Complete self-awareness. Tiffany knew what she was. Sometimes, it was exactly what she needed to be.

Releasing a heavy sigh, Willoughby softened his grip on her shoulder. “Listen…”

Target locked.

“We all have our reasons for this. I have mine, Pelican have theirs.”

Pelican. That must have been the name of Gabriel’s unit.

“If EDEN Command think you know something, they will extract it from you. I know. I used to work there.”

Even in her timidity, that revelation raised Tiffany’s eyebrow.

“I don’t know what to believe when it comes to you,” Willoughby said. “You’re talking about conspiracies, and secret deals, and alien messages. It’s not an easy sell.” The mustached man hesitated. “But I know the circumstances that led to my dismissal, and I know the man who replaced me. It’s all, umm…” Gnawing on his lower lip, he sought for the word. “Suspect.”

Tiffany knew it right then: these people needed to know about Northern Forge.

“And so it’s for that reason,” he said, “that you’re getting the benefit of the doubt from me.” He seemed to reconsider those words as soon as he said them. “‘Benefit of the doubt’ might be too strong a term. You have an audience in me. Let’s just leave it at that.”

She’d take it.

Clearing his throat, Rex cast a sidelong look at the others. Then he said, “You do have the benefit of the doubt from us. EDEN sent some bimbo named Saxena to talk to Reg and I, and she tried to convince us of things we knew weren’t true, because we were there when they happened. She spoke to everyone in our unit who was a part of the missions with Remington. We all came to the same conclusion—that she was selling us untruths. When you arrived here, we knew we needed to talk to you.” After a pause, he exhaled slowly. “And so, now you know our motives. For your own benefit, please don’t ask what we intend to do about them.”

She didn’t need to know what they planned to do. She just needed to know that she could trust them. Now, she did. Turning her body to where she could face all three of them at once, she said, “There’s a mountain range in Norilsk.” When the words came out, her stomach churned with unease. She prayed this was the right decision. “The Nightman base is inside it. They call it Northern Forge. There’s a big metal door on the western side of the range that faces a valley. That’s how we got in.” And now, panic. What if they’d lied? What if they were working with Jaya? The same questions and doubts that’d been there before surfaced again—except this time, she dismissed them. This was the right decision. She just knew.

Rex looked at Reginald briefly before turning his eyes back to Tiffany. “Got it. Thank you for that.”

“Please find them,” she said. “Please help—”

Looking away, Rex cut her off gently. “That’s enough. Let’s not talk further.”

She understood.

For yet another time that morning, Willoughby’s hand went atop Tiffany’s shoulder. “All right, let’s get you moving.”

The walk from the room to the airstrip passed in a blur. In what normally would have been a walk of mounting dread, Tiffany’s mind was now stuck in replay mode, going over her chat with Willoughby and the two Pelicans. Whether they were ultimately telling the truth or not—and she believed strongly that they were—she would never forget them or their names. They were the first and only people to have actually listened to what she was saying.

The security chief offered no words during their entire trek to the airfield, where Jaya and the EDEN Command transport were waiting. Tiffany knew nothing about the spectacled Indian woman besides the fact that she worked at Command, but she despised her just the same.

And so with no fanfare or media present, Tiffany was boarded onto the blacked-out transport and placed in the custody of EDEN Command security, her next stop the heart of the organization she’d dedicated her life to. The same organization that now treated her like the enemy.

For the first time she could ever remember, Tiffany dreaded a flight.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Thursday, March 29th, 0012 NE

0817 hours

Atami, Shizuoka Prefecture, Japan

IT WAS THE strangest morning Natalie could remember in her life. After waking up for a second time on the guest bedroom floor, her body twisted and aching from her futile efforts to get comfortable, she painfully crept toward the closet to grab a kimono then freshen up while Jakob slept. While the kimono itself was beautiful, being blue with an embroidered flowery pattern, she hadn’t the faintest idea how to wear it, and it ended up wrapped messily across her body like a bathrobe. As for her hair, the decision to sleep with a wet head had proven troublesome, as all she could manage to do with it was tie it into a messy ponytail that, as it turned out, complimented her yellow bruises and scabbed-up scrapes perfectly. There was no cleaning up the mess in the mirror. From top to bottom, she looked like hell. She felt even worse.

Her “conversation” with Lisa had not only been discouraging, but it felt like a setback. She had hoped that by result of an even-keeled and reasonable conversation, she might manage to turn the captured Vector into an ally. Instead, the opposite happened. There was no chance that Lisa would see their side of things, now. And so, as she gave her pathetic-looking self a final look in the mirror, she trudged out of the guest room with a look of dejection. It was hard to imagine things getting worse.

It came as no surprise when they did.

As soon as Natalie stepped out of the bedroom, her eyes became fixated on the television, where the rest of her crew were gathered and watching an English news broadcast. It was like watching a telethon of bad developments. Beyond the gut-wrenching sensation of seeing their faces plastered on the screen and identified as terrorists, Natalie also learned more about the bombing of Chernobyl. EDEN was reporting a death toll that neared a thousand. General Thoor’s once-powerful, dark army was now in ruins.

But that wasn’t all. It was being reported that Tiffany had been shot down in the Pacific by none other than Jon Mariner. After being plucked out of the water and taken to Sydney, she was now on her way to EDEN Command. Though Natalie had no idea what EDEN planned to do to her, after seeing what they’d done to Mark Remington, she knew nothing was outside the realm of possibility. Her heart ached. It might have been better had Tiffany been blown into smithereens. Who knew what horrors she would face at EDEN’s hands?

This whole thing was a disaster. From start to finish, from one side to the next. A total disaster.

It didn’t take long for Natalie to note that Esther was the only one absent from those watching television. She mentioned it to Javon, only to be told that no one had seen the scout since they’d arrived the previous night—not to eat, not to slip into the bathroom to bathe, not to converse. Esther didn’t strike Natalie as the kind of girl to do something foolish, but after all she’d been through, Natalie felt that the risk of self-harm was a legitimate concern. She wanted to check up on her. This time, Javon didn’t stop her. And so, after eating a fresh plate of eggs, rice, grilled mackerel, and a pungent, yet not terrible dish called natto, she braced herself for entry into Esther’s bedroom. Unsurprisingly, the door was locked, but all it took was a quick gesture to Youko for that to change. As soon as the electronic latch was unlocked, Natalie turned the knob, quietly pushed the door open, then slipped inside.

As much of a mess as Natalie felt she was, the stench that hit her nostrils upon stepping into Esther’s bedroom nearly bowled her over. The room—or more accurately, Esther—smelled like a slew of mud, sweat, and filth. So pungent was it that Natalie couldn’t help but crinkle her nose upon entry. As Natalie eased the door shut behind her, the shaft of light from the living room disappeared into darkness. There was a rustling from the bed as Esther rolled over to face the intruder. But at least there was movement, which relinquished Natalie’s greatest fear. Standing just in front of the door, the scout’s silhouette barely visible in the darkness, Natalie broke the silence with a simple and quiet, “Hey.” Natalie didn’t expect a reply, and none came. Without a word, Esther laid her head back down, the expression on her face hidden from view. Stepping farther into the room, Natalie asked, “How you holding up?”

It was a ridiculous question, but it was the start of what would hopefully be a conversation, depending on how willing Esther was to entertain it. It was of no surprise to her, however, when the question went unanswered.

Sighing, Natalie walked to a cushioned chair against the wall, settling into it. “Yeah, that’s about how I thought.” She didn’t mean for the statement to sound sarcastic, though she was aware that it’d come out that way. Just the same, if there was anyone who could appreciate such thinly veiled pessimism, it was Esther. Leaning back in the chair and covering her face with one hand, Natalie blew out a breath and said, “So EDEN bombed Chernobyl.”

Esther moved under the covers. It was barely enough to be noticeable, but it did lead Natalie to believe that the scout was listening.

“And Tiffany got shot down. She’s alive, but in EDEN custody. Word is she’ll be taken to Command.” Pausing, Natalie said, “I talked to Lisa. Thought maybe I could turn her. I ended up hitting her in the face.” She released a single breath of unamused laughter. “And last, but not least, I had a nice chat with Ju`bajai.” The hope in that last statement was that it would be enough to prompt Esther to react, if for no other reason, out of curiosity as to what the alien might have told her. But no reaction came. Natalie lowered her head. “She found out by reading Lisa’s mind that EDEN knew we were coming because of a helmet they’d found at Hami Station. The helmet comm let them listen in on a conversation between Scott and Antipov.” For as little as she knew about Antipov, his name sure turned up in a lot of places. “They knew where we were going and when we would get there. All they had to do was set up and wait for us to arrive—and that’s exactly what they did.” She paused for a second longer. “They found out that the Nightmen were on their way to Chernobyl. That’s how they knew to bomb it. That’s how they knew everything.”

Though Natalie wasn’t looking up to see it, Esther’s head turned in her direction.

“And that’s everything,” Natalie said. “The whole kit and caboodle.” Exhaling, she ran her fingers through her hair. “Listen, I know none of this helps. I know none of this means anything. More than anything, I just wanted to come check on you. To find out if there’s anything you need or want, or…” She felt like she was grasping at straws for something else to say. “Esther, we’re here for you. That’s what I wanted to convey. I can’t imagine what you must be going through after…what happened.” It dawned on Natalie just as she said it that the last thing Esther would likely have remembered was Natalie and Logan pulling her away, kicking and screaming, from Jayden’s body.

As she remembered that little detail, a seed of anxiety sprouted inside her. She’d gone in there to offer moral support, but for all she knew, Esther wanted to kill her. Perhaps it was best just to leave. Pushing up from her chair, she offered to the scout a final, departing word. “There’s a great shower here if you want to get cleaned up—it might make you feel better.” And stink less. “And I know you must be hungry. There’s fresh food prepared in the kitchen. Fish, eggs, some…stuff.” She wasn’t quite sure how to describe natto. “It’d do you good to get something in you—at least so you don’t get sick.” Okay, time to leave. Esther hadn’t responded to anything, thus far; there was no reason to believe she’d start anytime soon. She turned for the door. “We’ll see you out there soon, okay?” After a final pause for cordiality’s sake, Natalie turned to make her way out of the room.

Well, that went well. Natalie wasn’t sure how she’d expected the chat to go in the first place. Even if Esther had been in a mood to talk or be comforted—and that was a big if—Natalie probably would have been her last choice. But she had to try. She had to let the scout know that she cared. And she did. Genuinely. Esther wasn’t her friend by any means, but she didn’t want the girl to suffer.

Approaching her from the other side of the room, Javon slid his hands into his pockets. “You talk to her?”

Shaking her head, Natalie answered, “I talked at her. That’s probably a more accurate way to put it.” She released a single huff of morbid laughter. “And she’s alive, so that counts for something, too.”

“Yeah, I don’t think we can expect her to—”

Javon’s words were interrupted as the door to Esther’s room slowly opened into the living room. He, Natalie, and the others all turned to regard it. Standing there in the open doorway, to Natalie’s shock, was Esther.

The scout looked an absolute wreck. Beyond still wearing the same street clothes she’d been rain-soaked in when she’d arrived with the others, her hair was stuck up in every direction, some strands pasted to the sides of her head and others almost vertical—no doubt the result of laying her wet and muddied head on a pillow for hours on end. Her eyes were outright baggy. It was the worst that Natalie had ever seen her—but at least she was seeing her. Javon never finished his words, as Natalie stepped away from him to ease her way closer to the scout. “Hey!” She tried not to sound overly enthused, as if that might frighten the girl away. “You okay?”

Esther nodded her head. In a voice as equally weak as the gesture, she said, “I’ll eat and take a shower.”

Natalie was stunned at the mere thought that her visit might have actually done good. “Absolutely,” she said, as all around them, the other survivors stared—some offering uncertain greetings while others simply observed. “Come on, right this way.” This was progress. This was good. Leading Esther across the living room to the kitchenette, she pointed to the variety of food that was still out. “Like I said, they have eggs, rice, I think this fish is mackerel. This stuff over here is called natto, it’s some kind of bean thing with I think a Dijon mustard sauce—I know you like mustard.”

“I hate mustard.”

“Okay, you hate mustard.” Then why were you holding a jar of mustard in your wedding photo? Whatever. “Never mind then, avoid the natto.”

Inhaling sharply, Esther asked, “Can I just have some bread?”

Natalie tried to remember if she’d seen any bread anywhere. “Uhh.”

“Rice. Rice is fine.” Sounding more ready to move on than truly wanting rice, Esther slipped past Natalie to grab a small bowl.

By no means did Natalie expect Esther to veer toward conversation, so the scout’s quick and easy placating wasn’t taken in a negative way. She likely didn’t want to talk to anyone. As Natalie stepped back to give Esther room behind the kitchenette, she watched her from behind. Despite her haggard appearance, Esther didn’t strike Natalie as weakened by combat or malnourishment. It was actually impressive to see just how much purpose one could put into picking up a bowl and scooping in a spoonful of sticky rice. There was a strange amount of focus to her movements. While it didn’t necessarily seem off in some way, it definitely struck Natalie as…well, noticeable. Well aware that she was reading into the scout’s posture far more than she likely needed to, Natalie approached Esther from behind as she watched her angle her head in the direction of Youko and the lackeys, where her focus seemed to hover.

“Yeah, they’re pretty much watching us around the clock,” Natalie said. “But, they do leave us alone. For the most part.”

“Thank you,” Esther said quietly. Grabbing a spoon—thankfully, those had been left out for the non-Japanese—the scout began eating the rice by heaping spoonfuls.

Eyebrows lifting, Natalie watched as Esther finished the entire bowl, albeit a small one, in what couldn’t have been more than a minute. Abandoning the bowl with a clank on the counter, she slinked around Natalie to traverse the room.

Sighing to herself, Natalie retrieved the dishes. “I’ll get that,” she whispered to herself. Placing the dishes in the sink, she turned back to the rest of the room just in time to see Esther marching toward the front door like a woman determined to walk right out of it. Eyes widening, Natalie’s breath caught as a wide-eyed Youko stepped to intercept. Oh no!

Exactly as Natalie thought would happen, Esther and Youko met hard. Stating firmly, “Stop!” Youko placed her hand on Esther’s chest and pushed back. Predictably—for Esther—the scout shoved the hand away and made for the front door again.

“Esther!” Natalie rounded the kitchenette’s small island just as the other survivors leapt to their feet to watch the tussle. “Esther, stop!” As Esther was shoved, Youko was shoved back with increasing vigor. Shoves became aggressive half-strikes as the lackeys rushed to Youko’s sides. The two women collided in frantic, grappling hits just as Natalie arrived to pull Esther back. “Esther—Esther!” Straining, Natalie practically had to sling the woman back to get her away from a wide-eyed and on-edge Youko.

“I want to see Lisa Tiffin,” Esther said, snarling as Natalie stood between her and the punk princess, who was shouting something in Japanese that sounded mighty threatening. “You got to see her, now it’s my turn!”

That was not happening—nor should it. “No. Esther, no!” The scout tried to push Natalie aside, but the captain held her own. “That’s a mistake!”

“You’re a bloody mistake.” Behind Esther, Javon and several of the others stood by, as if at any moment they might have to join a battle royale right there in the room. At the last second, with Natalie’s hand in her face, the scout teetered on relenting.

If there was a chance to quell this situation, it was right now. “You’re angry, I get it. But this is not the way. We’ll get out of here, we’ll figure it all out.” She wasn’t even quite sure what she meant by the words, but they were the first ones that came to her. “Just settle down, girl.”

“I’m not your girl.”

Natalie sighed. “I know, we’re oil and water, whatever. Just—”

“I’ll take a sodding shower,” Esther said, eyes still locked on Youko as she turned away from Natalie. “Just leave me alone.” Without another word and with Natalie’s hand still outstretched as if it might have to stave her off again, Esther marched through the bathroom door and slammed it shut behind her.

The speed at which this had all unfolded had Natalie’s head spinning. Turning around to Youko, who was now targeting her with her glaring almond eyes, the embattled captain said, “I’m sorry, okay?”

Youko spat back something that Natalie couldn’t understand before storming away with the lackeys.

“Veck, man,” said Tom, who was staring wide-eyed with the rest of the crew.

Natalie raised a hand in his direction as if to dismiss all commentary, then she approached the bathroom door. Just before she reached it, she heard the showerhead turn on. Shaking her head, she stood there as her heart settled. God, what could have just happened. Youko did not seem the type to push, and pushing was what Esther excelled at. What in the world had possessed the scout to try that? She just lost her husband—she’s emotionally unstable. It doesn’t matter how calmly she scoops her rice, she’s clearly not ready to reenlist. She could only imagine what Esther would have done with Lisa had she actually been able to get to her—not that that was even possible given she had no idea where the Vector was. But still.

“Hey.”

The calm voice of Javon snapped Natalie out of her thoughts. She turned to look at the soldier beside her.

“She gonna be all right. She just gotta work through it.”

Natalie wanted to believe that. Truly, she did. But in the time that she’d spent around Esther Brooking, she’d never seen the woman work rationally through anything. “God, Javon, what she could’ve—”

Javon shook his head. “She ain’t thinking. We have to give her that time. You did good gettin’ her out her room, now just let her cool off.” Softly, he laughed. “She’s gonna get all cleaned up, dressed out, feelin’ better. She’ll feel too good to want to fight after that.”

“Pfft.” The sound just blurted out of Natalie’s lips.

“Hey, c’mon. That ain’t the attitude we need.”

Narrowing her eyes at her newly christened XO, she said, “All right.” Briefly, her gaze drifted in Youko’s direction, where she saw the punk princess glaring at her from afar. Natalie rolled her eyes and looked away. “Let’s just be extra vigilant when it comes to Esther. She’s dangerous when she’s sane—who knows how much worse she could be with her emotions all screwed up?”

Javon nodded.

“At least we don’t have to worry about her right now.” Casting a final glance to the bathroom door, Natalie listened to the cascade of water against tile for a moment before stepping forward, patting Javon on the back, and walking away.

* * *

As far as showerheads went, it was the height of luxury. Mounted flush with the ceiling and large enough to douse the user with their choice of raindrops, twin waterfalls, or a barrage of spray, it was the perfect means by which a person could receive the ultimate drenching. People paid top dollar for such systems—ones meant not just to cleanse, but to experience. With this one’s twin waterfall setting selected, it was sending two glistening ribbons of clear water straight down to the floor.

The only thing missing was someone to receive it.

Standing barefoot at the back of the bathroom, Esther’s mind was far removed from waterfalls and shower systems. Her clothes were still on—she’d made no effort to grab towels or a kimono from the closet. Her sole focus was on the object in her hands—the clean swipe that her comrades had been too distracted by the ruckus to notice. The one the woman called Youko hadn’t even felt herself lose. Adjusting the frequency dials of the Japanese lackey’s personal comm, Esther sought out a channel that wasn’t supposed to exist.

Containing emotions had never been Esther’s strong suit, so it came as no surprise that in the aftermath of Jayden’s death, she’d run the full gamut of them. Panic. Soul-crushing anguish. Unbridled rage. She bounced from one to the other with enough emotional velocity to cause whiplash. But mostly, she cried. She cried upon waking up in a dingy room with a handful of the survivors. She cried before falling asleep in her guest suite bedroom. She cried when she woke up, long before Natalie had come in through the door. And every time she thought her tears had been exhausted, more found their way to the surface. In that last glimpse she’d had of Jayden—of his wide, frozen eyes and the blood seeping from his mouth—she saw every dream she’d had slip through her fingers. After a life of struggling to find a purpose larger than the chip on her shoulder, she’d finally found someone who made her feel valuable. Who made her feel loved. Then, she lost him.

And so, though shock, anger, fear, and disbelief all made beds in her heart, the master suite belonged to paralyzing grief. She’d let herself become vulnerable for the sake of love only to be left more vulnerable than when she began. She was ready to die.

That all changed with three sentences.

Pressing the button on the swiped comm and with the backdrop of falling water to mask her voice, she quietly asked, “Are you there?”

The helmet comm let them listen in on a conversation between Scott and Antipov. They knew where we were going and when we would get there. All they had to do was set up and wait.

They were Natalie’s words, but they repeated inside Esther’s head over and over. The moment she’d heard them, there came a horrible sensation. A gut feeling that she couldn’t ignore. She had to know the truth.

For several long seconds, nothing came over the comm. Then, just as she knew it would, the staticky sound of a return transmission emerged. That Russian voice that addressed her, she knew all too well. “Hello, valkyrie.”

The mere sound of Antipov’s voice made her skin crawl. With a jaw so firmly set it was hard to speak, she summoned up the strength to ask the question. “Did you set us up?”

She heard Antipov draw in a long breath. “Yes,” he answered.

“You worm.” Her face twisted. Teeth clinched, she trembled with rage. “You lying, manipulative worm.”

“Miss Brooking…”

She seethed. “I’m going to kill you.”

Once more, he calmly said, “Miss Brooking?”

“My last name. Is Timmons.”

Another breath was drawn. “Mrs. Timmons.”

“To think I trusted you, to any extent.” It was hard to form the words without spitting them. A hatred was brewing the likes of which she’d never felt before. “When I find you, and I will find you—”

“Your husband may still be alive.”

Everything stopped. With her mouth hanging open, the whole world went still. All she could manage was, “What?”

The tone of his voice was unchanged. “A second outlaw survived the attack. He has been taken to EDEN Command. His identity is being kept secret.”

“You’re lying.”

“Did I lie about my actions when you asked? I would lie to many people, Mrs. Timmons. I would not lie to you.”

Esther’s cheeks flushed as Antipov spoke on…yet deep inside, her heart started to beat faster.

“I have a contact who has infiltrated EDEN Command. Someone who sided with me a long time ago but remained hidden for a moment such as this—when the location of EDEN Command could be determined and we could destroy it.”

Swallowing what felt like an egg, Esther continued to listen.

“He informed me that there were three outlaws captured in the operation. One was obviously Remington. The second was Tiffany Feathers, who is en route to EDEN Command as we speak. The third, however, was unknown—though I was told that he arrived riddled with bullets and clinging to life. I cannot promise you that this outlaw was Jayden. But there are only so many that it could have been. You were there—you would surely know better than I would who could have survived. If you do not believe me, just wait. I assure you, this will leak to the media.”

She was barely even listening to what he was saying now. The Briton’s mind was racing, the thump-thump-thumping of her heart becoming audible in her head. She felt lightheaded. Riddled with bullets. Jayden and Becan were riddled with bullets. But it didn’t mean it was either of them. Valentin had sent slayers with them—this could be one of them. But if it was true…even if the slayers were among those possibilities…Jayden was a possibility, too. A dazed look came over her, until she realized that Antipov was still talking. The scout tuned back in.

“I want to be sure that you understand what I’m telling you, Mrs. Timmons. There is a chance that your husband left the battlefield alive.”

“Stop it!” Esther shrieked, her efforts to be quiet failing. Pointing hard at her own chest, she said, “I saw him die! I saw him get shot through the back. I saw him die!”

Hesitating, Antipov asked, “Are you sure?”

She was. She was sure she was sure. Right? Did I…did I check him for a pulse? Did anyone? She didn’t remember. Natalie and Logan had torn her away, kicking and screaming, from the scene. So vehement had her distress been, Ju`bajai had been forced to knock her out so Logan could carry her. She’d been in hysterics. Completely out of her mind. Could Jayden have really survived? Could he still be alive? Every memory from Jayden came rushing back to her like a tsunami. Everything.

A knock came from the bathroom door. “Esther?” Natalie’s voice rang out from the other side. “Are you okay?”

“Leave me alone!”

“Just—just checking.”

She needed to be quieter, but she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to speak in hushed tones. She wanted to scream, to shout. To drop down to her knees and pray to a God she scarcely believed in. To put a pistol to Antipov’s head and make him swear that he was telling the truth.

The eidola leader remained silent on the other end of the line, apparently content to let his tease of uncertainty linger. To let Esther taste it. Pressing her fist to her forehead, she closed her eyes to keep her shimmering lids at bay. With clenched teeth, she asked him, “So, what now?”

“You commed me.”

A pitiful laugh escaped Esther’s lips. She didn’t care if he heard it. “Right.” She may have commed him, but there wasn’t a bone in her body that didn’t believe he’d expected it. Willed it. Because that was what he did. He made people think ideas were their own, when in reality, people did exactly what he wanted them to do. While there was no way that Antipov could have known the specifics of what would happen in the forests of Atami—that Jayden would be shot, that Lisa would be captured, that Logan would turn outlaw, or that Esther would even survive—there was no doubt in his mind that he had an, “If Esther needs something,” chapter in his book of secret plans.

“I know that you are upset,” Antipov said.

“You have no bloody clue.”

“We have been at silent war with EDEN for a very long time—this dates far before any signs of a conspiracy. They wish to be some unifying force. But in all of man’s history, unification has never led to anything good.” The eidola chief drew in a breath. “A global military sounds beneficial, but what happens when the war is over? Who is in control of that military, then? What will they do to people with opposing philosophies on how nations should be governed? On how laws should be enforced? On how gods should be worshiped, if they should even be worshiped at all?

“Let me tell you what I have learned about men. They look out for themselves. More than anything else, more than any cause they claim to fight for—a man seeks to better his position by putting himself in the best position. And once he has that position, woe to the one who seeks to strip it away. Many wars have been fought so a king may keep his crown.

“This communication between Benjamin Archer and the Ceratopians is concerning, but it did not change my opinion of EDEN. They seek to govern the world. I say, no one man is qualified to do that. No one president. No one council of judges. Let every nation be free. Let every nation be their own—be proud of who they are and where they came from. I for one do not like the idea of a British president being responsible for the protection of Russia—he has no connection here, no love for this place. It is a game piece on a board to him. But it is not that to me.

“Let Russia do what is best for Russia. Let Britain do what is best for Britain. Let America do what is best for America. All nations—from one side of the world to the next—must care for themselves in the ways they see fit. A global entity should not make decisions for a nation they do not live in.

“This war will be won, Esther. Humanity will prevail. And then, under EDEN’s sweeping guidance, it will become everything that EDEN wants it to be. No—that is not living to me. Men should be free.”

She couldn’t take it anymore. “Where the hell are you going with all this?”

“I have spent years putting things into place,” he answered, “waiting for just a time as this, when the great beast that lords over us could be slain. All I needed—the only thing that eluded me—was EDEN Command. But it eludes me no longer. Before the mission, I sent a man to capture Remington, that he might be taken to EDEN Command himself and reveal its location to me. I have that location now. And very soon—very soon—its hallways will be consumed with the fury of the Nightmen. We will burn it to the ground.”

She couldn’t hold back. “You and what army? A handful of Nightman stragglers from Novosibirsk?”

“Oh, Mrs. Timmons. You have no idea what we have in store.” Antipov inhaled a slow, deep breath. “I allowed you to be set up because I knew the freedom of the world outweighed the lives of one unit. But I hoped you would survive. I tell the truth when I say, I smiled a small smile of relief when I heard your voice through this channel.”

“Go to hell.”

He hesitated. “I am not a hateful man. I wish you and your comrades only the best. But if one unit can be sacrificed for the salvation of the world…would you not permit that, yourself?” He continued before she could answer. “I will retrieve you from the Ikeda-kai. Believe me, they have bitten off far more than they could ever chew—though I am grateful for the role they have played in keeping you safe. I will also ensure that my contact in EDEN Command identifies the survivor. I will do everything in my power to have him retrieved along with Remington and Feathers.”

The mere mention of the unknown survivor prompted Esther to close her eyes. She didn’t want to believe that it could actually be Jayden. She didn’t want to have hope in something that she knew would be false. Her voice, despite the heavy beating of her heart, remained low. “It’s not Jayden.”

“Have faith, valkyrie.”

She didn’t want to have faith. Faith was for the pure. She was anything but. “It could be someone Valentin sent—some slayer.”

“This was someone of significance. There are only two people who qualify as that: Becan McCrae or your husband.”

Face twisting, Esther sunk down to her knees and pressed her hands to her head. Her whole body trembled. What if it was him? What if it really was Jayden? Her husband. Her Texan. How amazing it would be to see his smile once again. How awful it would be…

…if she saw Becan instead.

Oh, God. Though she didn’t speak the words, they rang clearly in her mind. There came the realization that in her heart—in her spirit—she had to choose who to hope for. Which one of them did she want to be alive? Which one of them was she hoping was dead? Becan—that plucky Irishman who’d brought a smile to her face since day one. Who never set out to hurt a soul. Who could alleviate the worst of situations with a smile and a witty remark. He had a son. A little baby boy in America. In pulling for Jayden, she would be pulling for that boy to lose his father—a father who loved him so very much. How could she—a girl who’d grown up fatherless and suffered greatly for it—wish that upon the son of one of her most cherished friends?

Hope for Jay, for her sake.

Hope for Becan, for the baby boy’s.

What kind of horrible choice was that?

No summoning of strength could stop the tears from streaming down Esther’s face; she bent forward until her forehead touched the floor. Mouth open, silent heaves came forth. How could a loving God do this? How could He give her those two options? For all she’d heard about His grace and His mercy from people like Scott and Dostoevsky, she felt none of it. As much as she fought to even believe that such an all-knowing being might exist, a larger part of her fought not to hate Him if He did. Jayden or Becan? Her happiness or a little boy’s? On the surface, it seemed that was the choice. But her real choice was so much deeper than that. This was a choice about her. About the kind of person she wanted to be. About proving Jayden’s faith in her right.

She hoped the survivor was Becan.

Any effort to hold in her emotions was abandoned. Drawn-out wails reverberated off the walls and bathroom tiles. There was no way the rest of the guest suite couldn’t hear them. But that didn’t matter now. These sounds, they would fully expect.

A short time passed until Antipov spoke again, though Esther was still broken when he did. “Bide your time until we come for you. It may be days—or longer. But I promise you, we will get the survivors back together—whoever they may turn out to be.”

There was nothing for her to say.

“This will be the last time you hear my voice before you return. Do not try to reach out to me again. Though it pleases me to hear your voice, it is too great a risk.” There was a final pause before he closed the channel out. “Good bye, valkyrie.”

The comm went silent.

Lying strewn out on the floor, Esther did, too.

For almost twenty minutes, Esther laid motionless, the heavy splashing of two ceiling-mounted waterfalls providing the only ambient sound in the room. On a better day, she might have enjoyed standing beneath them. In a better time, she might have sought such water to escape in. But this was not that day or time. When Esther did finally manage to drag herself up, it was with sagging shoulders. Even as she walked beneath the water, not bothering to remove her clothes or set out a towel, she offered not the faintest reaction. She only stood there, pelted from above by a luxury she couldn’t have cared less about. This wasn’t about getting clean or finding a reprieve. There was nothing about this water that felt good at all. It was just wet.

To be sure, Esther did eventually take time to clean off—but it was an act of pure necessity. Even the silk kimono she found in the closet, appropriately black in color, brought her no sense of comfort. The only moment of anything resembling satisfaction came when she disposed of the comm she’d stolen from Youko, deactivating it and then tossing it behind a panel cutout beneath the sink, far out of reach. Hopefully, Youko would just think she’d misplaced it. After combing her damp hair straight back, she made her way for the door without bothering to look in the mirror. However she looked to everyone else was of no concern to her. For what it was worth, they seemed happy to see her at all.

And it was then—as she exited and looked at her comrades that she barely knew—that a different sensation washed over her: the last one she’d expected to feel. As one by one, her fellow survivors approached her to hug her, she found herself once again breaking down and surrendering to their embraces. No care seemed given to the fact that only a short while ago, she’d almost started a fight, nor did Esther herself care that at least up until that moment, she’d never really cared for any of these particular people at all. Without a single word, they told her that they cared about her. It spoke volumes—even if she wasn’t quite ready to speak back.

There was simply no way that Esther could risk confiding in her teammates when it came to the words she’d received from Antipov—or the fact that she’d pickpocketed Youko’s comm to receive them. Thankfully, though, there was no need to keep her inner torment about Jayden and Becan secret. Just as Antipov predicted, there soon came a media report about a rumor that another outlaw had survived the ambush. As the talking heads always inevitably did, they discussed in detail the leading candidates: Jayden Timmons and Becan McCrae. The media spared no indignity—every supposed crime against humanity committed by the two was discussed in full. Just before the point where it became completely unbearable, Natalie switched the television off.

In the hours that followed, Esther tried her hardest to stave off her swirling emotions as she clung to her comrades’ compassion. Sometimes that compassion was conveyed in words—sometimes in a gentle hand on her shoulder or knee when those swirling emotions won out. But it was always there. Always close.

Eventually, other priorities emerged to take her mind off her grief. There was a bedridden pilot to care for—a man who hadn’t known any of them prior to this operation but who had nonetheless taken up the call when it’d come to him. There was also a young man—a teenager—who had no business being involved in any of this. A boy whose last name might live in infamy forever. Esther could see a bit of Scott in his little brother. Just a measure, but it was there. Mark needed to know that his brother was good. That none of this was what it seemed. As much as Esther needed comfort, Mark did, too.

In focusing on all of these things, Esther simultaneously managed to take care of herself. The overwhelming sense of grief in Jayden’s death coupled with the possibility that he might still be alive was too much to dwell upon while composure was trying to be maintained. When thoughts of those things came, she jettisoned them away, focusing instead on what she could be for Jakob Reinhardt and Mark Remington. A makeshift nurse for one. A friend for the other, who so desperately needed one. With as much discipline and selflessness as she could muster, she set her mind on striving to be a better person than she’d traditionally been. The kind of person that Jayden believed she could be. The Texan deserved that much if he was still alive. He deserved it even more if he wasn’t. In a situation that felt so out of her control, at least that was something she could cling to. At least it was a reason to live on. And it was that, perhaps more than anything else, that Esther Timmons so desperately needed.

For the faintest of moments, she had it.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Date unknown

Time unknown

Kalarian Orbit

THERE WAS A satisfaction that came with waking up rested. As Svetlana’s eyes cracked open beneath the dimmed lights of the Kalarael observation room, the first thought that came to her was, That was the best sleep I’ve had in years. After arching her neck and subsequently her back, she depressed her hands into the floating cot and pushed up to a seated position.

The lights in the room brightened—a clear sign that her alien observers were still watching her. How long had she slept? Four hours? Eight? There were no clocks on the walls, no sunlight to judge by. It certainly felt like she’d slept for some time.

You were asleep for sixteen Earth hours.

When the voice emerged in her head, Svetlana nearly jumped out of her skin—and she did jump off the cot, backing up against the near wall as she stared wide-eyed at the cell. Standing on the opposite side of the room, and wearing the same translucent gown that Svetlana was wearing, was Ei`dorinthal. Gasping, she said, “Ed!”

The Ithini, wide-eyed and placid, angled his head at her. Already engaged in a connection that Svetlana hadn’t felt him establish, he relayed to her, It is good to see you again, master. You are looking considerably better.

She’d been a bloody, muck-covered mess in the Zone Runner. It didn’t take much to look better. But how she looked was the last thing on her mind. “How did you get in here?”

I have spent many hours with the Kalarael in the time that you slept, honing my ability to connect with them. This was done at the request of Yigôzien, who vouched for my trustworthiness.

“What about everyone else? Are they safe?”

Even before the Ithini answered, a sensation of affirmation emanated from him. All are in chambers such as this one.

“And Mishka?”

Tauthinilaas assisted in calming the animal.

Spider-eyed war beast or not, the moment Svetlana heard that, her heart rejoiced. Mishka had become just as important to her as Flopper.

Ed continued. All crew members from the Zone Runner have been tested for contaminants. All are clear. Very soon, it will no longer be necessary to keep everyone restrained to these chambers.

Eyes narrowing with intrigue, she said to him, “You are communicating differently.” He sounded more thorough and less choppy. Talking to him almost felt like talking to a human.

The Kalarael are unrestrained in the way they communicate. I am learning a great deal about expression, and as a consequence, my self-expression has evolved.

“It is a good change.”

Thank you, master.

Turning her head to the wall, she saw that it was white. None of her observers could be seen. “You said we passed our biological tests. How do they know this so quickly?”

Though far less advanced than species such as the Khuladi, they are still vastly superior in technology to you Earthae. They were already familiar with the Bakma, so they knew that Tauthinilaas, Wuteel, and Kraash-nagun would not pose a biological threat. For the first time as Ed talked, Svetlana noticed that his eyes weren’t pulsing with focus, as they so often did when in a connection. He almost looked relaxed. You, Mishka, and myself, however, are new species to them, which is why they took various samples from all of our bodies. Those samples have been examined, and we have been deemed non-threats. There was also the precedent of Yigôzien and her counterpart, neither of whom showed any ill effects from alien exposure.

Svetlana’s thoughts on the matter were interrupted by the growling of her stomach.

I sense hunger, relayed Ed. You will be brought food and water shortly. The Kalarael were waiting for you to wake up.

Looking at her stomach, she frowned when she saw just how much weight she’d lost. She didn’t exactly look like a starving child in an underdeveloped country, but she most certainly didn’t look healthy. “What do they plan to feed us?”

I do not know.

She laughed sardonically. “That must be some good technology, to come to such conclusions about our biology and what we can consume in such a short period of time.”

Tauthinilaas, Wuteel, and Kraash-nagun were given what remained of the calunod in the Zone Runner. Mishka, you, and myself have not eaten since our arrival in Kalarael space. Like you, I look forward to receiving sustenance.

So far as Mishka went, he was probably one tummy rumble away from turning apex predator. Whatever culinary tricks the Kalarael had up their sleeves, Svetlana hoped they’d get to them quickly—for everyone’s sakes.

Someone approaches. Ed faced the tunnel entrance along the side wall, where the Kalarael doctor had visited Svetlana earlier. It is Yigôzien.

Ahead of them, the wall opened in the same circular manner that it had before. Standing in the center of the hallway was the familiar black-feathered, teal-streaked invoker that Svetlana had come to know. It was impossible for Svetlana to contain the smile that broke out—a true one, the first she’d cracked since arriving at the space station. Yigôzien couldn’t hide her happiness, either. Her eyes lit up with the brightest blue that Svetlana had seen from the pulchritudinous species. “Yigôzien,” said Svetlana as she drew near. She wanted to open her arms widely for a hug, but she held back the urge. “It is so good to see you again.”

“I am happy to see you, too, Setana,” Yigôzien said.

Svetlana blinked at the clarity of which she heard the alien’s words through Ed’s connection. Her mind interpreted it as the most eloquently spoken Russian. “Is that really you speaking to me?”

Dipping her head, Yigôzien answered, “I have worked extensively with Ei`dorinthal while you slept. You will find our ability to communicate vastly improved.”

To say the least.

Before Svetlana could remark any more, Yigôzien lowered her body forward in a sort of half-bow, dipping her head with closed eyes. She stretched her hands out to her sides and dipped into the same curtsy-like motion that she had with the darishu.

“There is much for my people to express to you. Though you are alien to us, you are already held in the highest esteem.”

“Are your people afraid of me?”

The blue in Yigôzien’s eyes darkened. “Yes. Though seen as a creature of beauty, you are still an unknown.”

“A creature of beauty?” At that, she scoffed.

The blue in her eyes brightening, Yigôzien said, “I have been assigned as your saikuran.” When the word didn’t translate through the connection, Svetlana angled her head curiously. “I have been charged with ensuring that your stay on this space station is comfortable. I understand that you are having difficulty breathing in our atmosphere.”

That, she was. “There is more oxygen on our homeworld of Earth. Breathing here is somewhat of a challenge, though I am afraid my injury has played a role in that, too.”

“We are aware of your wound. We will do our best to ensure that it is not suffering from the infection you fear.”

“How?” Svetlana meant the question with all due respect. She was a totally different species than the Kalarael. For all she knew, their ointments and antibiotics might cause a reaction that would kill her.

Yigôzien’s face remained expressionless, though her voice—at least, in the connection—remained pleasant. “Our tshmanim—” The word faltered in the connection. “—have examined the biological samples that you provided. They understand your biology enough to assist you.”

That was…utterly fascinating.

“Ei`dorinthal has explained to us that your nose was removed by your captors.” As Yigôzien said the words, the blue in her eyes faded, replaced by a flash of red. Even her delicate tongue seemed to grow harsher as she spoke the words. The red passed quickly, replaced by a blue that was not quite so bright as it’d been before. “An apparatus is in development that we believe will assist you. Please allow us a small amount of time to ensure it will serve its function.”

“An apparatus?”

“It should assist in directing oxygen through your nasal cavity, as your nose did prior to your injury.”

“Thank you, Yigôzien. It means a lot that you would do such a thing.”

The look Yigôzien offered Svetlana was almost one of confusion. “It is we who owe you abundant thanks. What you did aboard the Zone Runner…” The word was somewhat stretched out, indicative that Ed was interpreting some of the Kalarael’s words on the fly, and possibly struggling with it. “It was a feat of great courage and strength. If you are indicative of your species, yours must be one of fierce warriors.”

It was the first time in Svetlana’s life that fierce had ever been used to describe her.

“Your ability to breathe properly in our atmosphere is of great importance to us. The creation of this apparatus is a priority for my people.”

“How many of them know of my arrival here?” She had been under the assumption that her arrival in Kalarael space was being kept under wraps. Prior to the Bakma arriving in Hong Kong, any and all suggestions of human contact with extraterrestrials had been discussed under a veil of secrecy. It had been speculated for as long as Svetlana had been alive that aliens from outer space had contacted humanity. Conspiracy theories, cover-ups, secret government agencies. They’d been discussed so much they were practically pop culture. But Hong Kong? Hong Kong was as clear a signal as could have been sent from the stars. It was hard to cover up a city in ruin and alien spaceships strafing the ground with weapons fire.

Once more, a look of confusion crossed Yigôzien’s face—at least, if Svetlana was picking up on Kalarael emotions correctly. “Your arrival is known to all of our people.”

To all of her people? Svetlana scrunched her eyebrows together. “You mean on this space station?”

The invoker’s lingering expression remained. “On Kalar.”

There had to be a misunderstanding here. “You are not trying to tell me that everyone on your home planet knows that I am here?”

Before Yigôzien could answer, Ed’s voice cut through to Svetlana. Because of their unique ocular physiology, it is impossible for Kalarael to disguise intent or emotion. There are no secrets among Kalarael society, as they have few means by which to keep them.

Yigôzien’s words backed up the claim. “This is far too significant an event to not be disclosed to the Kalarael people. An announcement of your arrival was among the first steps taken.”

It was the opposite of how humanity operated. The more significant the event on Earth, the less likely the government was to disclose it. All truth, all the time? She could scarcely wrap her head around that.

Once more, the Ithini’s voice came to her. The Kalarael cannot comprehend deception the way other species can. This is not a cultural trait—it is biological. They are unable to biologically hide emotion, which is indicative in their society of truthfulness. I believe the expression that you use is, “they wear their hearts on their sleeves.”

But all the time? Svetlana asked.

They know nothing else.

Honesty was such an esteemed trait among humanity. And now, she was faced with a society—a species—that lived and breathed it. She should have been thrilled at such a discovery. As it was, though, the small knot in her stomach spoke otherwise. Sometimes, truths were better left unsaid.

You may notice that the Kalarael maintain eye contact at all times. This is not cultural. They are studying subtle shifts in eye color, the extents of which we cannot perceive. This is not done because of inherent distrust, rather it is expected as to achieve full understanding from one being to another.

Svetlana had indeed noticed that. It hadn’t struck her as unsettling, though. Just focused.

You have heard Yigôzien refer to you as a creature of beauty. This is because your eyes are a particular shade of blue. Among the Kalarael, blue eyes are indicative of tranquility. One exhibits blue eyes when they are fully at peace. The depth of your eye color is one not often achieved here. It symbolizes total serenity. They are captivated by it.

Captivated?

A sense of affirmation appeared. The color of your eyes is far more significant to them than the wound on your face.

Focusing on Yigôzien again, Svetlana asked her, “Do your people know about my Bakma companions?”

And just like that, the blue in the Kalarael’s eyes faded. “All among the Zone Runner have been made known, though we were already familiar with the Bakma.” The red tint returned as Yigôzien seemed on the verge of baring teeth. “Upon encountering the Bakma the first time, we were met with hostility. It is only at your request that the ones who arrived with you are being treated with kindness.”

There was no disguising the zealous tone in Yigôzien’s voice. She could feel the loathing emanating from her.

All of our comrades are indeed being cared for, Ed relayed. Despite the Kalaraels’ disdain for them, they are being treated well because of you.

“When can I see them?”

Yigôzien’s fox ears twitched. Whether it was due to a feeling or just involuntary, Svetlana didn’t know. “You may see them very soon,” she answered. When Svetlana looked at her strangely, she said, “I am not here solely to greet you. My purpose is also to release you from quarantine. We have already determined from your samples that you are of no danger to us.”

It was just as Ed had told her.

“If it pleases you,” Yigôzien said with a dip of her head, “I will escort you to your room, where food and new clothes await.”

That would please her very much. “Absolutely.” As nice as this translucent hospital gown was, she wanted to wear something with a little bit of weight. The food was needed, too.

“If you would follow me, please.” Turning away, Yigôzien made her way toward the hole that’d opened up in the wall.

As Svetlana and Ed followed behind her, the blonde leaned in toward her telepathic friend. This is a strange way to greet a new alien species, is it not? The decon procedure, sure, she understood that—but in what scenario would humans allow a pre-war alien visitor to roam the halls? More likely than not, after an intense interrogation, they’d be led right to the dissection table.

Humanity is a naturally distrustful species, Ed answered. The Kalarael are the opposite. Until you give them reason to believe otherwise, as the Bakma have done, you will be treated with a level of dignity you are likely unaccustomed to.

She had to stop herself from snorting. That would not take very much.

The room Svetlana was led into was spacious and filled with console stations. But what caught her eyes was not the stations or the number of Kalarael present, for there were many, but the mesmerizing, eye-catching splashes of color and decoration in every which way she looked. There were brightly colored wall murals that seemed to shimmer and flow in place, as if the paint itself was alive and moving on its own atop the metal. Shafts of dazzling light as natural as sunlight shone into the room from holes in the ceiling. Each console was either painted or decorated in vibrant colors and displays that were wholly independent of the consoles around them. It was like an interior decorator’s dreamscape come to life. And yet, it was the very clashing of colors and patterns that brought the room together. It was insanity. It was mesmerizing.

As Svetlana gawked, Ed addressed her. You will find a predominance of blues and yellows along the liquid murals. They have been chosen to represent you. As I have stated, blue represents peace and tranquility. Yellow, for the Kalarael, can represent a variety of feelings from illness to fear to reverence. For you, it is the latter. They regard you as a being of tranquility, though one to be feared, or revered, for the fierceness in which you defend it.

Svetlana’s focus shifted to the throng before her. Much like the room’s décor, each multicolored, feather-haired alien wore garments that looked wholly their own. There was no single, universal feature that tied one Kalarael to the next. Some donned long-sleeved garments. Some scarcely wore garments at all. Some wore what looked like tribal garb complete with decorative feathers. Some wore clean, lustrous metal.

In the front of the gathering stood Koti-Raen. The slender Kalarael leader was standing at the front of the gathering, his white, orange, and purple mane of down feathers tensing up. And as Svetlana was learning to do, her focus went straight to his eyes. Sure enough, as Ei`dorinthal had indicated, they were beginning to yellow.

Reverence, and some fear, Ed explained.

Koti-Raen was wearing a sleeveless, navy and silver, skin-tight outfit. Of all the Kalarael in the room, he not only looked the most official, but also the most mundane. Unlike the Kalarael around him, nothing about what he wore drew attention to itself. Meaning in subtlety, perhaps? Or maybe his tie-dyed outfits were all in the wash.

As Svetlana shifted her gaze to the Kalarael surrounding him, she saw that their eyes were collectively shifting into a rich, full yellow, like a wave washing over the crowd. All at once, the Kalarael stepped forward with their left feet, bowing their bodies and dipping their heads as their left hands flattened and then swayed in front of them. This was not the same curtsey as what she’d seen from Yigôzien, but it was still clearly a societal custom.

As expected, Ed chimed in. You will find that the Kalarael have an extremely complex system of visual display. Though many of their displays may seem similar upon first glance, they all possess subtle intricacies that make their meanings specific. You have heard Yigôzien refer to herself as an invoker of custom. Custom and the proper conveying of such is held in the utmost importance to the Kalarael. Her role is like that of a religious leader. In Earthae terms, an invoker of custom is the practical equivalent of a ceremonial priest or priestess. Customs and personal displays are regarded among the Kalarael to a degree that approaches worship.

So that was what the “custom” in Yigôzien’s title referenced. Angling her head, Svetlana asked Ed, With this display, what are they conveying to me now?

I am still learning the complexities of their display system, which is tied into their eye color. Though I cannot precisely explain what this display is attempting to convey, I can tell you that there is an overwhelming sense of awe emanating from the group.

Curiously, Yigôzien herself did not mimic the bowing gesture. She was the only one not to do so, instead simply dipping her head with her hands resting one atop the other in front of her. Was her status or role in this somehow different from everyone else’s? As Koti-Raen rose to a stand, the others behind him followed suit.

I will now connect you directly with Koti-Raen, relayed Ed. At this time, I am unable to connect with multiple Kalarael at once. The emotional floodgate, as you call it, would be overwhelming.

I understand. Honestly, Svetlana was thrilled to be able to communicate with any Kalarael at all. Sucking in hard through her nasal cavities—and noticing the increased difficulty in doing so more than ever—she leveled off her head and waited for Koti-Raen to address her.

Instantly, the sense of awe that Ed hinted at became apparent. The feeling she was getting from Koti-Raen was more than one of respect. This was akin to beholding a deity. Through the tidal wave of emotion, communication emerged. “I am Koti-Raen, head of this space station. It is the greatest honor of my life to greet you, Lady Setana.”

Lady Setana?

I have informed the Kalarael of your self-assigned title, Ed told her. They wished to know how you desired to be addressed.

Hearing that title come from a Kalarael was…strange. Perhaps a bit uncomfortable. Nonetheless, it was indeed what she’d asked for.

Koti-Raen continued, his melodic tongue dubbed in the most eloquent Russian. “We acknowledge that you have been brought to us by the—” The translation became garbled. “—Godwinds.”

I apologize, master, relayed Ed in reference to the lost bit of verbiage. I am still striving to understand some of their concepts for the purpose of translation. The Kalarael believe you to be some form of divine emanation.

She had no idea what that meant.

I have not yet grasped the Kalarael religion. Much like their language, it appears to be complex.

In front of Svetlana, Koti-Raen was standing in silence, awaiting her reply and likely wondering if his words had been understood. With literally no idea how to proceed, here, the only thing Svetlana could manage was, “It is a pleasure to meet you.” The words were so basic—so cordial. Maybe it was better that way.

Drawing a breath through his canine snout, Koti-Raen said, “Invoker Yigôzien will now take you to your room.”

Her eyes shifted to a pair of darishu as they entered side by side. Focus returning to Koti-Raen, she said, “Will my comrades also be provided chambers here?” She didn’t want to just assume the answer was yes. Nonetheless, a swell of affirmation did emanate from the feather-haired being—if not coupled with a tinge of disgust.

“Though it angers me that they will be treated with such dignity, chambers will be provided,” he said.

She arched an eyebrow.

I remind you, said Ed, that they will tell you exactly how they feel, with no regard for how it is received. You must learn to separate openness from intent to offend.

This was going to be fun. Suppressing her urge to be offended, she said only, “Thank you.”

I am severing your connection with Koti-Raen and linking you with Yigôzien once again, relayed Ed.

As Yigôzien led Svetlana away through the room, Svetlana’s eyes wandered to the blue and yellow “paint” that was flowing sideways along the metal walls. It was the strangest substance she had ever seen—like a living, bioluminescent liquid, just flowing wherever it wanted in a gravity-defying display. Part of her wanted to reach out and touch it just to see what it felt like—to see how thick it was and if it’d react to her. Then again, for all she knew, it was all just a holographic display. Nonetheless, the blue and yellow shades in which the room was cast were truly breathtaking. And apparently, all for her.

She could feel the eyes of every Kalarael on her as she passed through the room. No attempt was made by the aliens to hide their awe. To have so many eyes unabashedly on her was among the weirdest, most unsettling feelings she’d ever had. Whatever chamber Yigôzien was leading her to, she was ready to get there and close the door. As they left the laboratory and made their way down a spacious corridor, the same pair of darishu that’d entered the room earlier fell in line behind them, their metallic tromping almost reminiscent of Nightmen marching in unison in the halls of The Machine. There were so many strange things here, so much to ask about. She knew she’d be able to in time.

The more Svetlana walked, the less she began to notice the difference in gravity between Kalar and Earth. It was slight to begin with, so it didn’t take much to feel acclimated to this new environment. If only her breathing was normal. Every breath she took felt more labored than the last, to the point where she just felt more comfortable leaving her mouth open. Whatever apparatus Yigôzien had been referencing, Svetlana was ready for it.

At long last, Yigôzien’s pace slowed. A quick crane of Svetlana’s neck revealed their destination: an open archway branching off to the right of the corridor. Stopping on the other side of the archway, Yigôzien gestured for Svetlana to step inside. “This room has been given to you for the remainder of your stay, Lady Setana.”

That was as much as she could take. “Please. Just call me Setana.”

“It would not be proper to deviate from Earthae custom, particularly as an invoker of such.”

“It is not a custom,” Svetlana said. “It was more like a specific preference for a certain time. What is more customary among Earthae is for friends to refer to each other by their first names.”

The blue in Yigôzien’s eyes remained bright and full. “As custom dictates, Setana.” Gesturing with an open hand, she beckoned Svetlana to pass through the archway. The pair of darishu halted outside and each one turned to take position at either side of the door. Eyes ahead, Svetlana made her way into the room.

It was shaped like a dome. The walls were white and textured, akin to stucco or unfinished plasterwork. At the height of the dome was an oculus similar to those she’d seen in the laboratory, and just like in the laboratory, the light that shone through was as brilliant as sunlight. Size-wise, the room couldn’t have been more than twelve feet in diameter. Cozy was the word that came to mind. A floating bed, much like the one in the quarantine chamber, was along the curved wall, and there were visible sliding doors built into the curvature in numerous places. On a decorative level, the room was stark white, just like the quarantine chamber.

“This chamber is small,” said Yigôzien as she entered behind Svetlana and Ed, “but it is good enough to suit your needs.” Stepping to one of the small, square panels built into the curvature, Yigôzien turned her head Svetlana’s direction. “Come and wave your hand in front of this panel.”

Svetlana did as told, approaching the panel and waving her palm before it. As soon as the panel registered the motion, it slid up. What it revealed made Svetlana’s eyes widen.

“Food and drink, Setana,” Yigôzien said.

It was a glass of water and a bowl filled with a thick colloid substance akin to pudding. The instant that the thought of tasting something other than calunod entered her mind, her mouth began watering.

“This is mastrin, a laboratory-grown food source produced here on this space station. It is not flavorful, but it is safe for your consumption. Though your species seems to process food similarly to ours, the biologists on this station did not want to risk offering you something that could prompt an allergic reaction.” Her whiskers twitched. “There are several more tests they wish to run on you before opening you up to the full Kalarael diet.”

Frankly, at this stage, Svetlana didn’t care if she was eating dirt. This mastrin, or whatever it was called, wasn’t calunod. That was all she cared about.

“The liquid in this glass is water. Nothing has been added to it.”

Nothing needed to be. Parched beyond comprehension, Svetlana immediately asked, “May I drink now?”

“Yes.”

Yigôzien had scarcely gotten the word out when Svetlana reached for the tall glass, lifting it into her lips. Leaning her head back, Svetlana chugged like never in her life.

Every ice-cold gulp that slid down her throat was pure bliss. In a state of total refreshment, she closed her eyes. This wasn’t anything like the stale, stagnant water she’d been given in ration-quantity on the Zone Runner. This was fresh. Frigid. It was wonderful. Within ten seconds, she emptied the entire glass. Gasping, she lowered the glass and looked at her alien companion. “How do I get more?”

Smile emerging, Yigôzien pointed to a small indentation inside the panel. “Place the glass here and it will be refilled.”

Wasting no time, Svetlana did as indicated. When the bottom of the empty glass came to rest, water flowed from what must have been a hidden spigot above. Within seconds, the glass was filled to the top. After grabbing it again, she tipped back her head to gulp down the entire glass. To taste something so cold, so quenching…there were no words for it.

“The mastrin works the same way,” Yigôzien said. “Once a bowl has been consumed and placed in its indentation, it will self-clean and refill. Mastrin is made available to all Kalarael on this station in such a manner. All other meals are eaten together.”

Svetlana set the emptied glass down, and for a third time, watched it refill. Focus turning to the bowl of mastrin, she reached forward to take it. Made of what felt like a glossy, white ceramic, the bowl was as cold to the touch as the glass of water. This little panel must have acted like a wall-mounted refrigerator. There were no spoons or other utensils to be seen—rather, the bowl itself had a small spout protruding from it. Taking the bowl with each hand, she lifted it to her mouth and carefully tipped it toward her, salivating before the colloid substance even touched her lips. As she was soon to find out, however, there was no need for such anticipation.

If someone on Earth had decided to make an antacid-flavored pudding with a touch of chalk dust, it would have been mastrin. When it touched her tongue and she registered its flavor—or lack thereof—Svetlana’s face twisted into a displeased grimace. The only way she could think to describe the flavor was chemical. Calunod tasted better. But food was food, and she was utterly starving. She needed to consume this whole bowl—and so that was what she did. As Yigôzien watched patiently, Svetlana ate the entire bowl. Bland or not, this was fuel for the body, and Svetlana had long been running on empty. Finishing the bowl, she closed her eyes and embraced the feeling of fullness within her. Thank You, God, for this food. Setting the bowl down, she released a satisfied sigh before reaching for a third glass of water.

“You may have as much water and mastrin as you desire.” Stepping away from the panel, Yigôzien approached a larger one farther down the room. “In addition to the breathing apparatus being designed for you, garments are also being tailored for your body. These will be presented to you soon. Until then, please use the loose-fitting garments in this closet.” Yigôzien waved her hand in front of the closet panel, causing it to slide open in much the same way as the alien mini-fridge.

Hanging in the closet were several translucent, silver gowns. And by translucent, they were translucent. As she approached them in scrutiny, the very first thought that came to Svetlana’s mind was that whoever saw her wearing one of those things would see…everything. “Is there anything that can, erm, cover me better?”

Angling her head curiously, Yigôzien simply asked, “Why?”

Svetlana blinked. Seriously?

Chiming in mentally, Ed said to her, The Kalarael do not value privacy as you humans do. They are an open culture that does not experience the same shame in nakedness as your species.

That is all well and good, but I am still not going to walk around in the nude.

Why not?

Though she wanted to roll her eyes, Svetlana stopped herself as to not clue Yigôzien into the covert conversation. Knowing that an answer needed to be given to the invoker, Svetlana came up with the best one she could. “There are parts of the human body that are considered sacred,” she said to Yigôzien. “We do not customarily show these parts of our bodies to just anyone.” She wanted to get that word in there. Hopefully an invoker of custom would understand.

Eyes remaining blue—which Svetlana took as a good sign—Yigôzien dipped her head. “As custom dictates. I will find a solution to this problem.”

As soon as the brief dialogue ended, Svetlana returned to her mental chat with Ei`dorinthal. You of all people should know why not, Ed. Because I don’t like being naked!

But I have sensed in your mind many times when you wished to be naked with Scott Remington.

“Oh my God!” Svetlana blurted out, prompting Yigôzien’s ears to pin back. Very quickly, Svetlana raised her hand to diffuse. “I am sorry. I am communicating telepathically with my friend.” Turning away from Yigôzien, Svetlana’s eyes narrowed at Ed. That is different. A woman—a human—might have the desire to show their body to someone they love. But that does not mean we will do it for everyone.

Why not?

Because it would be embarrassing!

A swell of genuine confusion came from the alien. Among Earthae, perhaps. But who are the Kalarael to you? Do you feel that same sense of shame around me? I have seen you stripped of nearly all your clothes and dignity. You sat chained to the bridge floor next to Nagogg. Mishka urinated on your head.

Svetlana’s face tinged red.

I have only recently experienced the sensation you humans refer to as pride. Despite the thrill it stirs within one’s spirit, it strikes me as a dangerous thing. Without pride, there would be no shame. The juxtaposition of these two sensations breeds internal struggle. You, in particular, are a prideful human. Because of that pride, you have experienced the pain of shame more strongly than any human I have examined, even prior to your experiences with Nagogg.

As he continued on, Ed angled his head. It is your belief, in the aftermath of what occurred in the Zone Runner, that you have lost your sense of pride—but in fact, the opposite has occurred. You care exponentially more now about how you are viewed.

That is ridiculous, she spat.

It is not. You have tasted what it means to be powerful, and now you are terrified to lose it. You are terrified to lose.

Terrified to lose. What rubbish.

Even now, Ed said, I can sense the anger resonating within you. You do not like hearing these things because you know they are true.

Stupid, bald-head little alien.

Disappointment emanated from Ei`dorinthal. After several seconds without a response, he simply relayed to her, Yigôzien is waiting for you.

That was fine and well with Svetlana. She didn’t want to talk to Ed any more than she absolutely needed to. Facing Yigôzien again, she said, “I apologize. Please continue.”

Eyes somewhat dark—a shade that Svetlana had come to recognize as associated with trepidation—the Kalarael said, “Your change in demeanor frightens me. I fear you are angry at me.”

Remember, they are always open about how they feel, said Ed quickly.

Though she wasn’t pleased to hear his voice in her mind, she found a granule of appreciation for the information. “The telepathic conversation I was having with Ei`dorinthal was emotional,” she said to Yigôzien. “I am not angry at you.” After a pause, she added, “Or at him.” It was a lie. Ed knew it was, too.

Approaching a panel similar in size to the closet, Yigôzien waved her hand in front of it, causing it to open. “This is a toilet.”

Well, that was good to know about.

“If you wish, I will demonstrate how we use it.”

“That’s not necessary,” Svetlana said, raising her hand to ward off the offer. “I am sure I can figure it out.” The thought of Yigôzien going into demo mode on the commode wasn’t exactly something that excited her. Besides, the toilet itself was nothing more than a smoothed out, raised cylinder with a large hole atop it. It was pretty obvious what one was supposed to do.

Turning toward the final panel, Yigôzien gestured toward it. “Behind that panel, you will find a mirror.”

When Svetlana heard the word, her body went rigid.

“Should you wish to see yourself, simply wave your hand in front of this panel as you did for the others.”

A mirror. Of all the dangers in the universe, she feared none as much as she did her own reflection. She had seen an image of herself without a nose only once, in one of Ed’s dreamscapes. But a mirror…a mirror would hold nothing back. In her mind, she envisioned herself as a hideous monster. A mirror would tell her if she was right. Even as Yigôzien stepped away from the panel, Svetlana’s eyes stayed transfixed on it. Terrified of it. At long last, she had the ability to see her new self. Did she want to?

Yigôzien made her way toward the archway, turning Svetlana’s way once again. “A pair of darishu will be posted at the door for the duration of your stay, however long it may be.”

Though Svetlana was listening to every word Yigôzien said, her eyes remained on the panel that hid the mirror—watching it warily, as if at any moment, it might slide open and reveal itself.

“I know that you must have many questions. You may ask me now, if you wish.”

She did have many questions. More than she could even organize in her mind. But this was so much to take in. On every level—mental, physical, emotional—she was just spinning. What she wanted more than anything was to be left alone. “I think for now,” she said, “I would just like some time to think.”

“I understand.” Taking a step back toward the archway, she said, “I will depart to retrieve new garments for you, as you have requested. I will deliver them to you shortly.”

“Thank you.”

As she had several times before, Yigôzien lowered into a curtsey before rising and taking her leave.

Svetlana waited until the invoker cleared the archway before allowing herself to relax. As silence fell into the room, the blonde’s eyes once again returned to the mirror panel.

Ed, still present in her mind, seemed to pick up on it. You are wondering whether or not you should look.

“I do not need to look,” she said quickly. “Seeing my reflection will do nothing to improve my situation.”

Nonetheless, you are wondering.

Inhaling sharply, she closed her eyes and angled her head in Ed’s general direction, as if on the verge of spouting something off to him. She caught herself before the words came out. Exhaling slowly, she returned her stare to the panel. “How long do you think we can afford to stay here?”

There was a pause before the Ithini answered, We can stay here indefinitely.

For a second time, she turned her head his way. “How can we stay indefinitely?”

Any sense of urgency to return to Earth is self-imposed. We do not know what is taking place there. The last thing we remember is that humans attacked Novosibirsk. We do not know the outcome of that attack. Therefore, there is no definitive reason for us to feel constrained by time.

“Just the same, we are not staying here forever.”

I did not believe we were. It is still, nonetheless, an option.

Had it not been for the revelation that the Kalarael had a living Khuladi in custody, Svetlana would have dropped off Yigôzien and turned back for Earth right away. The reason she was there was to glean knowledge that might be used to Earth’s advantage. To learn something new that might tip the scales in the war. But that was what she wanted. What did the Kalarael want with them?

Turning to face Ed fully, Svetlana said, “I need to know everything you know about them. Their motives, their customs—apparently, customs are important. What are these gestures they are making? What is Yigôzien’s role, exactly? Anything you have been able to determine, I need to understand.” Though she had already learned a little bit from Ed, the two hadn’t had a chance to talk about the Kalarael in depth. Ed had apparently spent many hours one-on-one with Yigôzien while Svetlana slept. She needed the full rundown.

I do not know as much as you may think, Ed explained. Much of my time spent connected to Yigôzien was spent attempting to understand their use of language to relay context and communicational syntax. In effect, I was learning the Kalarael alphabet. A slight swell of discomfort emanated from the Ithini. As you know, a mental connection is not the same as an active translation. It does not provide a word-for-word equivalent, but an explanation as best I can understand it, in a language that each understands. He hesitated. Though the conversation you had with Yigôzien and Koti-Raen may seem to have made sense to you, it is possible that there were many errors on both sides. You have already witnessed several breakdowns in translation.

She did know that, and she understood Ed’s plight in being the one responsible for making these connections work. As long as she didn’t accidentally declare war or grant them permission to eat her brain, she would continue to give the Ithini the patience he so needed to work and learn. As she considered the work Ed was putting in, she felt a tinge of guilt for the way she’d addressed him earlier. He hadn’t deserved that.

I am sensing a measure of guilt from you in light of our prior conversation.

Her stomach twisted. Hiding thoughts from these aliens was simply impossible.

Ed continued. There is no need to feel such guilt. You are my master, and it is my function to serve you as best I am able. If I am not satisfying that requirement, then the fault is with me.

“Do not say that.” The fault was with her. “I am sorry for snapping at you. I am…” Shaking her head slightly, she sought for the words. Ed found them for her.

You are experiencing things unlike anything a member of your species has experienced before.

That pretty much summed it up.

I will continue to learn the Kalarael language as best I am able, Ed said. Yigôzien will be the key to this process. The more time you can spend with her, the more effective my ability to connect with her will be. I have a far greater understanding of her mental framework than I do Koti-Raen or any other specimen.

“That works for me.”

A sense of affirmation came from the Ithini. In the meantime, it would be in your best interest to exercise self-care. I am aware that the substance you ate—mastrin—was unpalatable. However, you have lost considerable weight and muscle mass since your capture. You need to gain it back.

It almost made her laugh. It was the first time in her life that she’d ever been “instructed” to eat as much as possible—and it came at a time when the only available option was antacid paste. “I don’t suppose you can alter my brain to make that stuff taste better?”

I cannot.

Smirking, she walked to the mini-fridge panel. When she waved her hand in front of it, it rose again, revealing a full glass of water and a cold bowl of mastrin. Nothing in her wanted to down a bowl of that colloid substance again, but Ed was right. If mastrin was the thing to put meat back on her, so be it. Taking hold of the water in one hand and the bowl in the other, she readied herself to dive back in. As she expected, her second experience with mastrin was no better than the first. But she knew she’d get used to it. She’d certainly gotten used to much worse.

As Yigôzien had promised, she returned to Svetlana’s dome-shaped chamber with a new set of garments for her to try. Though similar to the translucent gowns that’d been hanging there for her, these nonetheless provided more coverage of her “sacred” parts, with large, silver components that covered her torso and midsection. The combination of silver and clear fabrics made for one of the more beautiful garments she had ever seen—at least, by human standards. With the gown slipped on, she looked less like a malnourished prisoner of war and more like an interstellar dignitary. If nothing else, it gave her a measure of self-respect, which she’d been sorely lacking.

For the next several hours, Yigôzien, Ed, and Svetlana remained in her domed quarters, watched over by the pair of darishu at the archway entrance. Though Svetlana had a plethora of questions for her fox-eared friend, she was discouraged from doing so by Ed simply because he wished to communicate with Yigôzien one-on-one. It was an exercise intended to help him increase his understanding of the Kalarael language so that he might be able to connect more easily and broadly, possibly even allowing for “wide-area connections,” as humans called them. Whatever helped move the process along faster and better, she was all for.

Ei`dorinthal may not have considered returning to Earth a priority, but Svetlana did. Relative or not, the more time she spent there with the Kalarael, the less time she could potentially spend with her friends back on Earth. She wanted to get whatever information the Kalarael had about the Khuladi and then get out of there. Novosibirsk was waiting for her.

She was ready to return to it.

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Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

Thursday, March 29th, 0012 NE

1143 hours (local time)

EDEN Command

NOBODY TIFFANY had ever known—not growing up, not in flight school, not in EDEN—had spent as much time in the air as she had. She’d logged hundreds of hours as a teenager, both with her daddy at her side and on solo flights, and she’d spent far more hours behind the stick at the Academy than any of her classmates. It was significant, then, that of all those flights, from cross-country to halfway around the globe, that the one to EDEN Command was the longest one she could remember.

She had no idea how long she’d sat in the flying transport—for there were no clocks or windows—but it felt like an eternity. Flanked by a pair of guards and seated directly across from Jaya, it didn’t take long for Tiffany to grow tired of looking at her captors and opt to close her eyes, something that resulted in her falling asleep rather quickly. When she woke, she had no idea if she’d dozed for a few minutes or been sacked out for hours. She only knew that when her eyes reopened, Jaya was buried in a book that looked halfway finished and one of the guards, whose face she couldn’t see behind his visor, sounded like he was snoring. As ominous as her destination may have been, then, it still came as an overwhelming sense of relief when the whine of the engines shifted and the captain announced their arrival over the speaker.

Putting a bookmark in place, Jaya set her book down then stared across the troop bay at Tiffany. When the blonde made eye contact, Jaya’s eyes narrowed.

As a person who generally sought to see the good in people, it said something that when Tiffany looked at Jaya, the only emotion she felt was pure, unbridled rage. Jaya was the only experience that Tiffany had had with any EDEN Command official—discounting Willoughby, though he wasn’t technically at EDEN Command anymore. Jaya came to embody, at least in Tiffany’s mind, everything that was wrong with the organization. She’d been so uncaring when she’d talked to Tiffany, so callous and arrogant sounding. She’d even smiled when she’d told Tiffany about her friends in Atami. How could anyone find joy in relaying such news? It was like she couldn’t restrain it, like she couldn’t wait to tell Tiffany that her friends were all dead—which Tiffany herself had begun to doubt for no other reason than because Jaya was a liar. It was so uncalled for. So undeserved! So completely and utterly maddening. “I mean, geez Louise!”

The two guards at Tiffany’s sides flinched. Blinking behind her spectacles, Jaya looked at Tiffany like she was crazy. “What?” the woman asked.

Oh turnips, I said that out loud! After clearing her throat and sitting upright to try and play it off, Tiffany said, “Yeah, I mean, geez Louise! Flight took long enough, am I right?”

No response came from Jaya or the guards—they simply stared back in bewilderment.

Sighing, Tiffany leaned her head back and waited for the transport to land.

Despite her nap, Tiffany had had plenty of time to think about things. Her situation, her friends, whatever awaited her at EDEN Command. She had a fairly good grasp on the basics of the conspiracy—a guy named Archer was conspiring with aliens, the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk had been set up to look complicit in the attack on Falcon Platoon, yadda, yadda, yadda—which she felt was more than enough to justify everything she’d done. Tiffany was a feeler. Always had been. And the Fourteenth felt right. Even before she’d met Scott Remington, she’d spent time living with his unit while handcuffed to Travis. They in no way, shape, or form behaved like a group of terrorists. They were so real. So friendly. It didn’t matter that technically they didn’t have a speck of evidence to their cause beyond what could be dismissed as circumstantial, or possibly, fabricated. They still felt legit. Real. The bee’s knees. Regardless of what she heard from anybody else, she couldn’t disregard what her heart had felt so intensely.

These things were playing through her mind for a reason. Now that she was in EDEN custody with practically zero chance of escape, she knew what was coming. EDEN knew she wasn’t a part of the Fourteenth and that she’d just been swept along for the ride. She was positive that the angle they were going to play with her was that the Fourteenth had played her for a fool. They’d probably show her all sorts of supposed “evidence” and other nonsense in an effort to persuade her to betray her friends. But she wasn’t about to let that happen. As terrified as she was, she was determined to block out whatever noise EDEN threw at her. She knew the truth. Or perhaps more accurately, she felt the truth. That counted for something, right?

It all boiled down to this: she wasn’t going to budge. Whatever they told her, whatever they tried to convince her, it didn’t matter. She might have looked like a Valley Girl on the outside, but on the inside, she was hard as iron.

The V2 clunked down to a landing. The cabin lights brightened. As the guards at her sides unfastened their harnesses to stand, Tiffany’s stomach rolled upside down. It was time.

A whining noise came from the back of the transport as the rear bay door lowered. Tiffany was yanked up by one of the guards as Jaya sashayed past them, tapping her finger on her waist like she was late for an appointment. Seconds later, the door was down.

As Tiffany was pushed outside where other armed guards were waiting, she looked around to see if she could gauge what kind of facility this was. It almost looked like the entire hangar was built into a cavern. Any chance to focus on the environment was short-lived, as she suddenly found herself grabbed by an arm by the guards who’d met them. The next thing she knew, she was being dragged forward.

Tiffany’s heart pounded. All that building herself up, all that summoning of her courage…it felt like it was crumbling down. They were going to torture her. If she didn’t talk, they might even kill her. She wanted to turn, to run, but it would have been to no avail. There was absolutely nothing that could save her.

“Hold it right there!”

At the sound of the woman’s voice emerging from afar, the guards and Jaya suddenly stopped. Following their gazes toward the voice, Tiffany watched as an older woman approached.

“Get your hands off Private Feathers right now. She’s to be remanded to my custody.”

The woman was tall, with faint streaks of gray in her auburn, shoulder-length hair. Her uniform was…official. More official than official. She almost looked like she might be…

Tiffany blinked. Holy cannoli, this is a judge!

“Excuse me?” Jaya said, staring at the newly arriving woman.

“Excuse yourself,” the woman answered before barking at the guards, “I said let her go.” When Tiffany was unceremoniously released, the judge looked at her and said, “Miss Feathers, my name is Carol June. I apologize for the way you’ve been treated. Don’t say a thing, don’t answer any questions.” She snapped her fingers at the guards, then pointed to Tiffany’s handcuffs. “Uncuff her right this second. She’s coming with me.”

A red-faced Jaya shot back to the older woman, “What exactly is going on here?”

“The way you asked that question, it’s almost like you think you’re entitled to an answer,” said June without looking. Beckoning Tiffany to follow, she turned and began walking away.

Tiffany was not about to argue. She hurried to catch up with the quickly departing judge. From far behind them, Jaya shouted, “This will be brought up!”

Pausing, June turned to look at her younger, feistier counterpart. “The glasses are a nice touch, kid, but they don’t make you smart.” The judge canted her head with scrutiny, her eyes narrowing. “They don’t even look right. They make your eyes look disproportionally huge—I don’t know how you’re not more self-conscious about it.” Turning around before she could see Jaya’s reaction, June continued up the hall, Tiffany in her wake.

Eyes widening, Jaya blinked and opened her mouth to retort, but nothing came out. Within seconds, June was out of anything but shouting distance. Inhaling through flared nostrils, the young Indian woman stood erect, hands straightening out her outfit with a firm tug. Upon turning her head briefly to the guards, she did a faint double-take when she saw them staring at her. Face tinging red, she stormed away.

To say Tiffany was surprised was an understatement. With the word torture still fresh on her mind, the only thing she could think as she followed Carol June through the hallways of EDEN Command was, thank God for this woman. Despite being older, the judge’s pace was hasty to the point where Tiffany felt she had to speed walk to keep up. To no surprise whatsoever, no sooner had they put some distance between themselves and the hangar, a new pair of guards emerged to flank them. Just the same, this was the freest Tiffany had felt since Northern Forge. She couldn’t help but ask about it. “Why aren’t you afraid of me—”

“Quiet.” June’s word was harsh and abrupt. Sparing the briefest of glances back as she kept up her brisk pace, she added, “Don’t say anything right now.”

“Okie-dokie,” Tiffany answered, the casual response more out of placation than a deliberate attempt to sound casual. She considered clearing her throat and correcting with a proper yes ma’am, but she didn’t want to be smacked in the face with another abrasive command. At this stage, it was better to just be pleased that she wasn’t heading to a torture rack.

Instead of offering words of appreciation, Tiffany spent her time following June and looking about the halls of EDEN Command. It looked like the entire base was part of some underground subway system, with massive, white caverns stretching out in every direction and even a small rail system of sorts sitting in the middle of them. Everyone was wearing clean, white outfits, almost like they were all laboratory workers. It was the cleanest environment she could ever recall seeing. After a long stroll through the halls and a short ride down an elevator, Tiffany found herself being led down a sparsely populated corridor far removed from the busy upper levels. And it was there, in that corridor, that she saw her final destination. It was impossible to miss.

There, standing in front of a single doorway at the far end of the hall, was a small gathering of security personnel. When they saw June approaching, they stepped away from the door and snapped to attention.

“In here, please,” June said, breaking the silence that had lasted the duration of their trek as she gestured toward the door.

Wasting no time, Tiffany did as told, rounding the corner and entering the indicated chamber. Almost to her surprise, she saw that it was nothing more than a guest room. There were wooden dressers, a queen-sized bed, a small kitchen area…everything one might expect from a mid-range hotel. Turning around after she’d gone several paces into the room, she heard June order the guards to seal off the corridor. When she finally stepped inside, a guard with a unique insignia branded on his armor followed her. When the door slid shut behind them, only the three of them were inside.

Tiffany’s anxiety spiked. She could feel her nervousness grow. What was about to take place here?

The hardness in her face relenting, June motioned to a small, round table in the kitchen area. “Please, Miss Feathers, have a seat.” As she spoke, the man behind her pressed several buttons on a control panel by the door, causing the small light built into it to change from green to red.

She was locked inside.

Doing as told, Tiffany shuffled toward the indicated table, offering a somewhat feeble, “Yes ma’am,” as she did. When she sat down and placed her hands atop the table, they began to tremble. June sat directly across from her; the guard took several steps closer before standing firm between them and the door. Reaching up, he removed his helmet, revealing a head of shortly cropped black hair and a full, though neatly trimmed beard. She scrutinized his name tag. Strakhov.

Hold yourself together, Tiffany told herself. If they wanted to torture you, there’d be torture devices. Spike pits, whips, or like…water balloons filled with acid. It was in that moment that Tiffany realized she had no idea what torture devices were.

June clasped her hands on the tabletop as the guard behind her crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. Looking down briefly, the judge drew in a breath to speak.

Tiffany beat her to it. “Okay, please, just like, listen to me for one second and I promise it’ll all totally make sense! I know it seems like everything is crazy and we went all rebellion against EDEN and all, but I totally promise there’s something going on that nobody knows about and if I can just tell you about it, it’ll totally make all the sense in the world and you’re not gonna want to kill me, or punch me, or hit me with acid balloons—”

So fast and furious was the velocity of Tiffany’s words, they almost seemed to pack physical force. Eyes wide and leaning back, June lifted both her hands in a gesture to quiet her down.

“Okay, I know, I’ll totally shut up, but God, it’s like, if you could just understand how crazy this is and how crazy everything feels, and how I’m just like, totally stressed to the max—”

“Feathers!” June said, raising her voice more in desperation than anger. “Shut up and calm down.” Behind her, the guard’s eyes were glued to the blabbering blonde.

Pressing her palms to her eyes, Tiffany blew out a breath. “Okay. Calm down. I can calm down.”

“You can calm down,” said June with reassurance.

Her mind was going a mile a minute. There was so much to explain, so much to convey. “I just need someone to listen,” she said quietly, though emphatically. “If you just knew what we were trying to do…”

“I know what you’re trying to do.” June cast a brief glance to the guard before looking at Tiffany again.

Tiffany lowered her hands to make eye contact as June made the statement. “You do?”

Nodding her head, June said, “Yes, I do.” This time, the judge leaned forward. “The same thing we are.”

“The same thing that…?” Eyes narrowing in confusion, Tiffany leaned against the table. “What do you mean?”

Drawing in a deep breath—the same one she seemed to have attempted earlier—June answered, “We have reason to believe there may be a conspiracy taking place at EDEN Command. We’re trying to get to the bottom of it.”

Stunned. Floored. Words couldn’t describe the emotions that were zipping back and forth in Tiffany’s heart. Eyes wide and ears attuned, she waited for June to continue.

“Miss Feathers, the reason you’re in this room is because you may hold key information regarding possible secret collaboration between EDEN judges and the Ceratopian Empire.”

Tiffany slammed her palms against the table. “Oh my God, are you serious?” This was amazing! “Yes! Yes!” Finally, someone she could talk to!

“Feathers,” said June in what sounded like exhaustion, “for the love of…please keep your voice down.”

She wanted to. She knew she needed to. But my goodness, this was everything she’d been begging for. “Okay. Okay.” Deep breaths, in and out. “Okay, I’m listening.”

Clearing her face of mild irritation, June sighed and began again. “For several years now, but particularly in the past several months, a small collection of us have become increasingly suspicious of, for lack of a better way to put it, peculiar coincidences taking place. At times, it’s seemed like the Ceratopians have been reading from our playbook.” The whole while she spoke, the guard behind her watched Tiffany with keen interest. “We changed our response protocols, the Ceratopians responded accordingly. We shuffled whole contingents of soldiers from one base to another, they immediately attacked our weak sides. This has come to a head in recent months when we’ve picked up strange radio signals coming from Ceratopian vessels in high orbit.”

“In high orbit?” asked Tiffany with interest. “I didn’t know we had Ceratopian ships in orbit at all.”

“They’ve shown up just enough to send the radio signals to Earth. They linger for a bit, then they’re gone. We think they’re in direct communication with someone on Earth. We fear it may be someone in EDEN Command.”

Drawing in a sharp breath, Tiffany spat out, “Archer. It’s Benjamin Archer.”

“Benjamin Archer?” June asked, raising an eyebrow. “The judge?”

“Yes! That’s what we were trying to do in Japan. There was a secret recording between him and the Ceratopians—that’s what the Nightmen were trying to get.”

The instant the statement was made, June’s posture went rigid. Her face turned pale. “A recording?”

Nodding her head, Tiffany said, “It was a Ceratopian who made it. His name was H`laar. He’s dead, but his bodyguard is still alive. He helped us, y’know, figure it out.”

Leaning closer across the table, June asked, “Where can we find this bodyguard?”

“The Nightmen have him,” she answered with confidence. “He’s at a base called Northern Forge.” When Tiffany said the words, June inhaled a slow breath. Behind her, the guard named Strakhov cocked his head in confusion. Though their reactions were subtle and seemingly involuntary, they were enough to cause a horrible, horrible feeling to swell in Tiffany’s gut. A feeling that she’d just done something terribly wrong. Instinctively, she lifted her hand to place over her mouth.

“I’ve never heard of such a place,” June said, casting the briefest of sidelong glances in the guard’s direction. Looking at the judge strangely, the guard, too, shook his head. Her focus returned to Tiffany. “Can you tell us where it is?”

Oh no… Tiffany stared doe-eyed at the woman across from her. Her nerves began to rattle.

When Tiffany didn’t answer, June lowered her face just a bit—just enough to look Tiffany straight in the eyes. “The location, Tiffany. We need to know.”

There was nothing she could do. Already, the shimmering in her eyes began. She’d just been played for a fool. For the first time during that conversation, her voice shook. “It’s…” she said, swallowing, “it’s in Moscow.” With her head spinning, it was the only Russian city she could think of.

June scrutinized Tiffany from across the table. Every flaw in the way she’d said it—in the way her voice shook—felt magnified as the judge’s stern eyes pored over her. Tiffany was coming undone.

Eyes narrowing with uncertainty, June asked, “Are you sure it’s in Moscow?”

She couldn’t help it anymore. Tiffany’s cheeks and jaws tightened as the onset of tears began. They knew she was lying.

“Miss Feathers?” June asked. The guard stood erect.

There was no sense playing the game anymore. They knew that she knew. With a throat so constricted it felt suffocating, she murmured the words, “It’s you.”

June looked at her curiously. “What do you mean?”

“Stop it,” Tiffany said with conviction. “You can stop it. I’m done.” What a fool she was. What a brain-dead fool. Every off-color remark that she’d heard made about herself manifested all at once in her mind. Airhead. Bimbo. Dumb blonde. She was every single one of them. Tiff, what have you done? For a second time, she’d spilled sensitive beans. But unlike the first, she knew that this time, she’d been wrong.

The probing, inquisitive look remained on Carol June’s face just long enough for it to become clear that Tiffany indeed would not give an answer. Just long enough for the pretense of being a confidant to no longer serve a purpose. When it faded, what replaced it was the coldest of calculated stares Tiffany had ever seen.

Hanging her head, Tiffany closed her eyes. Her listless blond tendrils dangled over her lap.

“I want you to know that I respect you, Miss Feathers,” June said.

She’s still trying. Because she knows I’m dumb enough to fall for it.

“I know what you went through in Philadelphia. The death of your father. He meant so much to you.”

It was as much as Tiffany could take. Though she didn’t sob, the drops of saline still fell, one slow drip after the next.

The judge carried on. “I know how proud he must’ve been of you. You can make him proud again. You can honor his memory by doing more with us now than you ever could have from the cockpit of a Superwolf.” She paused. “Earth is in danger, Tiffany. This Nightman faction—what they’re trying to do—is not noble or good. They are trying to overthrow the organization dedicated to keeping Earth safe from invasion.”

The way June was talking down to Tiffany sickened her. It felt worse that she had reason to.

“There’s no shame in having been fooled by these people. Manipulation is what they do best, and the lies they tell are very, very convincing.”

“I didn’t need convincing,” Tiffany said, lifting her head to glare at the older woman across from her. Through glistening eyes, she said, “It wasn’t the Nightmen who shot down my friends. It was you.” It felt good to use that word. You. For the first time, her anger could be directed right to its source.

Inhaling deeply, June angled her head and said with a touch of warning, “Tiffany…”

“I will never tell you where they are. I will never.”

Ever so slowly, the expression on the judge’s face changed. Her lips curved downward; her eyebrows arched painfully. “Oh, my dear little thing. If only you knew how wrong you are.” Rising from her chair, she beckoned for the guard to approach. “Mister Strakhov.”

Tiffany leapt up from her chair and took a step backward. “I’ll scream. If you touch me, I swear to God, I’ll scream so loud!”

“Okay,” the guard said, his Russian accent thick. “That is fair.” Before she could further react, he charged her and swung the butt of his rifle at her head.

Tiffany scarcely registered her own hand flying up to try and block. Everything went straight into black.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Thursday, March 29th, 0012 NE

1311 hours

EDEN Command

TIFFANY’S EYES burst open—a sharp, noxious odor surged up her nostrils. Releasing a shriek, the watery-eyed Valley Girl lurched her head backward to escape it. It burned like ammonia.

Thrust out of her unconsciousness, Tiffany blinked and looked in every direction. Despite the water in her eyes—a reaction to the smell—she could see that whatever kind of place she was in, it was well-lit. Recoiling once more, the fire gripping her nose and throat still, she angled her head down to see an open pack of smelling salts being pulled away from her. Attempting to reach up to rub her nose, she found her arms unable to move from their position behind her back. What the? The world around her came into focus as she registered the chair she was sitting in and the clasps on her wrists and ankles. She was completely bound.

Her head hurt where she’d been struck by the guard. Still coming out of her daze, she focused her eyes ahead to see what kind of room this was—and more importantly, who was in it. Much to her surprise, it wasn’t her captors that she caught sight of first—it was another person, strapped onto an inclined bench barely two meters away and directly facing her. It was a man, and he was a mess. His face was battered, busted. One side of it was so swollen, she couldn’t even see his eye. Dried blood coated his lips and matted his hair. He looked like he’d been trampled by a mob.

When recognition came to her, she almost couldn’t believe it.

“Scott!”

He was nearly unrecognizable. Despite his appearance, he was awake and alert. At the very least, this told her one thing: her friends had indeed not all been killed in Japan. Jaya had been lying, as Tiffany had figured. When Scott’s good eye made contact with hers, the heaving soldier said, “Don’t tell them anything.”

Before she could reply, another voice—this one male and British—interrupted from behind her. “Oh, I have a feeling you’ll change that particular tune very, very quickly.”

Upon turning her head as much as she could, Tiffany saw a slender man wearing the same style of wardrobe worn by Judge June. Beneath neatly combed, champagne blond hair were amber-colored eyes that were locked wholly on her.

“I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting you, Miss Feathers, so please, allow me to introduce myself.”

He didn’t need to. Even without recognizing him, she knew exactly who he was. Like coming face to face with the villain at the end of a movie, there was only one person this could possibly be. “Archer,” she said lowly.

Eyebrows raising, he nodded his head in genuine surprise. “Very well. Very cognizant. I am flattered.” Gesturing to the other side of the room, he said, “I believe you’ve already met our new chief of security, Mister Oleg Strakhov.”

After turning her head in the indicated direction, she froze when she saw Oleg. It was the bearded man who’d been with June. The one that’d hit her in the head with his weapon. Two other security guards flanked him on the far side of the room.

“I’m sure you must be quite concerned at present,” Archer said, “but I assure you, there is no need for you to be afraid. Despite what you may believe, we hold no ill will toward you or any of your friends from Falcon Platoon. We wish only to resolve this unfortunate situation as swiftly as possible.”

Truly taking in the room for the first time, Tiffany saw that it was a confinement cell, just like she’d been in at Sydney. The chair and inclined bench that she and Scott were strapped to were the only objects in the room. Both were bolted to the floor.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Archer walked past Tiffany. “I appreciate that you informed us of the Ceratopian recording device. That was something we didn’t know existed.”

He was so brazen, so open with his words. Were they still at EDEN Command? He was making no effort to maintain a guise. The thought that he might be that unafraid was terrifying.

“I also appreciate that you informed us of Northern Forge, though none of us are familiar with such a place—not even Mister Strakhov, who came to us from Novosibirsk. I can only assume that this is a secret facility somewhere in Russia. A command center for the Nightmen, much as this place serves as one for EDEN.”

Squirming in her chair, Tiffany fought to free herself. It was no use. She was fighting against metal clasps.

Archer continued. “The thing we need to know—the thing we hope to learn from you—is the location of this secret base. Being a pilot, I’m sure you can tell us exactly where to find it, perhaps better so than Mister Remington, who, quite frankly, has been stubborn with the disclosing of information. But you,” he said, pointing briefly at her, “will not be as tough a nut to crack. That’s because you’re a smart person. You understand that cooperation is the means by which you can have some semblance of a life back. We are prepared to offer you—and your friends—a full pardon should you help us. As I stated before, this situation is not one of your doing. You were merely caught up in it.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Scott said, voice groggy and weak. “This man is your enemy.”

Archer eyed the beaten soldier. “Coming from a man who’s committed numerous acts of terrorism and treason against his own species, those words should be taken with a granule of salt.”

Scott’s one good eye was focused on Archer. Though his breathing grew heavier—more emotional—he offered no response.

The judge spoke on, looking between them. “I’m going to cut right to the chase. I was obviously pleased to have Mister Remington taken into custody, but you,” he said, gesturing to Tiffany as he looked at her, “you offer a unique opportunity. You see, there are things I need to know. Namely, what you know. Now, I know what you’re thinking.” He paced as he spoke. “You’re thinking that you’ll never cooperate—that I’m some dark overlord secretly working to betray humanity in some cosmic conspiracy. To that I would ask, why? Why would I do such a thing? I’m as human as the two of you. Why would I work to the detriment of my own species?”

Tiffany set her gaze upon Scott briefly. He didn’t seem to be listening to a word Archer was saying. Eyes closed, his head was turned in the other direction as if he’d already heard enough.

“What you need to understand is that the work I’m doing is good, and that your efforts are actively undermining it. Unbeknownst to you, you’re playing a pivotal role in humanity’s imminent destruction.” He leaned closer to Tiffany as he spoke to her. “Your friend here, Mister Remington, has done more damage to the future of the human species than any tyrant in humanity’s past. He doesn’t believe this. He has set in his mind that I’m simply…bad. Not to be trusted. Evil through and through.” He stood upright again. “He’s heard this plea from me before, so I already know he won’t listen. And so I turn to you, Miss Feathers. I want you to know that the singular goal I’ve been working toward is the survival of humankind. And I have been working—tirelessly—day in and day out, for years now. Years, it has taken us to get to this point, at the precipice of our deliverance.

“What you must understand, Tiffany—and you truly must understand it if we’re to gain any ground here—is that I’m in a position where I am privy to more information than you. And on the total opposite side of the spectrum,” he said, pointing to Scott, “this man knows remarkably little. Do you realize what has gotten him all the way to this point?” He stood directly in front of her. “A Ceratopian spoke gibberish and he took it for German.” A loud, disbelieving laugh escaped him. “Do you realize that? He misheard a terrified alien on the battlefield and made it his life’s work. And there went his brain, connecting imaginary dot to imaginary dot, all the way down the path of conspiracy. This man is not your friend, Tiffany. This man is not a hero. He’s mentally unstable.” Angling his head, he asked, “Were you even aware that before they died, his parents had him checked for schizophrenia?”

For the first time, his words garnered a reaction. Schizophrenia? Blinking several times, she leaned her head to the side to look across at Scott.

“No, they didn’t,” Scott said, shaking his head from the bench, though he didn’t look at her. “None of that is true.”

“Would you like to see the papers? The recommendation from his doctor that he be further evaluated? A recommendation that was ignored, by the way, by his religious fundamentalist family. I’d be happy to show you a copy of the report.”

Disgust laced Scott’s voice. “They can make up any report that they want. None of that ever happened.”

Could that actually be true? Part of Tiffany hated that that question even emerged in her mind. But it had. No—Archer’s totally lying.

“Let me ask you a question,” the judge said, folding his arms as if deep in thought. “Has he ever—ever—given you a shred of evidence of this supposed conspiracy? Of course he hasn’t. He just takes you from one diabolical act to the next, with the assurance that on the next one, you’ll have all the evidence you need. Right?” He began to pace as he spoke on. “He infiltrates Cairo. He destroys Hami Station. He attacks a train bound for Tokyo. And after all of that, he has only the promise that next time, things will be different.”

She didn’t want to hear this. She rejected it outright. “No. What he’s doing…” Not knowing what to follow up with, she said only, “No.”

“You were caught up in the delusion of a charismatic schizophrenic who says all the right things.” Widening his eyes supportively, Archer held out his hand and said, “Now, please don’t feel bad for that. He is very convincing. Just ask the Fourteenth.”

“If none of it’s true, why did Judge June talk about a conspiracy in EDEN Command?”

Covering his eyes with his hands, Archer laughed quietly. “My dear girl, Carol said that because she needed you to cooperate. She was admitting to nothing. She was playing a role.”

And so are you. There was no way to prove or disprove anything that Archer was saying about Scott being schizophrenic. If he showed her papers, that didn’t mean they were real. There was, however, an event that Tiffany had been a part of that was undeniable. One that she, more so than anybody else, had seen unfold from a unique vantage point. “EDEN attacked us,” she said firmly. “In the Great Dismal Swamp. How do you explain that?” She wanted to hear their explanation. She wanted to hear what they would say to justify it. To see if it could, by any stretch of the imagination, pass muster.

Clearing his throat from the other side of the room, Oleg said, “That was not EDEN that attacked you.” Tiffany turned her head to look at him. “That was the eidola. It is a special part of the Nightmen that disguises itself as EDEN to infiltrate its ranks. Everything you saw was designed to make you believe what you believed—specifically to make it look like EDEN was trying to set up Novosibirsk.”

“You have to understand,” said Archer, “how elaborate their deceptions are. They leave nothing to chance.”

And here came the test. “Even the energy signatures in the swamp that got us called out in the first place?” Tiffany asked.

Without hesitation, Archer nodded. “Yes, even those. It was remarkable.”

Busted. There’d been no energy signatures in the swamp. Not one. It was the very first thing that’d struck Tiffany as odd, even before the Vindicators showed up to shoot them down. So disconcerting had it been, she’d called Lilan to the cockpit to tell him about it. The smoothness with which Archer could lie told her everything she needed to know—about his intentions, the attack in the swamp, Scott’s supposed schizophrenia…everything.

“My God, Tiffany,” said Scott from the bench. “This is all such a joke.”

Oh, she knew. She knew to her core. From the very beginning of her time with the Fourteenth—even meeting Scott—they’d given off a vibe that made her feel good. One that she trusted. Archer’s slipup only affirmed what she already knew in her heart. This was dirty all the way to the top. The only question was, what was she going to do now?

Inhaling as deeply as she could without making it look obvious, she tightened her jaw and said in a voice laced with as much desperation as she could pull off, “We were shot down by EDEN aircraft.” Let your voice tremble. Start to get mad. “That’s what happened!” Play along.

Sighing softly, Archer said, “You were shot down by aircraft that were registered at Novosibirsk. It was all part of an endgame that we may never fully understand in light of Thoor’s death, but that Remington has been trying to fulfill like the programmed machine that he is. This man,” he pointed at Scott again, “was exactly what the general wanted. Someone with an undiagnosed mental condition and delusions of grandeur. He was the perfect instrument for a madman who depended on blind allegiance.”

Lifting his head in a way that looked painful for him, Scott looked at Tiffany eye to eye. “Nothing they are saying is true. None of it. They’re trying to make you think I’m crazy so you’ll talk.”

“We’re not trying to make you think anything,” said Archer to her. “You’re perfectly capable of thinking for yourself. And that’s all we’re asking you to do. Just think.”

Fall for it. Play the dumb blonde. Eat every word.

“Everywhere Scott Remington has gone,” Archer said, “there’s been a trail of death. Like his mentor, Ignatius, he believes that the ends justify the means. Well, we’ve seen the means. He runs in guns blazing, completely unconcerned with collateral damage. Success is defined only by the outcome.”

Interrupting again, Scott said, “They’re trying to turn you against me.”

“Listen!” Archer almost laughed, shaking his head in what looked like wonderment. “Hear his words, Tiffany, and ask yourself if this sounds like a stable man. Everything is a conspiracy, everything is a rallying call against his enemies. This is who he is. It’s who he’s always been. Even in his Academy records, his training officers noted a craving for purpose and attention. One even used the word zealot to describe him.”

“Not once has that word been in my records,” Scott said.

Tone growing harsher, Archer took a step toward her. “He will lead you nowhere with the promise that the answer to the great conspiracy is right over that next hill. Except time and time again, you find out once you cross it that there’s nothing there. It was a hill he built himself.”

“There has always been something there.” There was fear in Scott’s voice—as if he was afraid she might actually believe this.

Good.

Pointing at Scott, Archer said, “Ask him, then. Ask him what he found in Japan. Do it.”

Tiffany turned to Scott, all the while being aware that he needed to be fooled as much as they did. That was, if this tactic that was still very much in development was to succeed. Arching her eyebrows just the faintest bit, she said to him, “Please tell me…” The look on Scott’s face answered everything. This next part was going to hurt to see. “Please tell me you found something.”

He stared back at her emotionlessly, as if numb or thoroughly disgusted. Inhaling a long, slow breath, he answered almost despondently, “There was nothing in the train.”

Closing her eyes, Tiffany whispered, “Oh my God.”

“But we think we know why. EDEN set us up. Somehow, someway, they set us up to be there. They must have gotten there first and found the device.”

Turning her head to look away from him, she let her lower jaw shake.

Exasperatedly, Scott said, “They’re feeding you these things to get out of you exactly what they’re getting right now. Don’t let them win.”

It was easy to channel all the contempt in Tiffany’s core, because it was visceral and real—just directed at Archer and his goons. She wished there was some way to tell Scott that. To drop a hint that only he’d pick up on that would let him know what she was doing. As much as she needed to fool Archer—if for no other reason, to buy herself time to figure out a plan—the thought that Scott felt as if he was losing her sucked.

“Northern Forge,” Archer said, leaning down next to her. His voice was gentle, assuring. As if he was her greatest friend in the world. “The only thing we need to know is where to find it.” He offered a hopeful smile. “That’s it. That’s it, and you’re home free. I have no reason to hurt you, Tiffany. You’ve been caught up in someone else’s fight, much as we, the human species, have on this planet. If you cooperate, there will be no harm to you. It’s such a universal concept, but one that’s so hard for people to accept. Don’t be one of those people.”

Leaning his head down as if to summon the strength to say anything else, Scott said, “Please, Tiff…please don’t do this.”

What do I do? What do I do? It was time for the choice to be made. The second that followed Scott’s words was already feeling like an eternity. She needed to answer. Whichever way she went—whichever way she decided to work it—the time to make that decision was now. Her heart pounded. Her pulse was soaring. It was time to make her play. “Norilsk.”

Scott slammed the back of his head against the bench. “Tiffany!”

I have a plan, Scott! I totally have a plan! “They’re hiding in Norilsk. There’s a warehouse district on the northwestern side of town. I…I don’t know the exact coordinates. I just know it was a blue building.”

Across from her, Scott remained silent and still. Surely, he was realizing now that she wasn’t giving them the exact location of Northern Forge. A half-truth could be more destructive than an outright lie. She was hoping that would be the case, here. Her plan was to send EDEN close enough to Northern Forge for the Nightmen to see them. To give them a heads up that EDEN was coming, and to allow them to rally whatever forces they could in the event their real location was found. A location she was not about to provide.

Archer’s face remained stoic, taking a step back and then glancing up and toward the corner of the cell, where Tiffany noticed a small, mounted camera for the first time. It was no surprise that there was a camera in there. Looking back at Tiffany, Archer said, “And you’re sure this is the place?” What it really sounded like he was asking was, are you lying to me?

Well, she certainly wasn’t going to change her tune now. “It’s there. You can’t miss it. It’s big enough to hide the transports—they fly in low from the east.” Specific enough to sound legitimate, but ultimately leading nowhere. Whether or not this had been the right call, the call had been made. There was no taking it back now.

“Thank you, Tiffany,” Archer said, offering a smile that seemed a little leerier than the ones he’d offered her previously. She wasn’t sure what that indicated—if anything—but it nonetheless stood out. “I’m sure you’ll understand if we keep you here until we get that location verified.”

“Yeah,” she said, trying her utmost to sound dejected and not like she was trying to deceive the most powerful organization on Earth. “Totally.”

Archer nodded, then looked over to Oleg. “Mister Strakhov, if you’ll come with me, please. Your guards may come, too.” Though Archer said nothing to Scott, Tiffany did see him offer the bound soldier the briefest of glances before he strode out of the room, Oleg and the two other guards in his wake. Seconds later and without a parting word, they stepped out of the cell and the door whizzed shut.

Tiffany and Scott were alone.

Ho-boy. This is awkward. But was it really? Strapped to the bench, Scott was saying nothing and looking away from her. Surely he realized what she was doing. He had to. They both knew how to find Northern Forge, so Scott knew as well as she did that she’d given them the wrong info. Now that they were alone, maybe she could tell him why.

Her eyes shifted to the camera. Whoa, not so fast! Keep those lips zipped, girlie. That must have been why Archer and everyone else had left the room so quickly. They were probably headed to some security room to see if she and Scott were about to divulge all secrets. To see if one of them would screw up and spill the beans. It was probably best if both of them stayed quiet.

“How could you do this?”

Or not. Upon turning her head in Scott’s direction, Tiffany could see he was looking squarely at her. Even at an awkward angle, she could see the rage in his eyes. The one eye that wasn’t swollen shut, at least. As she processed his words, her mind raced to figure out how to respond. Okay, he’s totally playing along. He knows we’re under surveillance, and he’s trying to sell this whole him-versus-me thing. And he’s like, a really good actor. Before she knew it, she blurted out the response, “How could you?” Yeah, back at ya! Take that, fearless leader.

“How could I what?” he asked. “Get to the truth?”

Hm—that’s a good counter. “You lied to me this whole time. There never was a conspiracy.” Bring it back down. Good, good.

Scott’s breaths were growing faster and harder. “You just killed everyone. Every single one of them. Your friends, my friends, the last hope to get to the truth of what’s taking place here. Any hope that humanity may have had.” He seemed so angry. His good eye was shimmering.

It was right then that the thought struck her. Wait, he does know what I’m doing, right? Was this anger real? As in, not an act? Did he really think that she’d betrayed him and everyone else? Inside, she began to panic. No, no, no, no, no, no! I think he’s really mad. That’s not what I want! Or was it? Was this selling the act even more? Argh, this is so confusing! She needed a hammer—something to relay to Scott, unequivocally, that she was doing what she thought was best for all of them and not just giving EDEN information. Something to assure him, even if he disagreed with her methods, that she was still on his side. It came to her immediately. “Do you remember what I told you before we left for this stupid mission?” She sure did. She’d told him that they were going to “totally rock” this.

It took a moment and a bit of a strange look, but Scott finally sucked in a deep breath and answered, “Yes.”

“I stand by it.” Without another word—glaring, in fact—Tiffany turned her head away from him. On the inside, though, she was dancing with pompoms.

Silence. The seconds ticked on as if going in slow motion, until at long last, he said simply, “We’re done.”

“Yeah, we’re done,” she said right away, nearly cutting him off. She wanted it to sound definitive. Harsh. Like the conclusion of a bad conversation. If he’d been acting along with her that whole time, that meant they’d been on the same page ever since she’d given EDEN false directions. But if he hadn’t, then he certainly knew that she was doing something purposeful now. She and Scott had never exchanged a bad word since they’d met. Even if Scott didn’t remember the exact verbiage Tiffany had used back in Northern Forge’s hangar, he would certainly recall that their brief exchange had been a good one.

A plan, and a means by which to communicate it. Those were the two things she needed now. Though she had no idea how to start with either, she was fully confident that—even if by a wing and a prayer—she could figure them out. Time and experience had shown that when thrust into emergency situations, such as their mad flight out of Krasnoyarsk in the Pariah, Tiffany was fully capable of pulling the proverbial rabbit out of the hat and doing what others thought was impossible. And while it was true that ground ops—or bust-out-of-prison-ops, for that matter—weren’t exactly her forte, she believed in herself. Much more so than most people did upon meeting her. That tendency to be underestimated, that weapon, would get both Scott and her to freedom. She refused to believe otherwise.

If there was going to be any escape—if there was going to be any future for them at all beyond torture and death at EDEN Command—then she had a lot of figuring out to do.

There was no better place to start than in the silence of the cell.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Date unknown

Time unknown

Kalarian Orbit

SVETLANA HAD BEEN through a living hell. She’d been kidnapped, disfigured, stripped. Drooled and urinated on while chained to a floor. Humiliated like she was less than a sentient being, and mocked all the while. But none of it—none of it—felt as arduous as sitting in her domed room on the Kalarael space station, waiting for something to do.

In the hours—and it felt like at least five or six—that she’d sat in the room, Yigôzien and Ed had been partaking in something that looked more like a two-person siesta than any kind of practical thing. Ed had informed her of his intention to do a “deep connection,” as he called it, with the invoker of custom’s brain. This was something that went beyond simple conversation, the Ithini explained. This was a total linking of two minds. A multilevel meshing. He’d informed Svetlana that she was not, under any circumstances, permitted to try and communicate with either of them. This connection would be too deep, too personal, and an interruption could undo hours of work. She certainly didn’t want to do that.

And so, she kicked back atop the floating bed and watched as Ed and Yigôzien began their deep connection. At first, she was excited to witness it. What would it look like? What would it entail? Would they talk through this? Would she get to hear Ed actually speak instead of using his mental abilities? What wonders would arise whilst two beings were so deeply connected? As it turned out, nothing. Ed and Yigôzien simply laid down with their backs on the floor and their eyes closed and...that was it. For all practical purposes, it was like watching two people sleep without the added fun of experiencing them babbling or sleepwalking. At least when someone watched paint dry, the paint actually dried.

It was only natural, then, for Svetlana to try and get some rest, too. Lying down on the floating bed, however, she came to realize very quickly that whatever rest could be caught up with already had been. She’d slept for sixteen hours! What more could she possibly need? And so there she was, sitting in a white room with no windows, no books, no objects, and no conversation. Just sitting there, staring and untired. She felt less insane having visions on the Zone Runner.

Lurching upright, Yigôzien sucked in a gasp.

Svetlana nearly fell off the floating bed. Eyes shooting open wide, she rolled over and instinctively reached for a weapon—which of course, there was none. With her heart thumping so loudly she could hear it, she stared half-crazed at the suddenly upright invoker. So loud had the gasp been that the pair of darishu who’d been guarding the archway rushed inside.

Yigôzien looked equally stunned. Staring ahead, eyes literally fluctuating between black and pale yellow, she sat with her mouth hanging and chest heaving.

What in the world had just happened?

Opening his eyes, Ei`dorinthal pushed up to a sitting position. The deep connection is complete, he simply said.

“What was that?” Svetlana asked, voice raised and pointing to Yigôzien. Across the room, the two darishu stood with weapons ready, whatever emotions they were feeling hidden by their expressionless helmets.

Despite the alarm Svetlana was exhibiting, Ed’s answer was calm and collected. A deep connection is an extremely personal connection—emerging from one is much like emerging from one reality into another.

She’d felt that way when he’d connected with her that time on the Zone Runner, when she’d “swum the gulf,” as Ed explained it, between her consciousness and the fragments of Nagogg she’d extracted from his mind.

Swallowing from her seat on the floor, Yigôzien ran her hand back through her feathery, dark hair. Only now was the shifting in her eyes ceasing, the pale yellow, sickly color remaining of the two that’d been switching back and forth.

She will be fine in a few moments, Ed said.

Hopping off the bed, Svetlana crouched down next to them. Looking between them, she asked her Ithini friend, “Did the connection serve its purpose?”

Yes, it did.

“Excellent!” Rising to a triumphant stand, Svetlana nodded her head down at her friend. After several seconds of silence passed, she asked, “So, what does that mean, exactly?”

Yigôzien rubbed her eyes and moaned. Behind her, the two darishu were talking back and forth, gesturing and shifting their bodies between each other and the invoker—likely wondering, at least in Svetlana’s mind, if they should take some form of action. Yigôzien finally silenced them with a sharp word and eyes that began to glow dark red.

She is grumpy, Ed said.

Turning away from Svetlana and Ed, Yigôzien made her way to the mirror panel. Once she was in front of it, she waved her arm across it, sending it whooshing up. Svetlana turned her head away just in time to avoid looking at herself—something she still wasn’t quite up to doing.

Ed continued. I now fully understand her language.

It was so easy for the Ithini to learn a language, it almost felt like cheating. Svetlana had to ask, “Do you think you could teach her language to me? As what happened with me and Bakmanese?”

Fairly certain she already knew the answer, she was surprised when the Ithini instead said, Perhaps. Svetlana raised an eyebrow. I understand how you absorbed the Bakmanese language. Though I would prefer not to replicate the process by which you absorbed it—

So would Svetlana.

—there may be workarounds. It will take me some time to see what possibilities exist for such a procedure, but it is within the realm of possibility. It must be, as we have already accomplished it once.

What a tremendous bonus that would be—understanding Kalarael. It would mean that she, once again, would not need a connection from Ed to speak with them. Her focus returning to Yigôzien, she watched the invoker at an angle that kept her own reflection safely out of view. The yellow in Yigôzien’s eyes had lessened, an indication that her emotions were tempering. While still observing Yigôzien, Svetlana asked Ed, “What can you tell me about her? What have you learned?”

I would rather she tell you that herself, Ed relayed in response.

“Is she able to do that after your deep connection?”

A sense of affirmation swelled. She will recover quickly.

“Good.”

Give her a moment.

The wait for Yigôzien to be ready to talk was far more tolerable than the sitting around and waiting that Svetlana had endured earlier. In fact, it gave her a chance to observe the invoker as she, for lack of a better way to put it, preened herself for almost ten minutes straight.

Yet again, Svetlana found herself captivated by the beauty of the Kalarael body. All the while that Yigôzien stared at herself in the mirror, her eyes never deviated to look at Svetlana as she observed from afar. Her hands just glided back and over her down feather hair, her five, delicate fingers combing them with meticulous precision. Special care seemed to be given to the teal streaks, which shined with a luster that Svetlana had never seen on the Zone Runner. With time to focus on them now, she could appreciate their uniqueness and beauty. A part of her wanted to ask if the teal streaks were natural or artificial highlights, though she supposed a time would come for such trivialities.

As far as Yigôzien’s figure went, well, Svetlana would have killed for it. Her body was perfectly formed—slender but appropriately “endowed,” at least by what would have been human standards. And that was perhaps what had caught Svetlana more off-guard than anything else when it came to this new species. Yes, they were exotic, with vulpine ears, lush lips, whiskers, and that gorgeous, peacock-esque hair. But they were also so, so humanlike relative to the other species that humanity had encountered. The Bakma were gnarled, knobby warriors with crimson-purple skin and bulging eyes. The Ithini were frail, pale beings with oversized, oval heads. And the Ceratopians were, essentially, walking dinosaurs. Even taking the other species she’d seen in her vision into account—the four-legged, hideous Nerifinn, the rodent-like Dishan, the robotic Annihl, and the dark-skinned, featureless Khuladi—there was just nothing that an Earthae could look at and instantly relate to on a physiological level. Until the Kalarael. Now that Svetlana could stand there, beholding Yigôzien in all the being’s glory, all she could think was that this species could be humanity’s long-lost, much better-looking cousin.

Yigôzien closed her eyes, parted her lips, then exhaled. Her hands fell back to her sides.

Angling her head curiously, Svetlana watched Yigôzien as she stood there, breathing in and out with all the focus of a woman doing yoga. When the invoker opened her eyes again, they were a light blue that was more representative of what seemed to be the “standard” color for these creatures. If that meant her grumpiness, as Ed put it, had subsided, then Svetlana was all for it.

Sure enough, when Yigôzien turned her head to Svetlana for the first time since emerging from the deep connection, it was with a smile. “Connect us,” Svetlana to Ed without looking.

No sooner had she felt the connection get established, Yigôzien opened her mouth to speak. “I must apologize for appearing out of sorts.”

Smacked in the face by the being’s thick, British accent, Svetlana’s mouth dropped open.

“When your companion suggested a deep connection,” said Yigôzien, “he warned me that it might be uncomfortable. He quite possibly understated the fact.”

Whipping her head to Ed, Svetlana asked, “Why is she speaking like she’s British?”

She is speaking Kalarael, Ed calmly corrected. You are interpreting it through the translation as British English.

She already knew that. “But why? When we first connected, I heard her as Russian. Why did the language switch? Can we change it back?” she asked, as if it was some setting on a remote control.

I decided upon this change myself. Though I have absorbed the Kalarael language with as close to mastery as I am capable, it is still not my native language—or yours. To translate her words to you as Russian was a mistake on my part. It bred far more familiarity than the connection deserved. It made you completely comfortable that communication was taking place on an even level between both parties, when this was not the case. He cocked his head a bit. By selecting a different language as the process mechanism, a certain level of inherent uncertainty will remain in your cognitive awareness. You will naturally make a more concentrated effort to select the right words, which will help solidify my interpretation of the connection.

“Wait,” Svetlana said, holding a hand up. “Are you implying that you want me to speak to her in English, too?”

Affirmation swelled through the connection. That is correct.

“So now I, a Russian, must speak in English to understand Kalarael?”

Yes.

Rolling her neck, she ugh-ed.

I understand your frustration, but this will ensure a more accurate translation.

“How accurate?”

When the connection is established in your native language—Russian—I estimate a potential error factor of seven percent. When in English, the secondary language that you understand the most, the error factor is reduced to less than one. I have selected the English dialect that you refer to as British, as I perceive it to be the least jarring to your preconceived ideas of how a being such as Yigôzien should sound. You regard the British as dignified. It seemed an appropriate choice. Would you like to hear another?

“No, I—”

Before she could answer fully, Yigôzien’s words replayed in her mind, though this time in the thick, southern drawl of a female William Harbinger. “When yer little alien friend wanted to try that ‘deep connection’ thingy, he said it might be totally weird. Man, was he right!”

Svetlana pressed her hand to her eyes. “Okay. Please stop. Please change it back.”

I will return the accent to its previous state.

She didn’t care about variations or accents. She cared about becoming completely bewildered by the plethora of languages that were now floating about her head. Russian, English, Bakmanese, and to a far lesser extent, Kalarael—not that she actually knew any of that one, but still, her words were being translated into it. “So, we are going in English now?” she asked, as requested, in English. Though she couldn’t quite tell, she could almost swear she saw Ei`dorinthal smirk. Svetlana sighed and looked away. “Do not enjoy this too much.”

I do not enjoy anything, master.

Her focus returning to Yigôzien, who was looking between the two with some confusion, Svetlana’s face softened and she said, “And now it is I who must apologize.” It’d been so long since she’d said an English word, she had to think about it. Maybe Ed had a point, after all. “The two of us occasionally argue, but…” She had nowhere to go with that one. Gently, she smiled. “It does not matter. As I am sure you can imagine, this is a stressful situation for us both.”

The blue in Yigôzien’s eyes deepened subtly—the Kalarael couldn’t hold back a smile of her own, not that she would’ve tried. “Your friend has quite the impressive skillset. He must be an invaluable asset.”

With every English word that came over the connection, memories stirred deep within Svetlana. Memories of the friends back on Earth she knew so well. Naturally, the accent reminded her of Esther, or Captain Clarke. But hearing English also reminded her of meeting Max for the first time as they came into the Fourteenth together. He was the first American she’d ever met, and he fit the stereotype in every way imaginable. He was brash—a loudmouth jerk. She missed him so much. And David Jurgen, and that fatherly voice of his that could have practically been her own father’s, whom she’d lost at such a young age. She thought of Travis, and Jayden, and William and Derrick. What she wouldn’t have given to hear their voices again.

What she wouldn’t have given to hear Scott’s…

Coming out of her momentary reverie, she smiled at Yigôzien’s words. “Ei`dorinthal has proven to be a…” As predicted, she found herself having to think of the right word to use. She settled on the only one that truly applied. Glancing at Ed, she smiled. “A good friend.” I am fine with her accent, Ed. You have done a good job.

There was no need for the Ithini to say that he was proud to hear it. She could feel it from him.

Upon turning her head to the two darishu, Yigôzien waved them off with a sweeping hand gesture. “Thank you for coming to my aid—you may return to your posts.” The darishu acknowledged and then walked out of the room.

The normalcy with which the Kalarael were handling Svetlana amazed her. She couldn’t imagine any situation on Earth where EDEN would be treating any alien species—be they aggressive or not—with such low security. There Yigôzien was, in a room with two extraterrestrial beings, calling off the guard. What a dramatically different approach to the unknown. “The way you have treated me has not gone unnoticed. Many species would have treated me like a prisoner.”

Yigôzien’s fox ears tilted forward. “You have shown yourself to be a creature of virtue.” As she dipped her head in Svetlana’s direction, she said, “You bless us with your presence here.”

“But I am unknown to you. You know nothing of my species or of me—not beyond what you experienced with me on the Zone Runner.”

“And that experience told me a great deal. You brought honor to those who fell victim to the Bakmas’ vile attack on our vessel.” As the word came out, her eyes glowed red. Several seconds later, they settled back to blue. “I hold you in the highest reverence, as do my brethren.”

That mindset, that way of thinking. It was so fair and unassuming. What must it have been like to belong to a species like that?

“I know you must have many questions,” Yigôzien said, perhaps sensing the wonder from Svetlana. “While we have time here, I will answer what I can.”

Many questions? She didn’t even know where to begin. “There is so much that I wish to know. About you, about your people.” Her eyes settled once more on the invoker’s form. “Honestly, I could spend the next hour just staring at you.”

“We may do that, if you wish.”

So maybe “honestly” was the wrong choice of words. It was important to bear in mind that the Kalarael were a species of unrestrained truthfulness. But while they were on the topic of physical appearances, she figured she might as well ask about the Kalaraels’ unique, color-changing eyes. “None of the species that humanity has encountered have had eyes like yours. Can you tell me how they work?” She’d already heard some of this from Ed, but hearing it straight from a Kalarael’s mouth would surely be more revealing.

As if on cue, the blue in Yigôzien’s eyes deepened. She smiled. “Of all the parts of the Kalarael body, our eyes are the most sacred. They are in direct communion with the soul and reflect its deepest desires.” Lifting her chin, she said, “When the soul is in harmony with Kukira, it speaks through the Purities.”

Kukira? The Purities? Svetlana shook her head in confusion.

Sensing the uncertainty, Yigôzien smiled. “You may interpret the Purities as colors—specifically blue, yellow, and red.”

The three primaries.

“But to us, they are much more. Those colors represent the balance of all living things. We call these balances the Purities. The truer the individual Purity, the louder it speaks.”

None of this was making much sense. “I am having a difficult time understanding this.”

The smile Yigôzien offered was understanding. “We are a new and unique species for you—as all of Kukira’s children are unique in some way.”

“Who is Kukira?” She was assuming a deity but figured it was better to make sure.

“She is the Goddess of Creation. The Life Bosom. It is she who gave birth to our species, as she gave birth to yours.”

Not so fast, Foxy.

“Kukira speaks to us through the three Purities: Shanras, Istéres, and Vusane.” Dipping her head in Svetlana’s direction, she said, “Shanras speaks loudly through you.”

So Shanras meant blue? Assuming Yigôzien had been speaking in order, that meant Istéres was yellow and Vusane was red. “So, if the Shanras are speaking through me, what are they saying?”

A soft laugh escaped Yigôzien’s lips. The blue in her eyes flickered shades. “There is only one Shanras, just as there is only one Istéres and one Vusane. It is they who make up the three Purities of Kukira.”

Deep in Svetlana’s mind, Ed’s presence stirred. If I may interject, to make things more understandable for you?

Please, for the love of God, interject. These new terms were making Svetlana’s head spin. Holding up her hand, she said to Yigôzien, “If you please, my friend is helping me understand this.”

The blue in Yigôzien’s eyes remained. “Take all the time you require.”

When her attention shifted fully to Ed, the Ithini began. The specific elements of Kukirism—

It sounded more like Cuckoo-ism, Svetlana thought.

—are not important to your goals. For the purpose of understanding them in a practical sense, consider the colors strictly indicative of emotion. Blue, or what the Kalarael call Shanras, is indicative of peace and tranquility.

She already knew that one—it was the reason why everyone was so enamored with her. “I know about the yellow one, too. So, I suppose red is angry?”

Red, or Vusane, is indicative of indignation. These colors come in many shades, however. The darker the shade, the less “pure,” as Yigôzien would define it. For instance, the color of your eyes indicates the height of tranquility. A darker blue, however, might indicate cautious optimism. Bright yellow is indicative of an almost worshipful reverence. Darker yellow, however, would be an indication of fear. Bright red would indicate unadulterated, righteous anger. Dark red would be indicative of, relatively speaking, mild annoyance. For all of these, as you can imagine, there are many shades and many possibilities. A mid-range blue may not indicate serenity or cautious optimism, but rather relief. Likewise, a medium shade of yellow might be indicative of guilt, and for red, general unhappiness.

What a strange scale. And so, there are no secondary colors? No greens, oranges, purples?

There are not—which leads me to the final “color,” as you would understand it: black.

That’s right. Svetlana distinctly remembered the Kalarael having pitch-black irises on the Zone Runner after Nagogg captured them.

The darker the shade, the less pure the emotion. Black is, to the Kalarael, the absence of the Purities. They have a word for this, as they have a word for the other colors: Ophareim. It is indicative of chaotic confusion—a failure of the individual to associate an experience with any singular emotion. It is total emotional impurity. As you may understand it, a crisis or absence of faith.

Well, that would certainly make sense considering what Yigôzien and her comrades had been going through at the time. Svetlana had certainly experienced her share of confusion and crises when she’d awoken in chains next to Tauthin. While she was sure that didn’t correlate exactly with how the Kalarael had interpreted things, she could definitely relate to it.

Ed continued. Just as the religious among your species have a foil for what you call “God,” so do the Kalarael. He is called Ophareim. While Kukira speaks through the Purities, Ophareim speaks as his own, singular Impurity.

Something about the Kalarael having an exact replication of humanity’s God and Devil made Svetlana uneasy. Forcing the comparison out of her mind, she focused on Yigôzien again. Thank you for explaining everything, Ed, she relayed to the Ithini before addressing Yigôzien again.

“My friend has helped me to understand what you mean,” Svetlana said, nodding her head as if to convey that understanding, regardless of whether the Kalarael interpreted the gesture as such. “It may take me time to grow accustomed to…” She paused, the need to tread carefully arising in her. “…to the way the Purities speak through you.” It was important not to indicate—at least for right now—any disagreement with how the Kalarael viewed the universe. Right now, Yigôzien held her in exceedingly high regard. She didn’t want that to change.

The blue in Yigôzien’s eyes remained. “I am glad to hear that. I understand that the Purities speak differently through us than they may through you. As an invoker, I can easily help you understand our beliefs and customs better.”

If there was a better segue, Svetlana didn’t know it. Narrowing her eyes curiously, she said, “Speaking of that—you refer to yourself as an invoker of custom. What does that mean?”

The corners of Yigôzien’s lips curved upward. This was obviously a topic that pleased her. “It means that I have been chosen by the Purities to seek Kukira’s will in the evolution and keeping of our sacred customs, of which there are many. There are nine invokers among the Kalarael, each representative of the nine clans. I am from Clan Viil-Astrul, hence my societal name of Yigôzien, invoker of custom, fel’dinstra Viil-Astrul.” Svetlana listened in wonderment as Yigôzien explained further. “It is customary for one’s title to become a part of their name, hence its place in my societal name. The Kalarael societal name consists of given name, appellation, surname, and clan, in that order. The prefix fel indicates daughter of, which precedes my mother’s given name, Dinstra. Yigôzien, invoker of custom, fel’dinstra Viil-Astrul can be interpreted as Yigôzien, who serves as invoker of custom, daughter of Dinstra, of Clan Viil-Astrul.” Angling her head, she looked at Svetlana curiously, her fox ears and whiskers twitching. “Do you have such naming customs, Setana?”

Not hardly. Smiling sadly, she said, “We do not. But I suppose if we did, I would be Svetlana, combat medic, fel’agatha Voronova.”

At the mention of Svetlana, Yigôzien blinked. “Is your given name different than I have been pronouncing it?”

After a brief gah, Svetlana said, “I apologize. The Bakma have always called me Setana. I have just grown used to it. The correct pronunciation of my given name is Svetlana.”

“I will learn this new pronunciation at once.”

Reaching out her hand to gently touch Yigôzien’s arm, Svetlana said, “Please, it is not necessary. As I have said, I am already quite accustomed to going by Setana. It is easier for the Bakma, and…if I am being honest, I have almost grown to prefer it.”

“I apologize, but I must pronounce your name correctly, particularly as an invoker of custom. It is of the utmost importance.”

Well, if she said so.

“And your appellation? Combat medic?”

“That was my role among my people.” How strange it felt, referring to the Fourteenth as that. “I treated their wounds during combat.”

The blue in her eyes dimming somewhat, Yigôzien looked down in thought. “I am afraid that must change. That is not the role by which we’ve come to know you.”

“Well…” Though she sought for something else to say, nothing came to mind. Yigôzien was right—she’d treated none of the Kalaraels’ wounds. But if her role was no longer that of a combat medic—at least, to the Kalarael—then what was it? Before she could pontificate on a replacement, Yigôzien did it for her.

Looking up and with determination, Yigôzien said, “Svetlana, Fury of Shanras, fel’agatha Voronova.”

Svetlana blinked. Fury of Shanras? That didn’t sound like a helper or healer at all. It sounded like the title of a warrior. It was by far the most intimidating name she’d ever been called.

She liked it.

“As custom dictates, so it shall be!” Yigôzien said. “Do you object to being known as the Fury of Shanras, Svetlana?”

She absolutely did not. Dipping her head with acknowledgment and smiling a bit more widely than she was trying to, she said, “It would be an honor to hold such a name among your people.” That was a far more cordial response than what she was thinking, which was more along the lines of, hell yes, you can call me that!

I am sensing it, again, Ed relayed to Svetlana through the connection. The new aggression within you is rising.

“You’re like a bucket of cold water, do you know that?” she snipped back at him. When Yigôzien blinked, Svetlana quickly said, “I meant that for him, not for you.”

In an all-too-human way, Yigôzien opened her mouth, seemed to search for some words, then turned up empty.

I like the new me, Ed, Svetlana thought through the connection. I like feeling powerful. You need to get used to it.

As you wish, master.

New aggression. How overly simple. She was proud of herself for the first time in her life. What was so wrong with that? Turning her focus from Ed back to Yigôzien, she smiled. “Thank you for the new name, Yigôzien. It is one I will cherish and strive to live up to.” It was time to return to the topic that’d prompted all this. “So, you are an invoker of custom, and customs are important.”

“They are more than important,” the invoker answered. “They are sacred.”

“Would you mind explaining what exactly you mean by ‘customs?’ Are they spoken customs, or visual customs, or something altogether different? For example, I have seen you and others perform different gestures, sometimes with your full bodies, upon greeting each other. Is this a customary thing?”

Stepping past Svetlana, Yigôzien made her way to the opposite side of the domed room. “Indeed, it is. For example, you may have seen me gesture in this fashion on some occasions.” Facing Svetlana again, Yigôzien lowered into the same curtsied bow she’d performed upon greeting the darishu who’d approached her in the Zone Runner. Right down to the hand motions, she mimicked what Svetlana had seen before perfectly.

Nodding, Svetlana said, “I have seen that, yes.”

“We call gestures such as these bajuines. There are many situations that call for the offering of a bajuine. The bajuine I offered the darishu upon seeing them was called Surin je Lejiene, and it is offered as a gesture of command relinquishment to a being of lesser appellation.”

Unsure whether she was more fascinated or confused, Svetlana listened on.

“All elements of a bajuine bear significance. This hand gesture, for example,” she said as she swayed her left hand from the front of her head, counterclockwise to her midsection, thrusting her palm outward at the movement’s conclusion, “indicates the descent of a higher appellation to a position of subsequence. The dipping of the body and bowing of the head, an element called Pimba-Hen, is indicative of the formality of the bajuine. The deeper the dipping of the body, known as the Co-jan…”

As she listened to Yigôzien explain the various intricacies of Surin je Lejiene, she found herself lost amid an ocean of symbolisms and terminology. And this was all just for one bajuine! How many of these did Yigôzien have to keep track of in her mind? No wonder the Kalarael needed someone who specialized in this.

After she finished her explanation—the latter half of which Svetlana had been too glossy-eyed to keep track of—Yigôzien smiled and said, “There is no need for you to remember all of these elements or the bajuines they belong to, of course. As your saikuran, I will be ever-present at your side.”

Angling her head warily, Svetlana asked, “Saikuran?”

“It is a provisional appellation that means I will be your personal companion so long as you remain with us—subservient to you while simultaneously serving as your guide and advisor. A saikuran is a voluntary designation—one assumed as a token of admiration from one being to another. Though I will retain the title of invoker of custom, I will also serve as saikuran to you.”

“A token of admiration?”

The blue in Yigôzien’s eyes brightened. “I very much admire you, Svetlana. Beyond owing my life to you, I can see the majesty of Kukira emanating from within you. You are a being of both dignity and beauty.”

There she was again being called a creature of beauty. Even cleaned of muck, she felt anything but beautiful with her disfigured face. Very slightly, her eyes shifted in the direction of the mirror. She was still yet to see her reflection. That reality would have to be faced, eventually.

But not yet.

Offering the most sincere smile that she could, Svetlana said, “I thank you for being my saikuran, Yigôzien. If you wish to accompany and guide me while I am with your people, I will not turn it down.” Slowly, the smile faded. “Though I would love to experience the beauty that I’m sure your world must possess, I am afraid that I must not remain there for too long. I must return to my own people as quickly as I can.”

“I understand,” Yigôzien said. “We will not tarry upon your arrival on Kalar. We will have much to accomplish in the time that we have.”

So, they were going to the planet. “What will we do upon arriving there?”

The invoker approached Svetlana from across the domed room. “Before anything else, we must first present you to the Royal Assembly.”

Must? Svetlana thought, though she dared not utter the expression of doubt for Yigôzien to hear. Instead, she asked, “And what does this presentation entail?”

Eyes brightening, Yigôzien answered, “My people are preparing a Celebration of Shanras in your honor! There, you will be anointed as one of Kukira’s ambassadors.”

Anointed? How fancy was this thing going to be?

The invoker continued. “I know this may not mean much to you at the moment, having never experienced the customs of the Kalarael, but to be recognized as an ambassador of Kukira is the highest honor a Kalarael can achieve. That you are not Kalarael does not matter. You are worthy of this honor by deed alone.”

The sound of new, approaching footsteps emerged beyond the archway, prompting both Svetlana and Yigôzien to turn their heads. Raising a finger in Svetlana’s direction as if to indicate for her to remain, the invoker made her way toward the archway and the darishu who stood guard over it. Svetlana watched until Yigôzien had disappeared from view, at which point she turned to Ed and said, “I don’t suppose you got a sneak peek at this so-called ‘celebration’ while you were in your deep connection, did you?”

I did not, master, the Ithini replied. While I learned a great deal of who Yigôzien is and by what context she views the world around her, there is still much I do not know about her history or the history of the Kalarael. Though I can explain much of who the Kalarael are, what we will experience on Kalar is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.

So much for getting a copy of the test in advance. Eyes turning in the direction of the archway, she heard chatter between Yigôzien and several other Kalarael, their connection momentarily severed while the group discussion was taking place. Ed had mentioned that he hoped to gain the ability to do group connection among the Kalarael soon. That was an ability Svetlana was very much looking forward to him mastering. Looking back to Ed, she asked, “Do you know anything about the darishu?”

Not beyond what you already know.

Subtly, her eyes narrowed. “But I don’t know anything.”

In your mind, you view them much as you view what you refer to as a Nightman sentry. They do appear to be armored guardians in that sense. But as to their expanded role, I do not know.

“Do you know what their name means?” That the word had not been translated through the connection as anything other than darishu meant there was no Kalarael-Earthae equivalent—or at least, that was what she supposed.

A sense of affirmation swelled from the Ithini. Darishu is a combination of two Kalarael words: dari and rishu. Dari means to keep something secret with the intention of keeping it safe. Rishu means honorable warrior.

To keep something secret with the intention of keeping it safe? “Hmm.” Thinking on that, she crossed her arms and turned back in the archway’s direction. That name actually made sense. The darishu were the only Kalarael she’d come across whose eyes weren’t visible. There was no way to tell what a darishu was thinking—whether their eyes were bright red or blue. In a culture where what one was feeling was displayed right there on their face, she could see how it would be important—no, imperative—that their warriors’ emotions be left out of the equation. An honorable warrior might have to follow the orders of his superiors whether he personally disagreed with them or not.

Through her connection with Ed, sparks of excitement burst like fireworks. It surprised Svetlana, prompting her to look the Ithini’s way again. He was already looking wide-eyed at her. I believe you may be correct in your hypothesis about the darishu.

“Getting a little excited, there?”

You do not usually figure things out before I do.

For several seconds, Svetlana just stared at him. Her eyes slowly narrowed.

Svetlana and Ed returned their attention to the archway as footsteps approached. It was once again Yigôzien who entered the room, the pair of darishu behind her. Cradled delicately in Yigôzien’s hands was a metallic, silver container—a square box that looked a foot deep. Likewise, each of the darishu had rectangular boxes in their hands. As Svetlana canted her head curiously, the invoker approached her. Right away, Svetlana noticed the Kalarael’s eyes. They were yellow—the same yellow that supposedly indicated reverence. Lowering slowly to her knees, Yigôzien dipped her head and extended the box upward for Svetlana to take. “What is this?” she asked.

Yigôzien’s eyes remained closed and her head downcast. “The apparatus is finished. Please accept it as our gift to you.”

The apparatus? Eyes widening, Svetlana realized what Yigôzien must have been talking about. “Do you mean the apparatus to help me breathe?”

“I do.”

She wasn’t going to delay this any longer. Stepping forward to receive the gift, she took the metal box with both hands. It was light. It almost felt weightless. The box was featureless except for the very top, which bore a series of small circles, one within the other. Svetlana recognized the symbol as the same one that was next to the closets in the domed room—the ones she’d waved her hand over to open. She might as well try. Taking the box to the floating bed, she gently placed it atop the cover then waved her hand over the symbol. The circles glowed, and the top of the box retracted into its own four top corners. Blinking, Svetlana leaned forward to look down at the object held within.

It was a strange shape, both jagged and curved, with lines and indentations running across its metallic, stone blue surface. What was this thing? She reached down to take hold of it and lift it up. Like the box it came in, the apparatus was virtually weightless. As it emerged from the box, its surface reflected the artificial daylight from above. Turning it in her hands, she scrutinized it.

It was almost wing shaped, with a high point sticking up in its center, then dips that extended in both directions only to wing up again, all the while curving inward as if meant to conform to something. As if to conform to…

…a face.

When the realization came to her, goose bumps broke out on her arms. It was a mask. A metallic, half face mask. Large enough to hide…well, to hide everything from her nose on down. As she rotated the device to look at its interior, she saw that built along its inner surface, there was a hollow extension rod of sorts, angled upward as if to attach directly to her nasal cavities.

Having risen to her feet behind Svetlana, Yigôzien said, “Simply place it against your face, Svetlana. It has been designed specifically to fit your features.”

Back when she’d been in quarantine, her body had been scanned by that little hovering machine. How had they tailored this apparatus to fit her in such a short period of time?

“We would also like to present you with these,” Yigôzien said. When Svetlana turned to face her, the invoker claimed the larger, rectangular box. Waving her own hand over its surface, she caused the box to open. Setting the box on the floor, Yigôzien reached down and took the contents—folded, space blue fabrics—into her hands. She extended the fabrics in Svetlana’s direction. “These clothes have been designed to fit your body. Though they are not as aesthetically pleasing as we would prefer, they were all that we could make in such a short period of time.”

Svetlana was barely sure of what to think, let alone say. How had they managed to make all of these things so quickly? They must have had their own version of three-dimensional printing technology. Perhaps they’d scanned her body, uploaded her “dimensions” into a computer system, and printed out an outfit for her out of whatever basic material they possessed. Setting the half mask down atop the bed, Svetlana approached Yigôzien to take the fabric in hand.

“Fabric,” as it turned out, was not the most accurate word. The material the outfit was made of felt like a strange mix of latex and polyester. It was stretchy, giving the impression of something that could easily conform to the wearer’s shape. As she turned the fabric over in her hands, she realized that it was one set folded atop another—the bottom set looser, and more fabric than latex. Placing both pieces of fabric atop the floating bed, she examined the lower set, holding it up to allow it to unfold completely.

They were pants. Two legs and a waistline with a built-in strap of sorts where a belt would typically be found in human pants.

“The mechanisms are primitive,” Yigôzien said, “but I hope that they do for the time being.” Her voice lowered. “You may try them on now, if you wish.”

Oh, she wished—after being put in all manner of airy, translucent clothing, and now presented with something that actually looked designed for her—yes, she most certainly wished. “I would like that,” she said. “If you do not mind.”

The invoker smiled. “I do not.”

Svetlana already knew that the Kalarael weren’t going anywhere—this species had no qualms about showing skin. For a private person as Svetlana had always been, that would be something she’d never get used to. But she could still turn around. Facing the bed, and with the slightest of uncomfortable hesitations, Svetlana began to remove her temporary clothes.

Picking up the “upper” half of the new wardrobe, Svetlana found it almost t-shirt like—though she supposed there were only so many design routes that two-armed, one-headed beings could go. Just the same, that particular garment was designed more like a corset than a shirt, with an opening in the back that she slipped into, sticking her hands through the shirt’s short sleeves, the fabric of which tugged against her skin as she pushed her arms forward. Unlike a corset, however, there was no zipper to be found on the backside of the shirt. Feeling around blindly at the back of her neck, she at last found a small depression. With no other obvious options, she pulled her blond locks out of the way and gave the button a press.

When she pressed in the depression, the entire outfit constricted. Fingers outstretched in startlement, she calmed as she felt the outfit loosen—just enough to give her a bit of breathing room, as if the shirt had sensed both its and her limits and had come to a compromise: a snugness that unequivocally fit her body but one that was not so tight that it obstructed her movement. Rotating her shoulders around, she contorted her body just a bit to get a feel for the material. She wasn’t going to lie. This felt good.

Though the pants were made from the same latex-like material, they were far looser than the shirt had been even from the get-go. Slipping them on felt natural. Like the shirt, there was a small depression built into the interwoven belt; when she pressed it, the belt tightened.

And just like that, Svetlana was dressed. Truly dressed, for the first time in who knew how long. Though constructed of different material and with working, onboard technology, this outfit was not terribly different from what she could imagine humanity might have someday.

“Is the outfit to your liking?” Yigôzien asked from behind her.

There was no hesitation. “Yes. Very much so. This is…” Shaking her head, it was hard for Svetlana to find the words. “This is amazing.”

“Would you like to try the apparatus we have designed for you?”

Svetlana’s eyes shifted to the half mask. For several seconds, she stared at it in silence. The answer to Yigôzien’s question was yes. She did want to put the mask on—to experience what it was like to breathe easily again. But part of her was afraid. Not of the technology or that it wouldn’t work. It was quite the contrary, actually. What if it did?

There were ramifications to this device doing what the Kalarael said it would do. If it worked—if it really allowed her to breathe the way she had when she had a nose—then what reason would she ever have for taking it off? As polished and aesthetic as the half mask looked sitting atop the floating bed, she also saw it much as someone who’d lost their legs would see a wheelchair. It would become a part of her. Would she ever be able to get rid of it? Would she ever want to? And lastly, but most frighteningly…what exactly would that half mask be hiding?

The answer to that question, of course, was the one fear that trumped all others. What did a nose-less Svetlana Voronova look like? She was the only one present who didn’t know. The thought of looking in the mirror to find out terrified her.

But she still needed to answer Yigôzien’s question. Would she like to try on the apparatus? Drawing in another labored breath through her exposed nasal cavities, she asked quietly, “What is in the other box?”

Despite what subtle disappointment was evident in Yigôzien’s voice, she nonetheless moved on to address the redirection. “I will show you.”

Even as Yigôzien spoke, Svetlana’s eyes remained on the half mask. Tracing her fingertips delicately across its stone blue surface, she took in the coldness of whatever lightweight metal from which it had been forged. Behind her, the invoker claimed the other box from the darishu and brought it to her. “A warrior must never be without her weapon.”

Raising an eyebrow, Svetlana turned around. Once more, Yigôzien knelt, holding the opened second box up for her to take. Its contents prompted Svetlana to tilt her head curiously. More metal objects, cast in the same aesthetic style and color as the half mask. But what were these things? There were two hollowed objects that looked roughly the size of her forearms. Were these gauntlets? There was also a small, baton-like object no more than eight inches in length. Lastly, there was a brown, leathery strap. “What is all of this?”

“It is customary for all Kalarael of prestige to be seen with the articles that define them. It was of critical importance that we provide you with weapons befitting your prowess in battle.” Gesturing to the gauntlets, the invoker said, “These gauntlets will adhere to your forearms—they have been designed, as have all of your articles, specifically for your body.”

Svetlana watched as Yigôzien reached for her hands, taking them and pulling them out to reveal her forearms completely. Sliding the gauntlets over Svetlana’s hands one at a time, the invoker put them into position over her forearms. As had happened with the rest of Svetlana’s clothes, Yigôzien pressed in a small depression built into the gauntlets. Something inside them seemed to inflate, conforming them to Svetlana’s skin with tailor-made precision. They might as well have been a part of her. Turning her hands palms-up, she examined the gauntlets’ designs. Though smooth, polished metal covered their surfaces, there were small indentations here and there. As she ran a hand over one of the gauntlet’s surfaces, Yigôzien addressed her again.

“When activated, these gauntlets are capable of projecting force shields.”

Why in the world would she need force shields? Was Kalar a hot zone?

“In order to activate them, simply tap the depressions at the bottom of each gauntlet against each other or against your chest.” Yigôzien took several steps back. “Please, try it.”

Not exactly in a position to refuse, Svetlana looked at her Kalarael saikuran with wariness. Taking a step back in the direction of the floating bed, she hesitated then tapped the gauntlets’ depressions one against the other in front of her body.

All of a sudden, everything in front of her took on a light blue, shimmering hue. Eyes widening, she looked up to see that the blue had a definitive shape to it—like a large, circular shield, just as the name force shield would have indicated. A shield emanating from each gauntlet, she found that she could hold her arms forward and backward, effectively blocking attacks from both sides—or with double effectiveness on one side, she surmised, if she placed one atop the other. As she held the force shields in place, low, pulsating hums reverberated from them.

“You may touch the shields,” Yigôzien said. “They are designed to prevent objects traveling at fast speed and will not impede regular movement.”

Passing one arm through the shield projected by the other, Svetlana saw that indeed, there was almost no feeling to them. Her arm passed right through the shield as if it was a hologram. This technology is fascinating. Svetlana tapped the depressions again and the force shields dissipated.

She was beginning to pick up on a trend, here—at least in terms of technology. There had now been numerous occasions when she’d seen the Kalarael utilize force field technology—technology she hadn’t encountered with any other species. This must have been an area of expertise for them, for whatever reason. It was interesting to think how the twists and turns of a species’ existence might lean it toward one technological path or another. What could humanity do with gauntlets like these? Graft them into EDEN armor? What an incredible defense against the weapons of the Khuladi. “You are trusting me with very powerful technology. Are your people not afraid at all that I might turn on them?” It wasn’t that she was trying to make them leery of her. It was just a common sense question to ask. What species in their right mind treated alien visitors this way?

Sincerely, Yigôzien smiled. Her eyes flickered blue. “Though we do trust you, we do not need to. If you turn on us, we will simply kill you.”

That kind of species. Before Svetlana could manage a response, Yigôzien was moving right on to the next article of clothing: the brown, leathery strap. The way she instantly transitioned from a potentially uncomfortable topic to the next order of business was jarring. Ed seemed to pick up on this, and it wasn’t long before he was tapping into Svetlana’s head again to communicate.

It is very difficult to offend the Kalarael or make them uncomfortable. Remember, they are extremely open to the thoughts and opinions of others. You can be perfectly frank with them at all times and not risk a social faux pas.

Glancing at the Ithini, she smirked. I don’t know what’s more impressive, she thought to him, that you know so much about their social mores or that you just spoke French.

I did not speak French. Your mind only interpreted it as—

Okay, that’s enough.

Yigôzien picked up the strap and extended it to Svetlana. “This sash fits over your shoulder.”

Its material was quite different from what her clothes were made from. It was like smooth, but leathery rubber. Lifting one arm, she slid the sash over it and situated it into place. Unlike her outfit, there appeared no mechanism to make it contract or conform to her body. It was just a sash.

Yigôzien smiled. “This is a bearing sash, intended to serve as a harness for your weapon.”

Svetlana watched as the invoker turned back to the floating bed, retrieving the last object—the short baton—and turning back in Svetlana’s direction. “This is a shock staff. It is a weapon used by darishu.”

A shock staff? This thing wasn’t a foot long. Yigôzien presented it to Svetlana with both hands, once again kneeling, as was apparently one of the many customs the invoker had to maintain. Unlike everything else she’d been given, this object had a little bit of weight to it. Deceptive weight, considering how small it was. Rising to a full stand again, Yigôzien motioned to the bearing sash.

“Wherever you place the staff against the sash, it will be held in place by magnetism. Please, try.”

Raising an eyebrow, Svetlana placed the baton against her side, where the sash went under her left arm. When it got close, it clamped against the sash with frightening strength. There must have been some serious magnets inside that thing. “I do not see how this is a staff,” Svetlana said as she regarded it.

Dipping her head, Yigôzien responded, “I understand. The staff is currently in carry form. Please, take it in your hand and hold it out.”

Upon detaching it from the sash, she did as told, eyes narrowing as she stared at the weapon.

“You will see a small depression on the surface. Press it in.”

Sure enough, there was a small, thumb-sized depression in the center of the rod. Carefully, she slid her thumb over it.

“Please make sure you are holding it tightly!”

Tightening her grip on it, Svetlana braced for whatever it was this thing was about to do. Placing her thumb atop the depression, with her arm fully extended, and her head leaning away, she finally pressed down.

Clink-cling-clank-swoosh! In a span that couldn’t have been more than half a second, the staff extended in both directions, piece after segmented piece until the eight-inch-long rod had suddenly become what looked like a five- or six-foot-long bo staff. Even the warning that Yigôzien had given her couldn’t prevent a startled, “Oh, my God!” from escaping Svetlana’s lips as the weapon was revealed in full. But now that it was in full form…

…wow.

This shock staff—for whatever reason they called it that—was absolutely beautiful. What a marvel of design. Drawing the weapon back to her, Svetlana held it in both hands and stared in wonder.

“On the Bakma vessel,” Yigôzien said, “you utilized a spear to dispatch your adversary—the one called Nagogg. Though this is not a spear, it is similar in design. It is what we have available here. We hope it pleases you.” She bowed her head and closed her eyes in a way that almost seemed reconciliatory.

Nagogg’s chieftain spear. The traditional weapon of a Bakma rider. Primitive for a space-faring species, but that was part of what made it work, in an odd, tribal way. When she’d felt that spear in her hands during the revolt, something in that mind of hers—something she’d dragged back from Nagogg’s twisted skull—clicked on a level that felt far too personal than it should have. Almost instantly, she knew what to do with that weapon. How to thrust it, how to parry with it. How to look good doing it. It was as if she’d downloaded the skill right into her brain. It was Nagogg’s familiarity with the weapon that she was tapping into. That she now owned. What was his, was hers. And now, standing in the middle of that domed room and holding that shock staff in her hands?

Yes…that pleased her greatly.

Yigôzien lifted her head. “The two tips of the shock spear are embedded with high-delivery shock charges that emit on contact. There are three settings for the device, which can be adjusted by toggle switch that should now be visible to you.”

Inspecting the shock staff, she indeed now saw what the invoker was talking about. On the segment nearest the center, there was a small, fingertip-sized switch. There were three options the switch could be set to. Blue, yellow, and red. Color her surprised.

“The shock staff can be set to three emission settings: blue, which is off; yellow, which is a stun setting; and red, which would be lethal to any organism it comes in contact with. The switch is a two-layer system. Before the toggle can be moved, the user must depress two safety depressions simultaneously on the segments beneath it.” Sure enough, there were two other new depressions that had appeared. “If you attempt to change the setting without pressing in those depressions with your other hand, the toggle will not move.”

That made sense. She was sure the last thing a Kalarael needed was for a training session to turn deadly because someone’s sweaty finger slipped on the emission switch. As of now, the toggle was set to blue—off. She was perfectly fine with that. “This is an impressive weapon.” Like the gauntlets, she’d never seen anything like this before. Tauthin and his brethren considered the Kalarael primitive, but to Svetlana, they were worlds beyond anything mankind had achieved technologically.

“You will also notice a smaller toggle beside the emission toggle. Activating it will produce sharp tips at each end of the staff. It is not exactly like the spear you utilized, but it is close.”

Manipulating the toggle, she saw that it did exactly as advertised. When it was activated, two small, metal spikes protruded from each end. Yigôzien was right in saying that this weapon was different from Nagogg’s spear. This was so much better. Well, let’s give this a test run. Taking hold of the staff with both hands, Svetlana spun it around her body, twirling it with wind-whipping force in one hand as she finally slammed it up and into her armpit, tucked and ready. Oh, yes. This will do nicely. From her side of the room and with her fox ears perked, Yigôzien asked, “Is the weapon to your liking?”

No words could express just how much this was to her liking. “Very much so, Yigôzien. Very much so.” Forget whatever pomp and circumstance the Kalarael had planned for her on the surface. She was ready to fight. Pressing the depression in the center of the staff again, she sent it retracting inward until it was once again in carry form. Stowing this thing away under her arm didn’t feel right, anymore. That wasn’t where a warrior would keep such a weapon. Holding one end of the baton, she passed it right over her shoulder with her left hand until it made contact with the part of the sash that crossed her back. It stuck instantly. Now that was the right way to go.

“Would you like to try on the mask?”

And right then—in the span of a single question posed by her fox-eared friend—any sense of bravado that Svetlana had been brewing got poured down the drain. Would she like to try on the mask? Would she like to face the reality of her own appearance? Would she finally look in the mirror?

No part of her wanted to do this, but she knew she couldn’t say no. This was a road that had to be crossed if she were to continue onward on this journey. She would have to face herself.

Deep in her mind, Ed’s presence stirred. If you are afraid, you may tell Yigôzien. As I have stated many times, they approach feeling and emotion with complete openness.

I am not afraid.

You are terrified.

She closed her eyes. There was no hiding from him. I am just not ready. I have not yet found the…

The what? The courage? She’d stood up to Nagogg before he’d cut off her nose. She’d endured torture, she’d kept her wits and determination in the face of not only overwhelming odds, but condescending “allies” such as Kraash-nagun. Then she’d broken her chains, led a revolution, and impaled Nagogg with his own spear. Without remorse, without hesitation. No. Courage was not what was keeping her from this now.

…I have not yet found the humility. How telling, with what all she’d been through. She could endure everything the universe could throw at her except the reality of lost beauty. How vain she was, and she’d never even known it.

There was hesitation in the Ithini’s mental voice. May I speak freely?

At this point, did he really think he couldn’t? You know you can.

You can do this.

Her eyes shifted from the lost stare she’d been giving the wall to the Ithini, still standing halfway across the room but whose eyes had been on her the entire time. She could do it. So he said. Through the connection, she could tell that he believed it.

Yigôzien was still waiting for the question to be answered. Drawing in a deep, labored breath through her exposed nasal cavities, Svetlana slowly turned her head the invoker’s way. Blowing out the long breath that she’d held in, she finally answered. “I will try on the mask…but first, I must look upon my face as it is now. If it is okay with you, I would like to do this alone.”

“I understand that you are a more private species than our own. We will afford you the privacy that you desire.”

As she nodded at Yigôzien in acknowledgment, she watched as the invoker approached the two darishu, gesturing for them to follow her out of the domed room.

I will sever our connection, master, Ed said. Please take all the time you desire.

Thank you, Ed.

There was a brief swell of affirmation, then the connection was closed. Turning in the direction of the exiting Kalarael, Ed followed them down the short hall that led to the archway. Svetlana was left alone.

Walking to the floating bed, Svetlana reached down to pick up the half mask. Holding it in one hand, she turned it around to look at its interior. Yigôzien had told her that all she would have to do is press it to her face and it would conform to her. It sounded so simple—as everything did in this place. It seemed that all anyone had to do to get things to work was to wave their hand or press a button. Everything was user-friendly. Easy. And it would be just that—easy—to place that mask on her face right then and avoid whatever horror awaited her in the mirror. But that wasn’t why she’d asked everyone to leave. This—she—was a monster she needed to face.

And it was time.

Closing her eyes, Svetlana prepared herself. She cared so much more about her appearance now that she was in the safety and comfort of the Kalarael space station. So much more than she had when she’d squished the juice out of that darkened, shriveled piece of flesh in the Zone Runner’s brig. Back then, she had nothing to lose. That was no longer the case.

Gone is whatever beauty I had. Nothing can change that, now. If I am to move on, I must face this.

With her eyes still closed, she felt herself turn toward the mirror. She felt herself taking a step closer to it, placing herself directly in its view. Even though she couldn’t yet see it, her reflection was already in front of her. Just open her eyes. That’s all she needed to do. Just open them.

You are going to see something horrible, Svetlana, she told herself. You are going to see a monster. Be prepared for it. Expect the worst so that you can get over it. The damsel in distress that you were is gone, now. Here, you are a warrior. Act like it.

She was ready. In her head, she saw her face as she had in the vision, back when she had only her imagination to guide her self-perception. She saw a hole. Vacant cavities. True, disfigured hideousness. The absolute worst. Drawing in a breath through the very holes she was preparing herself to see, Svetlana opened her eyes.

Her fingers relinquished their grip on the half mask. Her hand shot up to cover her gasping mouth; the mask unceremoniously fell to the floor. With eyes wide in horrified shock, time for Svetlana stood still.

Whatever horror she’d imagined, what she saw was so much worse.

It was a pair of holes. A pair of holes, right in the center of her face. There was nothing uniform about them—they were just torn wide open. The skin around them was discolored, crusted. The center of her face looked like a skull. There was no beauty to be found in this. None whatsoever. With water building beneath her eyelids, Svetlana felt whatever shred of hope she’d clung to evaporate.

There was no recovery from this. There was no silver lining. Her nose…was just gone. She looked like a ghoul.

“Oh my God.” The hushed words barely escaped her quivering lips. Water droplets trailed down her cheek as her face twisted further. She stared at her reflection until she could stare at it no further. Lowering her head and breaking down, Svetlana sunk to her knees in defeat.

How could she possibly live like this? How could she possibly face anyone from back home? They would shrink away in fright. She would never be hugged, never be looked upon with anything other than revulsion and pity. Why would she want to return home at all?

With shimmering eyes, she looked up from her place on the floor. Though she once again caught sight of herself in the mirror, distorted through the water in her eyes, she quickly turned her gaze to the domed ceiling. Through clenched, trembling teeth, she closed her eyes and seethed, “Why?” The word, though barely uttered at more than a whisper, was laced with rage. Once more, she repeated it. “Why?”

That no answer came was irrelevant. No answer would have been sufficient. No one deserved this.

Had Svetlana been in the right mind to contemplate it, she might have found it ironic that she’d clung to her faith unquestionably while a prisoner on the Zone Runner, yet now, in the safety of the Kalarael space station, that faith was being torn asunder. But she was nowhere near her right mind, and she had no desire to ponder any blessings that could be borne from such a nightmare as this. She was disfigured. She was hideous. To see herself with a hole in the middle of her face…there were no words to reconcile it.

Repositioning herself to sit on her knees, Svetlana evened her head and slowly opened her eyes. Through the thin layer of water that covered them, she saw her scarred face looking back at her in the mirror. The tears distorted the reflection just enough to hide the fine details of her wound. What she wanted—what she needed—was to hide the details completely. Of all the problems that Svetlana faced, it was one that had a solution. Inhaling a long, deep breath to steady herself, she shifted her eyes to the half mask on the floor.

Just press it to her face. According to Yigôzien, that was all she needed to do; the mask would take care of the rest. It would conform to her face, much, she presumed, like the clothes and the gauntlets she was wearing. It would help her to breathe. It would hide the source of her shame.

Just press it to her face.

Reaching out with a hand that was still trembling, she took hold of the outside of the mask. Even in the state she was in, she couldn’t help but find a measure of beauty in its stone blue simplicity. In its equal commitment to both form and function. Once I put this on, there is no turning back. Once I put this on, it is done. She couldn’t imagine being in a place where she would want to struggle to breathe again. She couldn’t imagine being in a place where she’d want to see her reflection. At least, not like it was right then. It was time for her reflection to change. With her open hand cradling the mask, she turned it outward and eased it toward her face. With every second she held it, the metal felt less cold to the touch. Closing her eyes, and with the mask a mere inch from her skin, she held her breath and pressed it against herself.

Nothing about the whines and clicks that emerged from the mask surprised her. She didn’t even flinch when it expanded to touch just beneath her ears, cradling her head on both sides just enough to keep itself in place. The very last sensation she felt was the pull of air-tight suction. The mask held firm to the lower half of her face even as she eased her hand away. With eyes still closed, Svetlana drew in a deep, steady breath.

Never before had the inhalation of oxygen felt so unrestrained. There was no struggle, no exhaustion. No subtle feeling of slow suffocation. It was the purest breath of air she could ever remember inhaling. So pure that it prompted her eyes to open.

Staring back at Svetlana was a woman she’d never seen before. One with blue eyes that were perfectly perched above the pointed curves of a metallic mask that hid half her face from view. No trace of the nasal cavities could be seen. To the Kalarael, the eyes were the only true way of conveying emotion. For Svetlana, that was also now true. Those blue eyes that stared back at her narrowed. Wiping her hand across them, she removed whatever trace of saline remained. She looked better without them. Drawing in another breath—one that was worlds easier than any breath she’d taken in the Zone Runner—she slowly pushed up from her knees.

Not so long ago, Svetlana Voronova had been a combat medic with the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk. One with a weak streak as prominent as the shoulder-length bob she’d once sported. But this woman who looked at her now? She was nothing like that Svetlana of old. Reaching behind her back, she pressed the button atop the shock staff, which was still clamped in place. The staff expanded in both directions, no longer hidden in the small form of a baton. It now stuck out for all the world to see. For all the cosmos to know she was ready to use it.

It took several minutes for the kaleidoscope of emotions inside Svetlana to settle. So much was transpiring under the surface. But time would not stand still for her to sort out all these emotions—and Yigôzien and Ed would not stand in the hall forever. It took everything inside Svetlana to pull her eyes away from the half-masked woman in the mirror. When she finally walked away, it almost felt like she was leaving something behind.

Yigôzien and Ed were waiting beyond the archway when Svetlana approached them. True to his word, Ed had remained disconnected all that time. It was beginning to dawn on her just how valuable that alone time was. She’d spent so much time connected to Ed by necessity. She needed a reprieve from that. She needed to figure out who she was by herself.

When Yigôzien and Ed saw her for the first time wearing the mask and with the shock staff extended, they stood erect. The surprise in both their eyes was evident. Attributed to an Ithini, that said a lot. Drawing in a deep breath just for the joy of it, she addressed her oval-eyed counterpart. “Please connect with me.” As the words came out of her mouth, her throat tightened a little. The half mask made her voice sound crisp—tinny. Though different, it reminded her of the amplified voices of armored Nightmen. It was like her voice was coming from a machine. It sounded a little less human.

The familiar prick of an Ithini connection appeared, and Ei`dorinthal’s voice came to her. I have never seen you emanate more power than you do now. Nagogg himself would tremble before you if he saw you like this.

Thank you, Ed. Now please, connect me with Yigôzien. Several seconds later, the invoker’s presence emerged in her mind. Turning to regard her, Svetlana asked, “When can I be reunited with my Bakma comrades?”

Eyes losing a bit of their blue, Yigôzien replied, “They have already been taken to the planet surface. We knew from our prior experience with their species that an extended quarantine was not needed.”

That explained why she hadn’t seen them yet. How long ago had they been transported? It didn’t matter. “And Mishka? My pet?”

“As he is a new species to us, he remained in quarantine along with you and Ed. If you wish to see him, I will have you taken to him.”

Nodding her head, she said, “I wish it.”

“I am at your command.”

Command. What a rigid, cold word for Yigôzien to have used—it was the first time Svetlana could recall it being spoken by her. So much of the invoker’s lexicon was refined and beautiful. Command seemed…almost misplaced. The word choice of a warrior, not someone with a title so elegant as invoker of custom. Was that what Svetlana evoked now? In a culture that draped itself in beauty and self-expression, did she bring out the militaristic authority? Did she bring out the fighter?

She was okay with that.

The walk to Mishka’s observation room was not a long one—it seemed she’d barely begun following Yigôzien at all before they were drawing to a stop at a circular doorway much like the one Svetlana had left. The pair of darishu that followed them there was met by a second pair, this one guarding the doorway—for good reason. If it was true that the Bakma were already on the surface, then Mishka was nothing more than a cornered animal waiting for something to bite.

Despite whatever inhibitions Yigôzien and the darishu might have felt, the door was opened for Svetlana to step through. Mishka was in the far corner, lying down flat on his stomach with his head stretched out on the floor. When the canrassi saw her, he huffed a loud breath and pushed up to his feet.

“Shhh,” she said to Mishka as he trundled her way. He displayed no signs of aggression—he didn’t so much as growl, despite the four darishu now readied with weapons behind her. He simply nuzzled his wide head against the side of Svetlana’s, nearly pushing her aside in the process. How big this creature was. It still amazed her to see up close. Yet there it was, this beast of raw, unabashed power, completely subservient. So eager to see her that it failed to see anything else. She—its master—was all that mattered. Fingers disappearing into Mishka’s tufts of fur, Svetlana closed her eyes and leaned her head forward.

As strange and surreal as it had been being on the Kalarael space station, she knew that whatever awaited on Kalar’s surface would be vastly more different. Vastly more…alien. But she was unafraid of it. She was ready for it. It was not the adrenaline of combat that she now felt coursing through her veins, but the adrenaline of exploration. Of facing the unknown. She used to run from such uncertainties. Now she wanted nothing more than to run to them.

There was something about connecting with the massive, spider-eyed beast before her that brought peace to her spirit. Opening her eyes and lifting her head, she said, “We will wait in this room until the transport arrives to take us to the surface.” Though her quarters on the space station was available, she assumed the Kalarael wouldn’t want a canrassi trundling about the place.

“As you wish, Svetlana.”

“Please bring food and water for my friends.” She assumed the Kalarael would know, based on their study of her body, what the Ithini and canrassi could and couldn’t eat.

Once more, the invoker bowed. “I shall do as you ask.” She stepped backward and out of the observation room.

It was some time before Yigôzien returned with food for Mishka, which consisted of a considerably larger bowl of the “antacid pudding” she’d eaten earlier. Whatever aversion Svetlana had to the stuff, Mishka apparently didn’t share it, and he gobbled up the contents of the massive bowl in under a minute. The speed at which Yigôzien reclaimed the bowl and then told Svetlana she would leave to fetch a refill actually amused her. It wasn’t surprising that they were eager to feed the beast now that they saw he would eat their available food. They likely wanted the monster as full as possible. Much to their blue-eyed pleasure, he gobbled up every bowl they brought until at long last, he tromped over to the corner of the observation room and plopped over on his side, licking the fur on his legs much as Flopper did his back on Earth. It prompted a smile from Svetlana, and she sat down next to him.

She had no idea how long it would take before the transport would arrive to take them to Kalar, but at present, she didn’t mind the wait. There was something about sitting beside the canrassi and just leaning her head against the wall that brought her comfort. That made her feel like everything would be okay. Opting to pass whatever time remained in tranquility, Svetlana closed her eyes and got lost down the wandering roads of quiet reflection. There would be plenty enough to get excited about once she reached the surface.

She’d enjoy this peace while she could.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Thursday, March 29th, 0012 NE

1551 hours

EDEN Command

BORING. BORING, BORING, boring. Golly, Molly, this is boring. I wish I had some gum.

Every minute that ticked by in the silence of Tiffany and Scott’s confinement cell felt like an eternity. Tiffany wasn’t sure how long she and Scott had been there together, strapped to their respective seats, but judging by the toll the inactivity had taken on her mind, she was fairly certain it was at least six thousand years.

I wonder how long a cosmopolitan decade is. I know it’s like, a lot of decades, I bet we’ve been in this room for like, at least that long. Yeah, I really need some gum. Like, right now. Spearmint or something, or maybe cinnamon—yeah, cinnamon! Geez, I haven’t had cinnamon gum in a decade, and by decade, I mean a real decade, not that cosmopolitan stuff.

Scott hadn’t said a word to her—or made a sound, for that matter—since their last conversation; the one in which she’d let him know, in many uncertain terms, that she was still on his side and working on a plan. Were she able, she’d be pleased to report that in the time that’d passed, she’d effectively eliminated pick the locks and squirm free from the list of potential escape methods.

The cell door opened. Tiffany’s heart pounded. Presumably, Archer and his cronies had sent a squad to investigate the warehouse district in Norilsk—if there even was such a district at all. She knew a visit from him was inevitable upon his learning that she’d lied to him—at which point she planned to insist that she wasn’t lying and that the Nightmen must have moved somewhere else. Admittedly, it was a tough sell, but what other options did she have?

Much to her relief, it was not Archer, Oleg, or anyone else she recognized who walked through the door, but a young, olive-skinned woman with a tightly pulled ponytail. In her hands was a tray full of food. As the woman stepped inside, Scott weakly turned his head in her direction. Eyes lighting up, Tiffany asked, “Are you room service?”

The woman’s almond eyes narrowed. In a voice that sounded as annoyed as her Asian accent sounded melodic and twangy, she answered, “Base security. We will be bringing your food.”

“Oh, okay. Hey, what’s a cosmopolitan decade? And do you have any gum? I’m Tiffany.”

“Uhh.” The woman stopped at the verbal barrage, a faint look of confusion on her face. “Ching.”

Tiffany’s eyes brightened. “You have gum! Sweet! Is it cinnamon?”

“I do not have gum.”

“Oh.” The Valley Girl frowned a bit. “I thought when you said ching, that was like, you know, ding-ding-ding, you had some.”

The woman angled her head, eyes squinting at Tiffany in what seemed genuine bewilderment and borderline offense. “I am Ching.”

Tiffany hesitated before saying quietly, “Oooh.” She looked at the woman’s name badge. Ching, indeed. The blonde’s mind raced. Is she part of the conspiracy? What if she’s not? Maybe we could friend up. What if I win her over, the way Scott won over Natalie? But Scott was all heroic and stuff. I’d need to, like, save Ching’s life, first. That’s gonna be hard strapped to this chair. Maybe I can give her relationship advice. “I like your ponytail.”

Ching set down a folding tray stand next to Tiffany’s chair. “I am going to take off your handcuffs. Please do not do anything stupid.”

Stupid? Tiffany wouldn’t even consider it. Right now, the only goal in her life was to become the best friend Ching had ever had. “No problem, Ching.” Tiffany stayed still as the soldier took out a set of keys and then quickly worked to remove her hand restraints. “That’s a cute name. Is it Chinese?” She looked Chinese. But not really. Maybe, kinda?

“It is Chinese. I am Filipino.”

“Neat-o!” What would really be neat-o is if she could somehow—very quickly—come up with a way to ask Ching about her loyalties without technically asking about her loyalties. But there was no subtle way to ask, are you part of the conspiracy? And even if she came up with a code through which to ask it, how in the world was Ching supposed to pick up on said code? This was the same obstacle she was facing with Scott. There was so much she wanted to tell him to give him hope. She’d had that whole encounter with Willoughby, Rex Gabriel, and Reginald Custer at Sydney. Aussie help was on the way! If there was only some way she could have relayed that to him.

As soon as Tiffany was free, Ching stepped back and set her hands on her hips. Nodding to the tray, she said, “Grilled chicken breast, steamed broccoli, yellow rice. Dessert is vanilla custard.”

“Ohmygod, custard!”

Ching recoiled.

Slapping her hands over her mouth—a motion so quick it prompted Ching to put her hand on her weapon—Tiffany opened her eyes widely in panic. I did not mean to say that out loud, but holy smokes! Custard. Custer! If I can use custard as a code word for Reginald Custer, I might be onto something that Scott can pick up on. Ching was still staring, her eyes wide and alert as if at any moment, the crazy woman in front of her might attack. Even Scott was now fully attuned to the strange, brewing situation. Good. Lowering her hands from her mouth and knowing that she needed to play this off hard, she said emphatically, “I…love…custard.”

Still staring bug-eyed, Ching warily nodded her head.

“Ching…you don’t understand. Custard is like…oh my God. Have you ever had it?”

“…yes.”

Keep it up, girlie! “Is it not the best thing ever?”

Mouth hanging, Ching finally settled on a completely uncertain, “Yes?”

Scott’s totally watching me, and everyone’s thinking about custard! Perfect. It was time to make her play. “When I was a teenager in the Valley, me and my best friend, Sydney, would skate to this local creamery called Reggie’s Custard, and like, oh my God, if you love custard, Reggie’s Custard is the best…custard…ever.”

Crickets. Ching was staring at Tiffany like she was a new species of alien.

“Do you think you guys can get some here? You guys can get anything, right? Heck, for all we know, this base is in the Valley, right?” She was pretty sure it wasn’t. “Look it up. Reggie’s Custard. R-E-G-G-I-E-apostrophe-S, custard.” She looked away in feigned thought. “Or was it Reginald’s? No, no, it was Reggie’s. Reggie’s Custard. Can you find it?”

“Will you eat, please?”

Had she dropped enough hints? Was Scott picking it up? She didn’t want to keep carrying on at the risk of sounding too obvious. She hoped she hadn’t crossed that line already. All she could do now was pray that Scott had—

“I know that place,” Scott said from his bench, the words prompting Ching to turn her focus to him.

Goose bumps broke out on Tiffany’s arms. Had he just…? “You know Reggie’s Custard?”

“Oh yeah,” he answered. “We had one, too. Two, in fact. On each side of Lincoln.”

In. Like. Flynn!

“They had that green one, G-Rex, that was amazing. It was something strange, like avocado.”

Backflips! Scott was name-dropping Rex Gabriel. She had done it! The blonde from San Fernando had actually done it. “I loved G-Rex! It was totally sweet, not like you’d think an avocado would be at all.”

Hands still on her hips, Ching looked between the two of them. “Avocado custard?”

Holy smokes, we’re sucking in Ching! “Yeah, I know, right? Avocado custard does not sound good at all, but I’m telling you, it doesn’t even taste like avocado. Maybe just like, a little bit.” Ching, I know you don’t know me, but you’re going to be one of my best friends. We’re going to have slumber parties, paint each other’s nails, doo up our hair like, totally wild.

“I have never heard of anything like that,” Ching said.

“It was sooo good.” Time for secret message number two. “And one of the great things about Reggie’s Custard was that they actually delivered. They would deliver custard right to your door!” Just like Reginald Custer is coming to Northern Forge. Or at least, she assumed by her brief conversation with them that someone from Pelican Squad was. Or…she hoped they would. Or…

From the bench, Scott asked, “Really?”

Believe in it! “Yeah, really. Even if you lived like, really far away! They’d make the trip all the way out.” Giddy. Tingly. Tiffany was waving mental pompoms in the air.

“Man,” Scott said, his voice sounding genuinely surprised, as weak as it may have been. “I had no idea.”

“Well,” said Ching, gesturing with a head bob to the tray, “I must stay until you finish, so please, eat.”

Nodding her head enthusiastically, Tiffany reached for the tray, setting it on her lap. Without hesitation, she cut a piece of chicken breast with her plastic knife and shoved it into her mouth. With her mouth still full and chewing, she asked, “What about him?” She pointed at Scott. “Where’s his?”

Lowering her head somewhat, Ching answered, “He is on a special diet.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“Nothing.”

For a split second, Tiffany thought her Filipino counterpart was being elusive, up until she realized that nothing meant just that. Eyebrows arching painfully, she said, “…oh, man. That is…” Awful, was what it was. “That’s a bummer.” They were starving him.

“Even if I could offer him food, which I cannot, he is on a liquid-only diet. He could not eat any of this.”

“What about the custard?” At least that’d be something. “Could he have it if I gave it to him?”

The soldier shook her head. “I am sorry. No.”

“It’s okay, Tiff,” said Scott from the bench. “It’s okay.”

It’s not okay. You don’t deserve this. This wasn’t the way any of this was supposed to have gone. Not for any of them, but least of all for Scott. He’d already given so much in this fight. It’d all been on his shoulders, and she hadn’t heard him once complain about it. I’m gonna bust you out of here, captain. I’m gonna bust out both of us. And when we land back at Northern Forge, you’re not going to be on any liquid diet. I’m gonna order you a steak, with French fries and sautéed onions. And I’m gonna get you a real dessert, like warm apple pie with whipped cream on top and a side of vanilla bean ice cream. And I’m gonna help you get your woman back, and I’m gonna fix her hair up so nice and make her look like a princess, and then you’re gonna marry her and live happily ever after, because you deserve that.

“Eat, please.”

Ching’s words interrupted Tiffany’s thoughts. The Valley Girl considered glaring at her. But what would that do? Maybe Ching wasn’t a part of any of this. Maybe she didn’t know anything about Archer or the conspiracy. Maybe she thought she was doing good. Maybe she’d worked hard to get where she was. Maybe her family was so proud. No, Ching didn’t need a glare or a snippy remark for being so hard. On the inside, she was probably scared like everyone else. Scared of the future but trying her best. Looking down at the plate of food and the one piece of chicken she’d cut out, Tiffany thought about the man strapped to the bench across from her. And how hungry he must have been. How could she eat right there in front of him? She slowly picked up the tray and extended it back to Ching. “Ching, thank you for this meal. I appreciate that you brought it. But if he can’t eat, neither will I.”

“Tiff,” Scott said, “don’t do that. Eat.”

“I will not eat. Not if you can’t.”

The Filipino woman stared at her, standing motionless as if unsure how to respond, until at long last she stepped forward to retrieve the tray. For a fleeting moment, her eyes met Tiffany’s as she took a step back.

Tiffany took full advantage of it. “Ching, don’t ever stop being you. Don’t ever stop loving the people you love, and don’t ever stop believing in the things you believe in, even if it lands you in a place just like it did us.” The almond-eyed woman stared as Tiffany spoke. “You have a legacy to uphold. You have people to make proud. Your family. Yourself. The people who trust you to do your job well. Don’t ever forget how important and beautiful you are. You can still shine, even if you’re stuck in a place like this. I think you’re cool as hell, even if we just swapped stories about custard for like, two minutes. Those were awesome minutes, and I’m glad I got to share them with you, and I hope you try avocado custard one day and it’s the best custard you’ve ever had.”

The words just poured out in the way they always did with Tiffany, one after the other in rapid-fire succession. Pure, unbridled authenticity. Unrestrained optimism. Try as she might—and she had been trying—secret codes and spy games were not what Tiffany did. Those things seemed more up Esther’s alley. Tiffany preferred being a ray of yellow sunshine. One that, every now and then, found a way to break through the dark clouds in a person’s heart. She was proud of the food code she’d conjured up—but she knew it was more a stroke of luck than skill on her part. She would much rather win someone over than fool them. Whether or not that worked with Ching, or with anyone, she didn’t know. But not knowing was never a reason to not try. Tiffany had played the popularity game long enough to know that people could spot a fake a thousand miles away. She’d always gotten furthest when she’d just been herself. Sunny and bright.

Ching made no initial response to the words Tiffany had fired at her. She only stared blankly for a few moments, before setting the tray down and clamping Tiffany’s wrists back into their restraints. Without another word, she turned, carried the tray of uneaten food back out of the cell, and closed the door behind her.

For almost a full minute, the cell remained draped in silence. It was Scott who finally broke it. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

Tiffany took in the words before offering her own. “I’m sorry I told them about the warehouse.” It was still important to hold up the guise, no matter how ineffective it might ultimately prove to be.

“You might be the most innocent person I’ve ever known,” Scott said.

She pursed one side of her lips. “I’m not innocent.”

“Your heart is,” he said in response. “That’s the part that counts. Take your own advice and don’t ever change that. No matter what.”

“Roger, captain.” I hope you’re watching in that camera, Archer. I hope you see that we’re starting to not care anymore. When you come back from Norilsk empty-handed, there won’t be any more tricks. You’ll know exactly who the two of us are.

Two friends with a mutual love of imaginary custard.

Even in the direness of their situation, she had to smile a little bit at that.

Soon, Archer’s goons would discover that Northern Forge wasn’t in a warehouse in Norilsk. She’d try to make something up, of course, to buy herself and Scott time…but she was already readying herself for when that plan failed. Then boredom would give way to terror. She knew it. She felt it. This was Archer giving her a moment of leniency because he thought she might be trustworthy. That veil would fall hard.

She’d hold onto this moment of peace for as long as she could.

* * *

Ligaya Ching was halfway up the hallway to Confinement when she crossed paths with Jaya. When the young Indian woman—devoid of spectacles this time—saw the full tray of food, she paused and raised an eyebrow. “Was there a problem?”

Dipping her head just slightly, Ligaya answered, “She did not want to eat.”

“Why not?”

“Because he could not.”

After humming to herself, Jaya asked, “Did she say anything to you?”

The guard shook her head. “She mostly talked about food.”

“The food she didn’t want to eat?”

“That’s right.”

Jaya’s eyes rolled. “Be guarded when she speaks to you. She will try to fill your head with lies.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ligaya said, bowing her head in subservience.

With no further words, Jaya turned to make her way down the hall. Ligaya left Confinement alone.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Thursday, March 29th, 0012 NE

1902 hours

EDEN Command

TIFFANY’S EYES HAD only just closed when the door to Confinement slid open. Oleg Strakhov, former Nightman and now security chief of Benjamin Archer, stepped inside. Eyes shooting back open as he entered, Tiffany watched the door close behind him. No one else had stepped inside with him. Not Archer, not another guard.

Nobody.

Oleg’s eyes shifted between Tiffany and Scott, whose back was to him on the inclined bench. Tiffany’s heart raced as the eidolon walked toward them.

The expression on Oleg’s face was one of trepidation—uncharacteristic of what Tiffany would have expected upon the discovery that her tale of Northern Forge’s location had been a tall one. Quite the contrary, he looked like a man conflicted. Tiffany wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse.

As soon as Oleg came into Scott’s view, Scott inhaled as one does when bracing for a blow. Even still, Oleg’s face remained the same, looking between the two with a certain level of what looked like fear. But why, of all people, would EDEN Command’s security chief be afraid? Surely, by this point, Archer and his fellow conspirators knew that Northern Forge was not in a warehouse in Norilsk.

Scott’s breathing remained purposeful. In, then out, then in, then out again in guttural huffs. All the while, his eyes remained solely on Oleg, while the eidolon’s shifted between the two of them. At long last, after the uncomfortable silence between them had fully festered, Scott addressed him. “What do you want?”

Please don’t be mean, Scott. Despite Tiffany’s actively fraying nerves, the desperate hope manifested that they might somehow talk their way out of this. Please don’t say anything nasty. Maybe, just maybe, playing nice would keep them alive—or at least, with all of their body parts intact.

Dark eyes settling on Scott, Oleg answered in a low, monotone voice, “There were no Nightmen in Norilsk.”

In Norilsk, Tiffany thought. Did that mean they were now discounting the Siberian city completely from their search? If so, that’d be a best-case scenario.

“Maybe you didn’t look hard enough,” Scott snapped back with a measure of sarcasm.

Tiffany couldn’t help it. “Scott, stop.” Don’t make this worse, I beg of you!

Oleg extended his open hand in Scott’s direction. “I am not here to argue.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Don’t sound like a jerk!” Tiffany pleaded.

Scott’s good eye narrowed spitefully as he responded to Tiffany’s pleas with bluntness. “Some people have something worth saving. This is not one of them. Don’t trust a thing—not one thing—that comes out of his mouth.”

“But Scott, if we just—”

“There is no, ‘if we just,’ Tiffany. Not with him.”

For what it was worth, Oleg’s demeanor had not shifted once from his entry into the cell. Even amid Scott’s outbursts, the chief didn’t so much as bat an eye. Tiffany had no doubt that Scott was telling her the truth about Oleg. Regardless, there was no part of Tiffany that wanted to test this man.

“Where is Northern Forge?” Oleg asked.

Scott spat at him. “Go to hell.”

Had Tiffany not been restrained, she’d have marched to that bench and slapped Scott across the face. “Oh, come on!”

“Tell me, Remington,” said Oleg, before looking over to Tiffany. “Or you, if you can be more reasonable.”

“I already told you,” she answered. “It was in a warehouse in Norilsk. If they didn’t find it, I don’t know why. Maybe they moved!”

Slowly, Oleg shook his head. “They did not move. And they are not in a warehouse in Norilsk.”

“I don’t have any explanation for that other than what I told you. That’s where they were, I swear to God. Why would I lie to you?”

“For so many reasons.”

He had her there.

“Archer is not here,” Oleg said, “but he will be soon. The cameras are off. No one is watching or listening. It is just the two of you and me.” He paused. “I know the two of you are collaborating together.”

Fear gripped Tiffany tighter.

“Oh, yeah?” asked Scott, his tone still mocking. “How’s that seem to be working out for us?”

The eidolon shook his head. “I don’t yet know.”

“Well, how about this? How about you tell Archer to come here and do his dirty work himself?”

“He does not know I am here.”

Scott shook his head. “I find that highly unlikely.”

“My God, Scott, will you please shut up?” She and Scott were in no position to mess with anyone, let alone this man. What if he was telling the truth?

Answering Scott calmly, Oleg said, “I have already withheld from Archer information I have learned from you. You should know me well enough by now to know that I am on no one’s side but my own.”

“Yeah, you got that part right.”

With every snippy word that Scott spoke, Tiffany died a little more. “You’re just not gonna listen, are you?” she asked him.

“Everything that comes out of this man’s mouth is a lie,” Scott answered her. “Whatever he says, don’t believe it—especially if he claims to be withholding information. He wouldn’t withhold anything. But it doesn’t matter, because he’s got nothing on me, or you, or anyone.”

For the first time, there was a shift in Oleg’s countenance. Angling his head, he said, “Pelican Squad.”

Silence. Scott’s defiant expression fell to the wayside as Tiffany went into panic mode. He knows! Oh my God, he knows! How could he possibly…? Play it off, play it off, play it off! “Uhh, what?”

Oleg’s eyes remained solely on Scott. “It was during the rescue of Pelican Squad that your friend, Becan, decided to out me as an eidolon—a mistake he has suffered for. I remember every detail about that mission, including the names of every person we rescued. Names like Reginald Custer.”

“Reginald, who?” asked Tiffany.

“Do not play foolish, girl. I know full well that you communicated with them while you were at Sydney.”

All she could do was shake her head and hope he’d buy it. “I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of anyone called Reginald Custer.”

“Really?” He looked at her with disappointment. “Says the woman who went to a place called Reggie’s Custard?”

We’re busted. Feigning shock, Tiffany widened her eyes and said, “Oh, wait a minute…did you…? Did you think…?” She had nothing. “Oh, I see! Custer, custard. Custer sounds like custard, right? But no, I mean really, there’s really a place called Reggie’s Custard! I really used to go there all the time.”

“With your friend, Sydney?”

Crap. “Uhh, yeah…oh wait! Did you think I was talking about the base of Sydney?”

“Tiff,” said Scott, defeat evident in his voice for the first time, “it’s over.”

For a man who’d argued with Oleg every step of the way, Scott sure gave up at the drop of a hat. “Okay, maybe you two thought I was speaking in some kind of code, but I totally was not. I had a best friend named Sydney growing up, and we went to a place called Reggie’s Custard literally every day of the summer. Look the place up if you don’t believe me.” Please don’t look it up.

“And what was Sydney’s last name?”

Her hazel eyes widened. For almost five full seconds, she just stared at Oleg blankly. Her mouth hung open, as she uttered the word, “…Syd…nies?”

“Sydney Sydnies?”

“I know, it’s weird, right?”

Even Scott seemed embarrassed at this point. “Please stop. Please, just…stop.”

“I knew what you were doing the moment I reviewed the recording,” said Oleg. “As security chief, I have access to everything here.”

Scott laughed under his breath. “Security chief. How long have you had that gig?”

Oleg answered, “About one day.” No response came from Scott, and Oleg continued, looking at Tiffany. “I know, with no doubts, that you communicated with Pelican Squad in Sydney. This does not surprise me—not with the history that Captain Gabriel has with the Fourteenth.”

I really need to learn about this history, thought Tiffany. The Fourteenth has been through so much! How in the heck did they get mixed up with a team of Australians? How do Scott and Oleg know each other? Why is there so much hatred here?

“I have not reported this to anyone, nor do I intend to if you cooperate.”

“So, in other words, you’re going to blackmail us,” said Scott.

“Scott,” said Oleg, the use of Scott’s first name seeming to garner him more attention, “you need to give Archer the information he wants. The Nightmen pose a real danger.”

From his bench, Scott shook his head. “How can you talk like such a hypocrite? How do you have the gall?”

“EDEN bombed Chernobyl during the Japanese mission. I assume you heard this at some point.” The lack of a reaction from Scott insinuated that he did. “It was an attempt to squash the Nightman resistance once and for all. To clear the way for what had to be done.”

What had to be done? Tiffany’s brow quirked, and she angled her head. Was he privy to the big picture, here? Could they possibly glean something from him?

“A cleanup team was sent to inspect the rubble, only to discover that there were no bodies in it. No bodies, no armor, no necrilids.” When Oleg said it, a surprised look crossed Scott’s swollen face. The eidolon seemed to catch it. “This surprises you.”

For several seconds, Scott continued his silent resistance. Slowly, though, familiarity between the two men—as antagonizing as it may have been—appeared to be prevailing. “That’s where they were going,” Scott said. “The caravan left, containing all of the Nightman remnant. I heard it straight from Antipov’s mouth.”

“Anti-who?” asked Tiffany.

Ignoring the question, Oleg said, “So did we.”

Scott cocked his head.

“We heard the two of you talking,” Oleg said, prompting Scott to blink. “How do you think we knew to catch you in Japan? It was all in a single intercepted conversation that we heard.”

“How in the world did you hear it?”

Clearing her throat, Tiffany asked again, “Hello? Looking for a little elaboration, here.” Seriously, who is this Antifreeze guy?

Once more, she was ignored. “Because we found an abandoned helmet in Hami Station, which we used to tap into the frequency that Antipov was using.”

Antipov. At least Tiffany had his name, now.

Looking away from them, Oleg angled his head down, as if in deep thought. At long last, after almost ten seconds of silence, a thin smirk crept out, and he laughed under his breath. “He set us up.”

“How?” Scott asked, his tone of voice already indicating that he might actually believe it.

“Could he have?” Oleg asked himself. “Could he have really?” Inhaling a long, deep breath through his nose, he looked at Scott and said, “What if he had the helmet left on purpose? What if he meant for EDEN to find it, knowing that they would tap into the frequency and overhear him? What if he aimed to use that to provide false information?”

Shaking his head, Scott said, “That’s a plan with a heck of a lot of assumptions.”

“None of which are unlikely. Obviously, EDEN would search for clues at Hami Station. They would no doubt find a Nightman helmet. Would it not be natural for them to use it to their advantage and attempt to tap into the Nightmen’s comm chatter?” He seemed to think. “And that conversation was the only one intercepted. He made it clear to you that there would be no more communication and not to use that channel again.” Oleg seemed a man who was putting things together. “He left his trail of breadcrumbs, then he disappeared.”

“Yeah,” Scott said, “but that was also the conversation where he told us about the train—” Scott’s words dropped off sharply, as a blank expression came over him. Turning his head away from Oleg slowly, he stared up in deep thought—deep realization—at the ceiling.

Oleg was realizing things, too. Slowly, the most sinister of smiles crept up from his lips. “And now, this starts to make sense.”

Wait a minute. Tiffany’s own brain was racking, trying to make sense of this herself. So, if this guy started talking about Chernobyl with the purpose of EDEN overhearing it, like this Oleg guy thinks happened, does that mean…? No. It couldn’t be. Holy snaps, did he want them to hear about Japan, too? Had the outlaws been set up by their own people?

“No,” Scott said, shaking his head as he looked at Oleg again. “That’s not possible.”

He was in denial. Even Tiffany could hear it.

“There’s no way…” Scott went on. “He wouldn’t…” Seeming to struggle for words, he found none.

Oleg filled the void for him. “Would he not really? The man who arranged for the Cairo operation? The man who is ten steps ahead of everyone around him?” Half shaking his head, he said, “General Thoor was a threat right in front of your face. But Iosif Antipov? He is the one you never see coming.”

“Are you telling me this whole mission was a lie?” Tiffany asked, her heart starting to simmer. “That the Nightmen set us up to be captured? But why? Why would they do that?”

“You cannot guess why a man like Antipov does what he does. You can only rest assured that in the end, it will work out for him better than it will for you.” Returning his focus to Scott, he said, “And now you know why I have no loyalty toward the Nightmen. They have shown that they have none toward me.” He pointed at himself fervently. “I did my job when I was assigned to you. I was there to guide, not to destroy. I was there to make sure leadership of the Fourteenth was in the right hands: yours. And how was I repaid? Demoted to fulcrum. Fulcrum may be a high position to you, but it does not compare with the eidola. I was among the best.”

From the chair, Tiffany could see Scott’s good eye shimmering. It was rage. Pure, burning rage. She felt it, too.

Oleg continued. “There are no heroes here, Remington. Not Antipov. Not Archer. Not you or me. Our task is only to choose which villain to side with.” His mouth downturned. “I feel for you. You did not ask for any of this. But I have still sided with the villain who needs answers that only you can provide. If I must torture it out of you, then that is something I am prepared to do. Now that you know the truth, however—that the Nightmen only ever saw you as an instrument—I am hopeful that you will cooperate willingly.”

“Go to hell,” Scott seethed, face turning away, eyes still brimming with hatred. Though his words were for Oleg, Tiffany knew the object of his ire was someone else.

“Oh, I will, of that there is no doubt. But I will go to hell knowing that no one controlled me. No side of this war, no God. No one but me. There is a measure of dignity in that.”

There was no dignity in that whatsoever. Not in Tiffany’s book. This is a sad, sad man. The world was full of sad men, it seemed. What better time for a woman to step up to the plate? Conjuring up whatever tolerance she had left for games—for it seemed that everyone, everywhere, was playing them—she cleared her throat and looked at Oleg straight on. “You’ve been through a lot. I can tell.”

Chuckling, Oleg looked at her and smiled. “I would say nice try, but that would be too generous.”

“I’m serious.”

“You are not.”

Grr. “There’s time to do the right thing. Whatever that may be. But listen, if you let us go, we have friends who can help. Who can do…good.” She was swinging that bat blindly, for all it was worth. “The Fourteenth, Pelican Squad.” It felt strange to say their name out loud, but Oleg already knew. “If you let us out, we can get out of here together. Get me to a ship, and I can fly us all out of here.”

“And leave your other friend behind?”

Opening her mouth, Tiffany found no words. After a moment, she could only manage, “Uhh, what?”

Scott, too, looked at Oleg strangely.

“There was another survivor. He was brought here from Japan. Or she, I do not know. Their identity has not been made known to me.” He paused. “I only know that they were brought here badly injured. They are in the medical station now. The guards…” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. My guards are at post around it. But even they are not allowed inside to see who it is.”

Oh no! This was awful. Who could it be? Natalie? Becan? Esther? The mere thought that any one of them could be there at EDEN Command, suffering just like they were but without the comfort of a comrade to help them through it, was…

…it was terrible.

Don’t get distracted! Keep workin’ this guy. “We can bring them, too. If you can get us out of here, I know you can get whoever else is here. No one here has to side with the bad guys.”

“She’s right.”

Tiffany’s jaw wanted to hit the floor, and she looked at Scott as he spoke to Oleg. Was he joining Team Positivity? Yay! Let’s get this party started!

“Forget everything you’ve done, forget everything I’ve done,” said Scott. “You’re in a position to find the truth about all of this. You have access to Archer. All we need is to get that information out.”

“And to get out of here,” Tiffany said, nodding for emphasis. “That’s a major part of the plan.”

Nodding placatingly, Scott said, “And if it’s possible, to get us all out of here.”

A small smile of amusement emerged from Oleg’s lips. “This is cute. The star quarterback and head cheerleader joining forces to save the world. Are you sure you have your heart set on Sveta, Remington? You two would make a more fitting couple.”

Tiffany rolled her eyes. Come on, dude, really? I was never head cheerleader.

“I appreciate the offer,” said Oleg. “I know how sincere it is.” His tone indicated he didn’t. “But that is not something I could consider.”

“Why?” She wanted to know. “Why wouldn’t you? What would be so hard about giving good a chance? Whatever you did, whatever you think you’ve done that’s so horrible, it doesn’t have to make you who you are now. You can change the narrative.”

Turning his head to look at Tiffany directly, Oleg canted his head. “Change the narrative? Why would I want to do that? In four hundred years, when we are all long dead, it is not you that history will look upon favorably. You can mark my words for that.”

“How can you say that?” she asked. “How can you look at what you’re doing—what Archer is doing—and believe in any part of your mind that the side you’re on is right?”

The question lingered in the cell as Oleg stared back, his eyes seeming to search for some way to answer—to convey understanding. “Would you sacrifice one life to save a thousand, even if it was your own?”

Blinking, Tiffany wondered if this was a trick question. There was only one answer that could possibly be construed as morally right. “Yes.” Of course, she would.

Angling his head in the other direction, Oleg asked her, “Then would you not sacrifice one planet to save a species?” He paused. “Even if it was your own?”

Sacrifice a planet? Sacrifice Earth? “I…” She didn’t know how to answer. She didn’t get the context.

“You insist on knowing why we are doing what we are doing. How I or anyone could follow a man like Benjamin Archer. But what you do not know—what no one can know—is that Archer is the only man doing what must be done to save us all.”

Lying on his bench, Scott looked completely enthralled. “Is Archer sacrificing Earth? Letting it lose, letting it die?”

“You were in the same meeting I was, that day when Thoor called you into his Throne Room. I used the term to describe Earth myself. You know well what our planet is.”

A lump formed in Tiffany’s throat. Lips parted, she watched Scott to see his reaction to whatever it was that they knew and she didn’t. She swore that, even from a distance, she saw something in his face fall.

Scott’s good eye remained on Oleg as the anger—the desperation—on his face relented. Like a man realizing something for the first time. With a tone as defeated as Tiffany had ever heard it, he looked at Oleg and said, “We’re Interstellar Midway.”

Midway. An island in the middle of the Pacific. As a fighter pilot, Tiffany knew it well. It was the perfect staging point for a war across an ocean.

“Now imagine,” said Oleg, “if you could travel back in time and topple that little island to the bottom of the ocean. Imagine you could blot it out. Imagine if it was not there for the enemy to use.”

…oh God…

“That is what Archer has the courage to do.”

Slowly, Scott shook his head. “Oleg, don’t tell me…”

“I said it to you in the Throne Room. When God made the universe, He put us in a very bad place.”

It felt like Tiffany’s soul had been sapped out. She stared at Oleg in horror. “Archer is going to destroy the Earth,” she said, no trace of emotion in her words. Almost stated in disbelief.

“No,” Oleg replied. “That is not something that our species can do. But the Ceratopians?”

The chill in Tiffany’s spine got colder.

“Yes.” Slowly, the eidolon nodded. “That is within their capability.”

Earth destroyed. Not war torn…destroyed. A flurry of images flew through Tiffany’s mind. The Statue of Liberty melting. Mount Everest crumbling to pieces. The oceans evaporating away in an instant. All forbearers to the ultimate end—the only end Tiffany could envision when a word like destroyed was used for the only planet humanity had ever known. That green and blue jewel spread about the solar system in bits of rock and dust. With every second she fathomed it, her lungs breathed heavier.

“Tell me this can be stopped.” His voice trembling, Scott seemed as affected as Tiffany. “Tell me there is some other way.”

“Yes,” he answered quickly, “it can be stopped. Some believe that the Nightmen, should they marshal a force, could stop it. They tap into humanity’s greatest strengths: stubbornness and resistance. If they somehow spread this message—spread the word about what Archer intends to do—the rest of mankind would rally behind them. As to your second question? There is no other way. If Earth remains, the Khuladi will take it. Our species will be enslaved and used as the Bakma to conquer the rest of the galaxy. The Ceratopians are next.”

None of this addressed the question at the front of Tiffany’s mind. “If Earth is destroyed, what about us? What about everyone? Is he willing to just let us go extinct?”

“A great portion will be spared,” Oleg said. “They will be taken away from this world before the time comes. Brought to a new world, to start anew with technology like we have never seen. A place deep in Ceratopian space, where we can forge a new path with their guidance and protection.” Despite the promise of his words, a forlorn look crossed his face.

Scott seemed to catch it. “You’re not buying this. Oleg, I can see it.”

“I am part of this now.”

“Like hell you are. If you were all-in, you wouldn’t be telling us all this.”

It was exactly what Tiffany was thinking, too.

“You’re doubting,” said Scott. “You’re wrestling, you’re grappling on the inside. You’re telling us because you want to see how we react to it. To see if, to any degree, we buy into the notion that the only way to save humanity is to scuttle the planet, because that would in some way justify the side that you’ve chosen.” That defiance in Scott’s face returned. “Well, I don’t. I don’t buy into it, Oleg, not at all. Whatever the Khuladi bring, whatever force they wield, we can fight them off. We can fight like hell.”

As Scott spoke, a new look showed itself on Oleg’s face. Sympathy. “Oh, Remington,” he said, shaking his head. “You have no idea what the Khuladi will bring.”

“But you don’t want this. I can see it in your face, eidolon or not. You can’t hide the kind of fear you’re showing. Look, I don’t care what we’ve been through,” Scott said, “or what you’ve done to the Fourteenth, or what the Nightmen did to you. None of that matters now. This is bigger than all of that.” Swallowing a single time, he looked Oleg squarely in the eyes. “Help us. Help us find another way. There must be one.”

Turn him. Tiffany was praying like she’d never prayed before. God, let Scott turn him. Whatever this guy did, whoever he is, let Scott turn him to our side like we were able to turn Natalie. Her hazel eyes watched Oleg intently. The eidolon still hadn’t answered.

At long last, he did. “In appreciation for you not disclosing to Archer what we just talked about…I will not reveal Tiffany’s communication with Pelican Squad.”

“Don’t side with him, Oleg,” Scott said. “Don’t do it.”

“He will ask you for answers. The location of Northern Forge, the scope of what you know and who else knows it. When you do not provide them, he will instruct me to torture you.” That same, veiled countenance remained on his face. “For what it is worth, I will not enjoy it as much as I imagined.” Taking a step back, he said, “Good luck, my friends.” Turning around, he strode for the door.

Lurching up on the bench, Scott was held in place fast by its restraints. “Oleg!” He fought harder—with every ounce of strength he seemed capable of summoning in his weakened, injured state. “Oleg!” No words were given in response from the eidolon as he disappeared from view, the cell door closing in his wake.

Completely defeated. There was no other way for Tiffany to feel. It felt like her heart had been ripped from her chest and tossed to the floor to bleed out. This conspiracy, this plot…it was so much worse than she’d imagined.

She didn’t care if they were restrained. She didn’t care if there seemed no way out of this. All that mattered—the only thing that mattered—was that they got out of there to warn the rest of the world. Her voice shook as she spoke to Scott. “We can’t give up. We can’t.”

“What can we do?” His words didn’t sound so much defeatist as they did desperate. “If you’ve got something, please, let me hear it.”

“What would Esther do?”

Looking at her strangely, Scott asked, “What?”

“Esther! She’s a spy, right? Super sneaky, always thinking on her feet. How would she get out of this?”

“She wouldn’t have gotten into this.” Seeming to sense his answer’s uselessness, he said, “I don’t know. I don’t know what Esther would do.” He strained to lift his head and look at her. “But we are not her. We’re Scott Remington and Tiffany Feathers. A soldier and a pilot. Whatever we do, we have to do it ourselves. But Tiff…” The way he said her name prompted her to listen more closely. “I said it before, but I’ll say it again. It doesn’t matter what they do—not to you, not to me—we cannot, at any cost, tell them where to find Northern Forge.”

She nodded, gulping. “I know.”

“Do you know?”

“Yes.” His asking again wasn’t offensive. It was making the situation known. “I know, Scott.”

Eyes still on her, he said, “Focus. Focus hard. Because if we don’t find a way out of here fast…this is going to get very, very painful for us.”

That, she knew, too.

Archer was inevitable. Tiffany knew it. Scott knew it. And when he came, so would the demand for answers. Then, the torture. Tiffany had never experienced torture the way the conspirators would surely deliver it. She had, however, experienced the torture of losing her father. She hoped that, deep down on the inside, she might be able to tap into that sadness with which she’d grown so accustomed—which she spent every day of her life shielding from view—that it might make the physical torture just a bit more tolerable.

Neither said a word in the hours that followed. Hours that, slowly but surely, were bringing them closer to a confrontation with the man behind everything. If there’d been a clock in the room, she’d have watched it steadily, for no other reason than to make time move more slowly. With no such fixation, though, she found herself desperately clinging to every second that passed as if it might be the last one she had. At some point, those seconds would run out, and that cell door would open. Whatever awaited—whatever was coming for them—she was determined to resist it. To defeat it. To not give it the satisfaction of thinking, for one moment, that it’d won. In the quiet of the cell, such mental bravado was easy to summon.

Time would tell if it could survive in reality.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

Thursday, March 29th, 0012 NE

2214 hours

Atami, Japan

IT WASN’T GOING to happen. Stretching her neck to the side, Natalie contorted her body quietly beneath the covers of the king-sized bed she was sharing with Esther. For over an hour, the chestnut-haired captain had rolled from side to side, turning her head one way, then the next, then back again, straining with all of her brainpower to think of absolutely nothing so that she could fall asleep. Yet sleep stayed elusive. At this point, she was just about ready to give up entirely and slip out into the main room.

With three bedrooms available in Nobu’s suite, the decision had been made to split the group of survivors into two, leaving the third bedroom entirely for the Yakuza lackeys. The Nightmen would sleep in the room with Jakob Reinhardt, while the rest of the survivors would share the room that Esther had previously claimed for herself. Unlike the night before, when the scout had sequestered herself off without a word, tonight Esther seemed at least partially open to allowing herself back into the fold. It was amazing what a shower and a little alone time could do. Natalie was thankful that Esther had gotten both earlier.

What she hadn’t expected was to be sharing a bed with her. But it was what it was. Insisted upon by the men of the unit, the king-sized bed had been given to the two women to share, and with a pillow between them, they had more than enough space on the massive mattress to completely avoid one another while they—or Natalie, at least—tossed and turned.

Whereas their first day in Ikeda-kai “care” had been a whirlwind, the latter part of day number two had dragged on like nothing else. There was only so much watching television that any of them could tolerate, particularly when one of the hot topics was speculation on which outlaw—Becan or Jayden—could have survived. Natalie knew how much of a toll that must’ve been taking on Esther, so she’d ordered the television off, which no one complained about. Quite frankly, they were sick of seeing their names and faces everywhere, anyway.

Natalie was struggling with intense guilt over the possibility that the survivor might have been Jayden. In her head, she knew that tearing Esther away from the cowboy to make their retreat was the right decision. But with each hour that passed, she questioned it more and more. Could one of them have carried him? Could they have engaged the attacking Vectors further in an effort to hold them off while they checked Jayden for vitals, then perhaps stabilized him? The answer to all of these, at least from logic’s perspective, was a resounding no. Death for all of them had literally been seconds away. Even if it had been Jayden who was clinging to life and someone had carried him out of there, who was to say that the act of carrying him wouldn’t have killed him by itself? Tearing Esther away from Jayden and leaving him behind had been the right decision, there was no doubt about it. It just left her feeling painfully wrong.

As for the rest of the day’s events, there hadn’t been many of them. She hadn’t spoken much to Logan since their spat earlier, and even though it’d quelled just a bit, she was still plenty angry with him. Not surprisingly, he left the guest suite earlier in the evening to sleep in some other place that Nobu had set up for him. As rough around the edges as Logan had always been, it seemed that here, in Japan, he was afforded a life of luxury. That was fine by her. Maybe a little distance would benefit them both.

Other than that, nothing noteworthy had occurred. The crew just spent their time meddling about and clustering off into little groupings, where they passed time either quietly conversing or playing card games with the various decks that they’d found in the suite. Natalie hadn’t been particularly interested in games or small talk, so she mostly stayed off by herself. It gave her time to clear her mind, which she desperately needed. What she desperately needed now, though, was sleep. Not even the sound of slamming rainfall outside had been enough to lull her. She might as well have gone to bed after drinking a pot of coffee.

This is ridiculous.

Reaching her hand up, she ran her fingers through her hairline, then released the quietest of sighs. The last thing she wanted to do was to risk waking anyone else up by trying to sneak out of the bedroom. At some point, she had to hope, sleep would just come.

“Are you awake?”

The whispered words were Esther’s, and Natalie almost flinched a little when she heard them. Turning to look at the scout, she saw that Esther was already looking at her, her large, brown eyes visible even in the darkened room. “I’m sorry, am I keeping you awake?” Natalie whispered back.

“Yes.”

Ugh. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to keep still.”

There was a slight pause before Esther replied, “It’s okay.”

There was nothing irritable about the way the scout said it. Quite the contrary, she almost sounded…relieved. Rolling over to face in Esther’s direction, Natalie asked, a bit automatically, “Are you doing all right?” If I’d have told myself a week ago that I’d be lying in bed in a nightgown with Esther, I’d have laughed my head off and then slapped myself.

“No.”

Now that caught Natalie’s attention, not so much because the scout wasn’t doing all right, but that she’d actually admitted it. Brow furrowing, Natalie shifted a bit to get comfortable on her side. “Talk to me.”

There was a pause—one long enough to make Natalie think that the scout might be on the verge of breaking down. The poignancy of what Esther said next, though, hit hard enough on its own. “How does one be a good person?”

A good person? Natalie blinked a single time, her emerald eyes gazing into Esther’s as if searching the Briton’s soul for the question’s hidden meaning. But there was none to be found. There was only the question itself—one as heart-wrenching as it was genuine. “What do you mean?”

After a short hesitation, Esther said, “Just what I asked.”

Shaking her head slowly, Natalie answered, “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. You’re a good person.”

“Oh, Esther,” Natalie whispered, a sad smile emerging as she stared the scout in the eye. “My face is plastered on every screen from Tokyo to Kansas City. I don’t think many people would categorize me on the side of good right now.”

Esther’s face remained stoic. “It doesn’t matter what people think. You know that.”

She did.

“That woman who’s plastered on every screen isn’t the villain everyone thinks she is,” said Esther. “But me…” Her voice trailed. “I am exactly what they say. Word for word.”

“That’s not true.”

Nodding, Esther said, “It is.”

Though it wasn’t intentional, Natalie felt the expression on her face shift a little. The guise of trying to be polite and agreeable fell. Against this woman, it wouldn’t succeed.

“I didn’t have a father growing up,” Esther said. “What few memories I do have are of an abusive man—physically to my mother, verbally to me.”

Brow arching painfully, Natalie narrowed her eyes as if feeling the pain herself.

“He was out of the picture when I was a young girl. Our lives were better for it, but…” She hesitated. “I still grew up with the pain of not having a dad. I take responsibility for the woman I am, but I wonder how different I could have been had I grown up with a proper family.”

So much about Esther suddenly makes sense.

“Fast-forward to today, when I find out that one of my two closest friends might have survived in the woods. Most people don’t know this, but Becan has a baby son in America.”

Natalie didn’t know Becan terribly well. The most she’d interacted with him, ironically, was when they’d fended off Oleg.

Drawing in a breath, Esther continued. “So now, in my heart, I have to choose. Do I want to wish another child fatherless, or do I wish to lose my husband?”

My God, what kind of an awful choice is that?

“I have been at war with myself since I heard the news,” said Esther. “A good person would want the father to live. As much as they might love their husband or wife, they would recognize the enormity of a child growing up without a dad. They would sacrifice their own desires for the sake of an innocent’s.” Esther’s body jolted—enough to make Natalie wonder if the breakdown had arrived. If it had, though, Esther’s voice gave no indication of it. “But I just want Jayden back.”

This was normal. This was so totally normal. “Esther, listen to me. Anyone in your shoes would want that.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“What, do you think I wouldn’t?”

Nodding, Esther said, “I know you wouldn’t.”

How could Natalie explain this? “Look, if I had to choose between Scott or someone else’s dad, I’d be struggling the same way as you.”

Esther’s body went still. Lifting her chin, her brown eyes stayed fixed on her chestnut-haired counterpart. The look she was giving Natalie was…definitely a look.

Blinking and angling her head a bit against her pillow, Natalie looked at Esther strangely. “What?” What’d I say?

The expression on Esther’s face told ten tales at once. Surprise. Understanding. Suspicion. Curiosity, knowing, conveying. Like she had something significant to say. At long last, she said it. “Scott.”

Scott? What did he have to do with any of this? The perplexed look on Natalie’s face remained.

Laughing a single soft breath, Esther cracked as wry a smile as she seemed capable of cracking. “You don’t even realize you said it, do you?”

“Said…?” Said what? Backtracking in her mind, she searched back to see if anything she said might have initiated this odd little tangent. It did not take her long. When she caught what Esther already had, her eyes widened in horror. “Oh my God.” Even those words she hadn’t meant to utter, but out they came.

“I can already tell Sveta’s going to love you,” Esther whispered.

You idiot, Natalie! She exhaled a hard breath. “Okay. Just…” Just what? She had no follow-through. “All right…”

Smirking subtly, Esther said, “Take all the time that you need.”

Oh, just forget it. Sighing and with nowhere to go but up, Natalie allowed the embarrassment to take her. “Yeah, so, I have a crush on Scott. See? There you go, I’m not Miss Perfect.” There was absolutely no way for her to backtrack that little slip up. She might as well own it. “Rather than humiliate myself more by going on about it, just allow it to convey to you that I understand your plight. You love Jay, I…” Damn it. “…have a mild to moderate crush on my former XO. Who was never really my XO, as it turns out, but a Nightman plant. A very roguish and…sexy Nightman plant. Who is fighting to save the world.” Once more, a sigh. “I mean come on, Esther, work with me, here.”

“This is all you, Venus.”

Blech. “The point is this. Every person has their struggles. For some,” she said, gesturing the scout’s way, “it’s coming to terms with the way they are. Fighting selfishness, staving off the urge to always put themselves first. For others,” she indicated to herself, “it’s…”

“Horniness?”

Natalie’s eyes narrowed—as much at herself as at Esther. After a short pause, she said defeatedly, “Horniness.”

The tracings of a smirk remained on Esther’s face for several more seconds, until they slowly began to fade away. Whatever little distraction that brief aside may have been, it was clear that Esther’s thoughts were returning to her dilemma. As the last remnants of levity left them, the sound of the tattering rainfall recaptured the room. Esther stayed quiet for almost thirty seconds before finally speaking again. “I have never put others first. But Jay always did.” Exhaling, she said, “Ours was a foolish, reckless love. I know there are many who’d say we were never really wed—that nothing so brief and irresponsible could count as real marriage. But in that time, as short as it may have been, I got a taste of what it must be like living to make others happy.” She paused. “I will never be Jayden. But if he is gone, I want his desire to build up others to live on in me.”

“Then do it,” Natalie said without hesitation. “Take that part of him with you. You can do it.” She offered a smile. “I saw you with Jakob today. And I saw you with Mark. You were good to them. You’re a better person than you think.”

A hushed laugh escaped Esther’s lips. “Natalie, you don’t even like me.”

The laugh was echoed in kind. “I know. I don’t. It’s true.” Drawing in a slow breath, she lowered her gaze to peer deeply into Esther’s eyes. “But here we are, having what is probably one of the most honest conversations that I, at least, have ever had with a person. And you initiated it. So maybe…maybe I’m the one who needs to reevaluate the way they judge others. Maybe, just maybe, that’s my struggle.”

Silence fell between them. Esther looked away, rolling slowly onto her back until she was staring up at the ceiling. Outside, a low, rolling thunder emerged through the rain. Both women were still, until a soft inhalation indicated that Esther was about to speak again. “You said to let the best part of me win. The best part of me knows that Becan’s son has his entire life ahead of him. That he needs a father. That’s what I should wish for. But Natalie…” Though her voice stayed controlled, a single tear rolled down the side of her cheek. “I would give anything in this world to hear my husband’s voice again.”

Eyes still on the scout as she lay sideways and observed her, Natalie said simply, “Then wish for both.”

Watery-eyed, Esther rolled her head sideways to look Natalie’s way.

“Wish for both.” Nodding her head as if to affirm the statement as much for herself as for Esther, she said, “I grew up in the heart of God country, the same place as Scott. While I’m no expert on all things religious, I do know that a little bit of faith can go a long way.”

Shaking her head and with her voice still hushed, Esther said, “Faith has never been kind to me.”

“Have you ever exercised it? Have you ever believed in something that was impossible?” She didn’t need to wait for Esther’s response to know the answer. She could tell by the attuned look in the young woman’s face. “It’s a funny thing about miracles, Esther. They only tend to happen to people who believe in them.”

Wiping away the lone tear that’d trailed down, Esther said, “I’m afraid I’m the wrong kind of girl to try faith like that.”

“As long as you stay afraid, you will be.” Corner of her mouth curving up just a hair, Natalie said, “And I have a hard time believing you’re afraid of anything.”

“God, are you ever wrong there.” Turning her head to look up again, Esther inhaled then released a long sigh. “I’ve lived my whole life in fear. Fear of failure. Fear of rejection.” A sad laugh escaped her. “I was even afraid of you for a time.”

Natalie’s small smile remained. “Why me?”

“Because a comrade looked at your photo in a dossier and thought you were pretty.”

Well, that caught her off guard. “You’re kidding.”

“You were prettier then.” Looking at Natalie again, Esther allowed herself the faintest of smirks. “Now you look like you got mauled by a tree.”

Now there’s the Esther I know.

The scout’s seriousness returned, and she looked up again. “I’m afraid of having faith in anything other than myself.” She shook her head on the pillow. “I don’t know if I believe in God at all. And if I do, I don’t know if I respect Him or hate Him. All I know is that every time I’ve exercised a granule of faith, it’s come back to bite me. So, when you ask me to willingly do that again…that’s no small request.”

That, Natalie knew. That, she most certainly knew. “Let’s make a deal, then.” Esther looked at her. “You find a way to muster up that granule of faith one more time…and I’ll stop pretending that I have everything here under control. At least, to you. Because I so, so don’t right now.”

Brown eyes lingering on Natalie, Esther finally said, “It sounds like you could use a friend.”

A friend offering from Esther. These were truly uncharted waters. She would gladly sail them. “Yeah, I think I could.”

Esther nodded her head slowly, gaze remaining on Natalie’s as the rain continued to pound outside the walls of the suite. At long last, as she rolled over under the covers to face in the other direction, the Briton said, “I’ll pass it on to Youko. She could probably use one, too.”

Though Esther couldn’t see it, Natalie’s eyes narrowed instantly. Just the same, she couldn’t stop the wryest of smirks from creeping out. “Nice chat, Esther,” Natalie said, rolling over.

“By the way,” Esther said, her whisper elevated slightly in order for Natalie to hear it, “we have a deal.”

Though Esther couldn’t see it on Natalie’s face, the captain smiled.

No more words were exchanged between the two women on their respective sides of the bed. Between the steady rainfall outside and the rhythmic breathing of the sleeping men around them, there was more than enough sound to dampen whatever preoccupying thoughts might have drifted through their minds and kept them awake. Natalie felt the weariness now in light of the two women’s conversation. It draped over her like a blanket. She embraced it in return.

There was no doubt in Natalie’s mind that before things got better, they would stay exactly the same. Their entire release—the entire prospect of their freedom—was contingent on the Nightmen coming through in some way, shape, or form in their dealings with the Ikeda-kai. But until that moment came, there was simply nothing Natalie and her teammates could do besides watch television and pass the time in conversation. Whether that span of time would be measured in days or weeks was yet to be determined. But however long it ended up being, at least Natalie had someone new to relate to on a personal level. That that person was Esther was just another unexpected twist. But she wasn’t complaining. It was nice to have another woman to talk to, even if it was one that she—at least for a time—wasn’t particularly wild about. But that animosity, as passive as it may have been, was subsiding quickly.

For both of them, it seemed.

Eventually, Natalie did fall asleep, her war with insomnia quelled by the many new things she had to think about. There simply came a point where her mind switched itself off, opting instead to succumb to the ethereal world of dreams.

She welcomed it with open arms.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

Friday, March 30th, 0012 NE

0804 hours

EDEN Command

THE MOMENT TIFFANY feared had finally come. As the cell door slid open and Benjamin Archer appeared, flanked by Oleg and two of his guards, the only thought that came to her mind was, We’re both about to die.

The rational side of her mind—one that was weakening with every step closer that Archer took—told her that death would be staved off so long as they withheld the truth. Corpses didn’t talk, so it didn’t serve a purpose for Archer to kill either one of them without getting what he wanted from them first. But even with that knowledge, the outright panic Tiffany was feeling was very real. It took but one look at Archer’s face to tell her everything she needed to know. Scowling with a set jaw and narrowed eyes, the judge seemed totally willing to let the two prisoners behold his displeasure. In stark contrast was Oleg, whose face looked as stoic as it had when he’d paid the room a visit earlier.

Across from Tiffany, Scott stared straight up at the ceiling, his good eye beaded onto it as if he’d found a single particle to fixate on. Such concentration was enviable. Tiffany didn’t have a lick of it.

Heart pounding, Tiffany repeated Scott’s instructions in her head. Don’t tell them anything, don’t tell them anything, don’t tell them anything. Tugging at her restraints, they once again kept her down.

Stopping just off to the side of them, Archer clasped his hands behind his back. With a lead-melting glare, he spoke. “And so now, it’s come to this.”

God, help us. Please, God, get Scott and me out of here!

“I’m not going to waste time, as you’ve already wasted more than enough of mine.”

“Did you find them?” Tiffany asked, her voice quivering. “Did you find the warehouse?”

Archer’s nostrils slowly flared. “Do not insult my intelligence.”

“I’m serious! I told you where to find—”

“Be quiet!”

Tiffany jumped at the sound of Archer’s shout. He didn’t even sound like the same man. He’s so angry. My God, he’s so angry…

Face flushed red, Archer drew in a long, purposeful breath. Lifting his chin, he asked, “Where is Northern Forge?” He scarcely waited three seconds—just enough time for Tiffany to cast a fleeting, desperate look at Scott—before he continued. “I will not ask a second time.”

What are they going to do? Despite Archer’s pointed tone, Tiffany could barely process anything the man was saying. That one question—what were they going to do?—was the only thing racing through her mind.

“Very well, we’ll do it your way.” Looking back at Oleg, Archer gestured the security chief forward. “Please begin with Miss Feathers.”

They were beginning with her! Beginning what? Sitting as erect as she was able, Tiffany’s wide eyes searched Oleg up and down. She noticed an object in his hand. A long, flat, but pointed sliver of wood. Like a file. The expression on Oleg’s face looked downright sickened.

“Though I prefer psychological torture—civilized torture, such as loud music or sleep deprivation—I’m afraid we don’t have the time. Instead, we’re going to cut right to the chase.” His amber eyes focused on Tiffany, and he lowered his chin determinedly. “This is a process called de-nailing.”

“Oh my God.” The words just blurted out; Tiffany’s heart rate skyrocketed.

“Start with me.” Scott fought so hard, he was jostling the bench. “Start with me!”

“Your fingernails are going to be removed, one by one, until you tell me what I need to know,” said Archer. “That file that you see now will be placed underneath the tip of your fingernail, at which point Mister Strakhov is going to shove it forward until the nail pops right off. And then we’ll do the next nail, and then the next, and then the next.” As he spoke, Oleg moved Tiffany’s hands to the armrests—she was too shocked to resist.

Longitudes and latitudes were flying through Tiffany’s head. The exact location of Northern Forge, the exact process by which she’d landed the Pariah there. She was ready to say it all. I can’t. I can’t tell them anything! She was going to.

Voice rising, Archer announced to the two prisoners, “This is how this is going to work. At any point during this little ordeal, one of you can tell me the location of Northern Forge. If what you say turns out to be untrue, which we will determine very quickly, this torture will resume with considerably more velocity.” He lifted his chin. “Personally, I find this a very unsettling means of gaining information, but in the name of the greater good, we will do what we must.”

Oleg stepped to Tiffany’s side. With the wooden file in one hand, he grabbed her left hand and pressed it down. The file was placed right in front of her index finger.

“Don’t do this!” she said, desperately squirming in a vain effort to tear her hand away. “Please, we can work something out!”

“I am sorry,” Oleg said.

He was going to do it. Hyperventilating, Tiffany shouted, “It’s at…!” Don’t say it! “It’s at…!” She had to say it.

“Now, Mister Strakhov,” Archer said.

Oleg’s shoulders tensed. She could see him hold his breath. Oh my God. For the most fleeting of moments, everything around Tiffany seemed to go still.

Squish.

Tiffany’s lungs erupted as the file was driven forward beneath her fingernail. It felt like she was burning alive. Every miniscule pressure that Oleg applied sent shockwaves of heat through her. Amid screams that quickly turned into shrieks, she flailed her head wildly.

“Stop it!”

The screams were from Scott, though she could scarcely register them above her own wails. Deeper and deeper, the file went as flesh and nail were separated millimeter by millimeter, each one more agonizing than the last. Liquid warmth soaked her hand. Blood. Eyes crying like open faucets, Tiffany rocked her head back and forth as the file pressed in harder. All human sanity and rationality left her. She was screaming like an animal.

The file jolted upward. The pressure in her finger gave way. Reaching down and in a final moment of fiery torment, Oleg ripped the nail off. For the first time since Oleg had begun, Tiffany found herself able to form coherent thoughts. Face tear-soaked and red, she leaned forward and rage-screamed at him at the top of her lungs. The pain was unimaginable. It shot up her finger and through her hand, up her arm, and into her shoulder. It upended reality.

And through it all, she’d stayed quiet. The location of Northern Forge was still secure.

The surge of pain was accompanied by a surge of adrenaline, anger, and defiance. Archer and Oleg had just ripped her fingernail off. Her fingernail. And she’d resisted.

She had resisted.

Just off to the side of her chair, Archer’s fingers played against themselves. They were sweating. With his own face a shade of pale, he stepped in her direction. “Now, would you care to talk?”

Sweaty strands of hair falling over her face, she glared up at him through the dangling tendrils. Her teeth clenched. Her chest heaved. In a voice so low it was scarcely recognizable, she thrust her eye daggers right through him. “The ring.”

The judge blinked. Oleg looked equally perplexed. “I beg your pardon?” asked Archer as he took a step closer.

Everything in Tiffany’s body went numb. Despite the two men towering above her, all the Valley Girl saw was the color red. Leaning her head forward, she seethed, “Take off the ring.”

From his chair, Scott stared at her wide-eyed. For the first time, all three of the men shared a similar expression. They all looked afraid.

“Take it off!” she shrieked. Clenching her teeth, she purposefully heaved her chest up and down. Hyperventilating in preparation to go through it again. Digging her ring finger into her chair, she waited for Oleg to take it.

“Tiff…” Scott said, shaking his head slowly.

She glared at him. “You tell them where it is, and so help me God, I’ll rip your vecking balls off!”

Archer hesitated—something uncharacteristic for the conversation they’d had thus far. Placing his hands behind his back in a way that looked awkward and uncomfortable, the judge nodded his head in Oleg’s direction. “As she wishes. Remove the nail on her ring finger, please.”

Holding down her ring finger, Oleg’s eyes met hers briefly before looking back toward Archer. “Are you sure?”

“Off!” Tiffany screamed, whipping her head forward and backward like a madwoman. “Off, off, off, off!”

Archer stormed toward her. “You want them off?”

“I want them off!”

“Do you want them all bloody off?”

Blind rage took her. “I want them all off!”

Snarling furiously, Archer shouted at Oleg, “Take every one off! Every bloody one!”

“Tiffany!” shouted Scott.

Opening her mouth, the blonde jettisoned every bit of anger from her soul in a single, unceasing shout. It had to be done to brace for what was about to come.

The file touched her nail. The security chief took a breath. The wood was pushed forward.

Fire-burning agony. Tiffany’s head swung in every direction, her ponytail whipping around like a writhing snake. What was once determination fell quickly to horror and pain. Farther and farther, the wood dug—worse and worse, the burning came. It was so much worse than before. As tears streamed from her face, she expelled every tortuous emotion in tormented shrieks. The blood—the melting heat—it consumed her hand.

There was a pop. The second nail fell.

“Another!” shouted Archer, pointing at Oleg and then to her.

Shaking his own sweaty head, Oleg grabbed her middle finger. This time, there was no buildup. He jammed the file right in.

There were no words—not spoken or in her mind—that could encapsulate how this felt. This was the kind of thing that wasn’t supposed to be done in a civilized world. A torment reserved for a cruder, barbaric time in history. If anyone outside of that room knew what was taking place, the whole operation would have been shut down. All Tiffany could think was that with every nail she lost, the pain would become more tolerable. But the opposite was coming true. Every jab hurt worse than the last. The nail of her middle finger popped off. He went right to her pinky.

Wailing in open-mouthed shock, Tiffany couldn’t even see through her tears. Forcing the pain from her consciousness was impossible. It was too raw. Even the small pop in her violently whipping neck—a muscle being pulled—went unnoticed in the torrential agony.

Oleg stopped as soon as the pinky nail had been removed, Archer’s hand on his shoulder prompting the relenting. From all three men, there was silence; the only sound was the blond woman’s whimpering. Barely discernable beneath it were the two words Archer had been waiting to hear.

“I’ll talk.”

Drawing a breath that seemed as surprised as it did relieved, Archer quickly eased Oleg away. Unwilling to look down at her blood-soaked left hand himself, he asked her, “Where is Northern Forge?”

Tiffany lifted her head, eyes hidden by hair that was now tossed every which way. Head wobbling woozily, she stared through him and said, “It’s up your tailpipe.”

Silence. Behind Archer, Scott closed his eyes and bowed his head. Oleg did likewise. As for Archer, he simply stared.

A laugh escaped Tiffany’s lips, followed by another, then another. Like the delight of a crazy person.

Smack!

Archer’s open palm slammed against the side of Tiffany’s face, rocking her whole head sideways. The judge exploded. “I will beat you senseless! I will smack every ounce of sanity from you until there’s nothing left but a vapid husk!”

Face throbbing, Tiffany heard Archer’s words, but they didn’t register. Nothing registered beyond the steadily burning pain in her hand.

“This is not working,” said Oleg, as if it needed to be said.

“Then we will torture him.” The judge pointed to Scott, though his eyes were still fixed on Tiffany.

Again, she found it within her to laugh. “Torture him. I don’t care.” The truthfulness of the sentiment was revealing, even to her. But she knew the truth now. It didn’t matter what they told or didn’t tell Archer. Neither she nor Scott were getting out of there alive—not with the torture she’d just endured. Archer wouldn’t risk the revelation that he’d just committed a war crime. They would die either protecting their friends or betraying them.

There was something freeing about that level of clarity. For the understanding of not only one’s mortality, but one’s place when it came to the whole picture. What was the life of two outlaws when the fate of the human species was at stake? With every ounce of torture she endured, resistance became easier. If this was all meant to make her talk, it was doing the opposite. And so, feeling pain so intense it’d grown numbing yet streaking past caution like a supersonic jet, Tiffany flipped the hair out of her face and stared at Archer like someone laying down a dare. Tears streamed down her cheeks; with the burning in her tender fingers, they weren’t going to stop. But they didn’t define her. Not in this moment. Not in any.

“You will not sleep,” Archer said. “You will not rest.”

Oleg cleared his throat. “We should reassess this.”

“You will not have one moment of anything resembling peace until you give me the location of Northern Forge. I will have you flayed alive. I will make you watch him burn,” he pointed to Scott, “until the stench of his smoldering flesh reeks in your nostrils so strongly, you smell him in the afterlife.” With every word Archer spoke, rage distorted his face ever more. “Nothing will stop me, do you understand? Not you, not him, not the Nightmen, not your bloody friends. There is nothing—nothing—that will stop me. I will own everyone you know. I will rule everyone you know.”

Eyes slowly widening, Oleg opened his mouth to try and interject.

“There will be statues erected in my name. There will be monuments built in honor of what I have achieved. I will be a god to these people.”

“Judge—”

“You cannot imagine how powerful I will become. How unrivaled in all of human history. Me. Me!” Face rage red, he pointed a finger at himself. “I will be that powerful, and you will be nothing. Nothing! You will be blotted out—erased!”

The veil was being lifted right before their eyes—the fourth wall shattered to pieces, revealing the man behind Benjamin Archer. This unscripted tirade, this diatribe…it didn’t matter what logic Archer used to justify his quest. This was what it was all about. When all of the politics, and the alien species, and the players, and the scenarios were stripped away, this was about power. It was so simple. So human.

Archer’s face was still red, though he seemed to have realized what he’d just done. Inhaling a purposefully deep breath, he took a step back and straightened out his garb. Clearing his own throat, he spoke reservedly. “One of the many things I’ve been blessed with is the privilege of working alongside those of like-minded ambition. Those who want to accomplish much—and who recognize when they’re on the right side.” That last part, he’d said almost sideways. It was obviously intended for Oleg to hear. “You may knock me for my ambition, but do not confuse that with a lack of priority. My vanity,” he said the word with spite, as if remarking on what he felt Tiffany and Scott were already thinking, “may be exactly what’s required to save our species.”

His awareness of self was almost admirable.

“Northern Forge,” Archer said, taking another step back. “I need to know where it is. You’re going to tell me, so that I can destroy it. The more you resist, the worse this will become. That, I guarantee you.” He glanced briefly at Scott before returning his amber eyes to Tiffany. “Take some time to think about it.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he said, “With me, Mister Strakhov.” With no further words, the British judge about-faced and strode out the cell door. As soon as he and Oleg were out, the door slid shut. Scott and Tiffany were alone.

Leaning her head back, Tiffany moaned through tightly clenched teeth. The throbbing in her fingers had been there all the while Archer was speaking. With he and Oleg out of the room, all there was to focus on was the pain.

And was it pain. This went beyond excruciating. The burning washed over her hands in pulsing waves. Opening her mouth, she screamed in loud, tormented sobs. She couldn’t hold it in.

“Tiffany,” Scott said, his own voice breathless. “Are you all right?”

What did he think? For a moment, she hated him for asking. But she knew he didn’t mean to sound oblivious. Just the same, she didn’t have it in her to answer. Whatever bluster she’d possessed, she’d already laid it down. Now she just hurt.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry that I got you into this.”

He hadn’t gotten her into it.

“This is wrong in so many ways. So many ways.” The repetition seemed as much for himself to hear as her. Like he needed to wrap his own mind around it.

Eyes sealed and with tears still streaking, all Tiffany could manage was a pained whimper. Oleg had pried off every fingernail on her left hand except her thumb’s. The thought that it would be next—at least, if they continued going down that particular path—was horrifying. How was she going to make it through this?

One fingernail at a time.

Biting her quivering lower lip, she mustered up the courage to look down at her hand. When she laid eyes on it, the pain surged again—as if seeing the bloodied stubs at the tips of her fingers made it all that more real. Her entire hand was crimson. A glance to the floor revealed the discarded nails. They’d just been left there.

Nobody is coming to clean this up. Nobody is coming to treat me. It was likely that the only people she would see from then on out would be Archer, Oleg, and whatever guards were actively involved in this conspiracy. No one else would be allowed to see this. Stay strong. Don’t let them win. Whatever you do, don’t tell them the location of Northern Forge.

For the next several hours, Tiffany and Scott sat in silence. Only the pilot’s moaning and whimpering provided any sort of background noise, as the pain came wave after wave. Sometimes the waves were small, and she could tolerate them with only a grimace. Other times, it felt as fresh as if Oleg was right there again. In those moments of abject, wailing torment, she almost wished for death.

Eventually, she was paid another visit by Oleg—but not until she’d almost fallen asleep. Just at the point where physical exhaustion was causing her head to bob, the security chief showed up to pour ice water over her head. The act left her in gasping, stunned shock. A second dousing hours later—again with her on the verge of sleep—confirmed the sleep deprivation process. She’d resisted torture of the physical variety—now they were attacking her mentally and emotionally.

The worst was when the ear-splitting sound of a pop song began repeating over the room’s speaker system. It was a song by a band she actually knew well: Slammin’ Sam and the Wham Ka-Blam, a group of surfer-haired crooners she’d spent her teenage years jamming to. The song was called Fun in the Summer Sun, and it contained a plethora of whoa-whoa’s and ooh-ooh’s, which Tiffany just adored. Scott wasn’t fond of it, and he remarked after only the third listen that it was, “the most banal and meaningless drivel,” he’d ever heard in his life. After repeat number thirty-seven, she was starting to agree.

If there was any hope that Archer and company would settle for just ice water and loud music, that thought was extinguished as soon as the second torture session began. It went much like the first, and it left Tiffany once again crying, screaming, and bleeding as Archer stuck his face in hers and demanded to know the location of Northern Forge. When she didn’t provide it, he turned his ire to Scott, imploring him to “spare his friend” from additional torment. For a while, it seemed he might be the one to break—but every time the threat rose, Tiffany screamed through her tears for him to stay strong. At the end of the hour-long ordeal, the blonde was left shivering, feeling stone deaf, and without a single nail on her ten fingers. The pain was unimaginable—the worst she’d ever felt. Not even the never-ceasing lyrics of Fun in the Summer Sun could distract her from the burning.

The torture even carried over into mealtime. Rather than being presented with utensils, Tiffany’s wrists remained strapped to the chair and her food positioned by her face atop a small table. It forced her to have to lower her face into whatever plate or bowl they’d given her and to eat like an animal. It was most irritating when it was something like chicken on the bone, and oftentimes her efforts at haplessly tearing and gnashing only resulted in food falling to the floor, where it was never retrieved. It was most humiliating when it was something like soup or mashed potatoes, which left her face a complete mess. No straw was provided with any drink, forcing her to bite down on the edge of the cup and just lift her head, at which point more of the liquid ended up on her clothes than in her mouth. Oleg became the sole deliverer of any and all sustenance, the woman known as Ching having disappeared long ago. Tiffany could only imagine that this torture was something someone like Ching wasn’t supposed to see.

But the worst part of everything came when Scott was taken away. Sometime after she’d endured her first meal, Oleg and his guards came in and rolled Scott’s bed out of the room. They gave no indication as to where he was being taken. She never saw him again. Worse than the fingernails, the ice water, the loud music, and the dehumanizing mealtime was the isolation. With Scott there, at least there was someone to share misery with, despite the fact that most of the misery was hers—an intentional decision, she thought, to try and breed resentment toward him in the hope that she would talk. There was a camaraderie that was theirs and theirs alone. But now even that was gone. Tiffany wasn’t sure what she believed on a spiritual level, but she knew that Scott was a man of genuine faith. If the Hell he believed in was real, she couldn’t imagine it was much worse than this.

The bright lights in the room never changed, so Tiffany had no context of day or night or of one day and the next. She measured time in the hours—and sometimes seemingly minutes—between douses of ice water. On occasion, her drowsiness seemed to slip past them for a minute or two, though any taste of actual slumber was met with a rude and wet awakening.

There came a point during it all when even the music seemed to fade away into a sort of ambient background noise, where lyrics lost their meaning and the sound of guitars, drums, and bass beats melded together into a single, indistinguishable static. It was amazing what the brain could block out when it got desperate enough. But the truth was, this was beginning to work on her. There was a certain madness that sprouted when one heard the same thing over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over again. Fun in the summer sun. Ooh-ooh. Whoa-whoa. Fun in the summer sun. Ooh-ooh. Whoa-whoa. Fun in the summer sun. Ooh-ooh. Whoa-whoa. In moments of what little sanity she felt she had left after what must have been forty-eight hours of Slammin’ Sam, she no longer cared that it had fallen from one of her favorite songs to the one she hated the most. She was as unresponsive to the music as she was to the water. At some point, it was all just like breathing.

And yet through it all, Archer remained, arriving to shout in Tiffany’s face from mere inches away, “Where is Northern Forge?” She began to long for his visits, only because it meant the music would stop—though even that didn’t stop its presence in her mind. No more was this manifested than when she answered him by screaming the lyrics to the song right back in his face. The act got Archer angry. He thought she was mocking him. What he didn’t know was that the lyrics to Fun in the Summer Sun were the only things she knew. Her mind couldn’t dig up the location of Northern Forge if it wanted to. And so days passed. And passed.

And passed.

Some four to five of them later—or at least, so it seemed to her—Archer’s tactic changed. The music ceased, as did the buckets of water and sleep deprivation. What replaced them was something worse than anything she could have imagined. Something that made her appreciate in horrifying detail what Scott had been through in helplessly watching her get tortured. Archer simply entered her cell, showed her a long metal skewer, and explained how Oleg was going to heat it up and slowly push it into Scott’s body, where it would be twisted and maneuvered to cause maximum pain—and how she would hear it all happening live over the speaker system. She was informed that, at any point, she could tell them what they wanted to know and the torture would stop.

What ensued was quite possibly the worst thing she’d ever endured. The fingernail ripping, ice-water drenching, and music blaring had all been tortures inflicted on her. But to hear someone else tortured…someone she cared for and respected…that brought torment to a whole new level. The screams she heard from Scott Remington in those days that followed, she would never forget. With her head hung and in tears, it took everything in her not to spill the beans of Northern Forge. They could torture her for as long as they wanted; she could live with that. But this? Feeling directly responsible for the prolonged and painful torture of another?

For that, she hated EDEN more than ever.

But it was what it was. Both she and Scott knew the price of revealing Northern Forge’s location. And so, even out of one another’s sights, they kept their secrets. Regardless of what atrocities they faced, it was what they had to do. Only death or some brazen rescue could save them.

By that point, she’d have taken either one.

OceanofPDF.com

PART II

PART II

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

Date unknown

Time unknown

Ban-Hezikal, Kalar

PERHAPS IT WAS because she’d gotten used to switching between gravity and weightlessness, but the descent through Kalar’s atmosphere seemed to faze Svetlana less than it did the Kalarael around her. Strapped into a small, arrow-shaped shuttlecraft, Svetlana had found herself noticeably at ease even before the turbulence of atmospheric entry had begun.

Looking at Svetlana from the seat beside her, a yellow-eyed Yigôzien offered the faintest of sickly smiles. “Itsukae.”

“It’s okay,” Svetlana replied with a nod. And indeed, it was.

Despite every effort to crane her neck and see the planet surface outside the window, the nose-up angle at which the vessel was descending made getting a good view of it impossible. For what it was worth, the clouds she saw gliding by looked no different from those of Earth. With touchdown apparently imminent, she prepared herself for her first steps onto an alien world. What would she see? An expansive city, alight with neon colors and flying cars? A lush forest with exotic, bioluminescent flowers? A white, sandy beach and the gentle serenade of saltwater waves lapping against the shore?

A familiar cl-clunk emerged that was barely different from the sound of a Vulture landing. After the hum of engines faded, the side door finally lowered. Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw next. Set against the backdrop of the bluest of blue skies was an endless landscape of pink. Not slightly pink or with an occasional pinkish hue. The ground was pure, carnation pink. Pupils dilating at the vivid, pastel contrast of ground and sky, she found herself catching her breath.

Unstrapping from their seats, the Kalarael around Svetlana made their way through the door. Rising next to her, Yigôzien beckoned her to follow. Though Svetlana adhered to the request, it was an automatic gesture. Her eyes were glued to the pink landscape.

Too caught off guard to utter any meaningful, planet-side first words, Svetlana stared at the ground as she took step after careful step behind Yigôzien. The texture of the ground was nothing like dirt. It was more like hardened, pink plaster. Roughly fifty meters ahead was a collection of bullet-shaped buildings that seemed constructed out of adobe—the muddy tan a striking contrast to the pink ground around it. There were four buildings set two-by-two, interconnected by large, glass tubes that ran from one structure to the next. There was nothing else of distinction to be seen beyond mountain ranges far in the distance.

The air smelled like clay. A gentle breeze blew from the direction of the mountains—just enough to provide a kiss of coolness in otherwise warm weather. There were no creatures in the air or on the ground, no sounds beyond their footsteps and the strange spaciousness that came with walking across something like a mudflat. Not even the gravity was unusual by that point. Svetlana had long grown accustomed to the slight difference between Kalar’s gravity and Earth’s.

Looking back for Ed and Mishka, she saw that the canrassi was in the process of being unharnessed. The concern that Mishka would go on a flesh-eating rampage was diminishing by the hour, as the beast seemed to accept the Kalarael much as it’d come to accept her. As for Ed, he was marching several meters behind her.

When they approached the nearest of the four connected buildings, the outline of an arched door became visible. What is this place? A secluded research station? A military depot? Besides the glass tubes that connected one structure to the next, the buildings looked more like constructs out of ancient history than anything a spacefaring civilization would use. They seemed downright primitive. After placing her hand along the archway of the door to feel it, she followed her Kalarael companions inside.

The same natural-looking light that shone in the space station was shining in the building, distributed by numerous circular holes that were carved into the pristine, white walls. Besides the flicks of dried, pink earth that fell from their shoes, the floor was spotless.

A small, tube-like chamber was in the center of the building, complete with its own arched door. Svetlana assumed it was an elevator. The main room was sparsely populated; only a handful of Kalarael were present. Every pair of yellow eyes was on her.

Colorful benches were set about as well as lush, green vines that grew straight out of pots and spread their tendrils in every direction. Free-standing terminals with display screens were placed sporadically throughout the room. There was a fragrant aroma in the air. It smelled like the sweet scent of honeysuckle after a spring rain, with a touch of freshly cut grass. It was a welcomed change from the acetone stench of the Zone Runner.

Yigôzien gestured for Svetlana and Ed to follow her as she walked toward the elevator. Making a tsch-tsch sound to prompt Mishka to follow, Svetlana did as requested. She stepped inside the circular shaft, at which point Yigôzien placed her hand against a mounted display. After a chirp and a gentle hum, the elevator ascended. When its door opened again, she found herself staring ahead at a long corridor with walls that looked like polished marble. Down the hallway, another archway awaited. Following Yigôzien inside, Svetlana’s new abode came into view.

The place looked lavish. There were floating tables and benches, much as what she’d seen on the space station. There were stations set about with various monitors, tools, and other alien-looking doodads, none of which looked like they belonged in a bedroom so much as a science lab. Screens and monitors were everywhere, as were the same sprawling vines that were present in the lobby. Svetlana knew there would be a time for exploring everything in the suite, but for now, her priority was finding Tauthin and her Bakma comrades.

Sensing her intentions, Ed relayed, They are through that second archway.

The archway in question was along the far side of the domed suite, its white, featureless frame nearly indistinguishable from its surroundings. Why must everything be white in this place? She would have gladly taken a splash of those yellows and blues she’d seen in the space station. She had barely taken five steps toward the archway when Tauthin emerged from it.

“Setana!”

Behind her mask, she grinned from ear to ear. She tromped right across the room to embrace him, despite his rigidity at the human custom. “I am so glad to see you!”

Tauthin leaned back to look at her as behind him, Kraash-nagun and Wuteel emerged. His dark eyes narrowing, he touched her mask. “What is this device?”

“The Kalarael made it for me. It helps me to breathe,” she answered. Behind Tauthin, Kraash-nagun turned his head and walked away, disappearing beyond the archway into whatever other room they’d been given. The gesture struck her as cold. She smiled at Tauthin nonetheless. “Have they treated you well?”

“Yes, in light of your request that we be treated with kindness. It has been made clear to us that this is the only reason we are here and not in shackles.”

There was a tickle at the back of Svetlana’s mind. Ed was trying to get her attention. She turned to the alien, raising a brow.

Yigôzien wishes to speak with you, master.

“Can it wait for one moment while I talk to my friends?”

It involves all of you.

With a sigh, she said, “Then connect us all, if you can.” Strangely enough, the pinprick of a wide-area connection didn’t emerge. The vibe she was getting from Ed was one of hesitance. “What is it?”

The alien looked at the archway. I am sensing hostility from Kraash-nagun. It may not be wise to include him in this connection, as it may trigger a response from Yigôzien. The Kalarael are highly sensitive to emotion, as you and I are well aware.

Hostility at what? she thought back to him.

Hostility at you.

Well that was unwelcomed news. What was Kraash-nagun’s problem? Very well. Tell Yigôzien that you lack the ability to include everyone in the connection at present and that someone must be left out. That will explain his absence.

Tauthin, left out of the mental conversation but not oblivious to its presence, asked Svetlana, “Is something the matter?”

After waiting to ensure Kraash-nagun didn’t walk back into the room, she leaned her head in Tauthin’s direction. “Apparently, with Kraash-nagun.”

The Bakma’s knobby brow lowered. “Yes, that is something we must talk about. There are some things you need to know.”

“And there will be a time to hear them—very soon. But for now, Yigôzien would like to discuss something with us.” She looked back to Ed and nodded. “Connect the rest of us to Yigôzien.” The multidirectional pinprick of the wide-area connection emerged. Yigôzien’s blue eyes brightened. “You wish to speak with us?” Svetlana asked her.

“If it pleases you,” said the invoker, the delicate inflections of the Kalarael tongue translated in Svetlana’s mind. Yigôzien gestured to a circular table surrounded by square, floating seats. “We may sit there, if you wish.”

Svetlana sat as instructed. Whatever problem Kraash-nagun had, it was his to deal with. Jealous insolent. She chastised herself for the thought, not only because it might have been detected by Yigôzien, but because it just wasn’t a good one to have. That was the Nagogg in her speaking.

Your private thoughts have been hidden from her, Ed relayed, sensing Svetlana’s concern. Svetlana smiled sheepishly, but in appreciation.

When Svetlana and her comrades were seated at the table, Yigôzien began. “I am sure you must be wondering where we are.”

That she was. “Is this a research or military facility?”

“We call this place Ban-Hezikal. It is a rejuvenation clinic.”

She blinked. “A…what?”

“It is a place one comes to replenish the mind, soul, and body. You will find many luxuries here intended to please you. We have detected that you are allergic to none of them.”

A place to replenish the mind, soul, and body? Did they just deposit her at a spa? “I am sorry, I am confused. I assumed I would be taken to a research station or…” She tried to think of an equivalent. “Or some place kept hidden away.” She realized after she said it that among a society of creatures that hid nothing, such a place would have served little purpose.

“Your comfort is our highest priority,” Yigôzien answered, “so we thought this place would provide you with the opportunity to both refresh your body and attain the solitude your species requires. All of Ban-Hezikal’s other clients have been asked to leave. Only you, the staff, and those of us working directly with you are permitted on-site.”

Floored, all Svetlana could do was stare across the table. The Machine greeted aliens with the Walls of Mourning. Here, she’d been given a spa all to herself. “Do you still plan to take me to the Khuladi you have captured?”

Yigôzien dipped her head. “Yes. You will be taken soon to a facility where the captured aliens are kept.”

Eyes narrowing, Svetlana asked, “I assume they have not been afforded the same freedoms as I have here?”

“That is correct.”

At least the Kalarael weren’t stupid.

The invoker continued, though the blue in her eyes darkened. “I must also inform you of another visit you may receive while you are here.” Her whiskers pressed back. “We are not the only sentient species that inhabits this world.”

There was another species on Kalar besides the Kalarael? By the look of it, this was news to Tauthin, Wuteel, and Ed, too.

“They are called the Kalareim.”

“The Kalareim?” How close to Kalarael that sounded. How…peculiar.

Continuing on, Yigôzien said, “I must warn you that the Kalareim are not like us.” Her eyes reddened. “Honor and truth are ingrained in Kalarael society. The same is not true for the Kalareim. They are a vile and manipulative species. Should you encounter them, you must not trust anything they say. They are the spawn of Ophareim.”

Ophareim? Eyes narrowing faintly, Svetlana tried to recall when she’d heard that term before. Ed was quick to chime in. Whereas the three Purities—Shanras, Istéres, and Vusane—represent the colors blue, yellow, and red, Ophareim represents the lack of the Purities.

Yes, that was it—she remembered it now.

The Ithini continued. Being that darkness is indicative of doubt and faithlessness, we can only surmise that to be referred to as the ‘spawn of Ophareim’ is akin to being called children of the Devil in Earthae terms.

So the Kalareim were children of the Devil. Despite Yigôzien’s obvious displeasure in speaking of them, Svetlana found herself insatiably curious. She imagined them as monstrous, frightening beasts—unsettling creatures worthy of such a vile moniker and reputation. She wanted to see them at all costs.

The invoker’s eyes shifted blue. “Tomorrow night, you will be taken to Sélestere, a city near Ban-Hezikal. You will be presented to the Royal Assembly as an ambassador of Kukira at a Celebration of Shanras.”

There she went again with the proper nouns.

“I will personally ensure that you are prepared for this celebration, that your beauty might radiate with the fullness of the Purities!” Excitement brimmed in the invoker’s voice. “As custom dictates, it will be a night never forgotten.”

There seemed no shortage of pomp and circumstance among this group. Only half-smiling behind her mask, Svetlana said, “As custom dictates.” Clearing her throat, she then asked, “When will I be able to see the Khuladi?”

“That is being arranged. It will take place sometime after your visit to Sélestere. I will provide you with further details once I have them.”

At least it sounded like the ball was rolling—and possibly multiple days away.

“As I’ve stated, I understand that your species requires privacy,” Yigôzien said. “For that reason, I will now leave you alone with your comrades.” Turning to a console along the wall, she ran her hand alongside it. “If you require my assistance, please wave your hand in front of this sensor and I will come at once. Otherwise, I will come here to check on you later.”

Bowing her head in gratitude, Svetlana said, “Thank you.” Yigôzien stepped into the elevator, and the door closed behind her.

Svetlana turned back to her Bakma friend. A smile crept up from her lips. “It is so good to see you,” she said again. Behind her, Mishka rubbed his head against her side. She slid her fingers over the beast’s ear to scratch.

Tauthin’s mouth tilted back and forth—a Bakma expression of displeasure. “We are despised among these creatures.”

“Well,” she said, “you have the Khuladi to thank for that.”

The alien’s dark, purple eyes shifted to the archway farther in the room, where Kraash-nagun had disappeared minutes before. “We must speak of Kraash-nagun.”

Svetlana pointed a stern finger in that same direction. “What is his problem?”

Tauthin motioned for her to follow him to the other side of the room. “I wish to speak with you alone.”

Upon hearing the statement, Wuteel’s knobby brow lowered.

This must be something significant. Svetlana followed Tauthin so they could speak in privacy. “What is wrong?”

“Very soon, you will be challenged.”

“Challenged? By whom? Kraash-nagun?”

“That is correct. You must be prepared to defend yourself.”

Raising her palm, she said, “Now, wait a minute. What do you mean, ‘I must be prepared to defend myself?’ Against what? Is he going to attack me?” The question was meant to be rhetorical—but when Tauthin didn’t dispute it, its rhetorical nature faded. Svetlana’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

“He does not feel that you are a worthy leader. Though you have set yourself up as his superior, you are nonetheless an inferior lifeform.”

Stifling a retort to that particular remark, she addressed the greater point. “Kraash-nagun would attack me here? Among creatures who consider me sent by a deity? Does he think that would work out well for him?”

“He would not challenge you here, for he knows it would be suicide. But you, yourself, have insinuated that we will not be on this world long. His challenge would come on the Zone Runner, likely soon after our departure.”

“What about what I did in the Zone Runner?” she asked. “I freed everyone on that ship from Nagogg. Was that not good enough in his eyes?” Not lost to her was the fact that Kraash-nagun had no eyes, but for the sake of her example, it didn’t matter.

“What you did is of little significance,” he answered. “It was simply the outcome of the right variety of circumstances, all of which could have been vastly different and therefore could have yielded different results. For a Bakma—or any species utilized by the Khuladi—power is what leads to respect. Power is found in strength, not luck or faith in an unknown god.”

“And so what happens if he attacks me and defeats me? He will be the new ruler? Is the Bakma command structure like playing ‘king of the mountain?’”

“I do not understand that reference. But I can tell you what Kraash-nagun hopes to accomplish. When you are defeated—”

She scoffed. “When, right?”

“—I am to be installed as the new leader. I was bred for command. I was given a leader’s name.”

“Will you join him then, Tauthin? Will you hold me down while he pummels me?”

Shaking his head, he answered, “I do not wish to remove you from command. Quite the contrary, I have come to recognize your worth. I am telling you all of this now that you might be prepared to take preemptive action.”

“Preemptive action? What do you mean?”

“It is imperative that you kill Kraash-nagun with your Earthae weapons as soon as we are back aboard the Zone Runner. If you wait for him to challenge you in close combat, you will not be able to defeat him.”

If she was going to kill him, why wait until then? All she had to do was tell the Kalarael that he was a threat. They’d take him down with red-eyed prejudice. But the thought of killing him wasn’t in her mind. “He would truly challenge me to a fight to remove me from leadership? He told you he would do this?”

“It has been insinuated.”

How that burned her. How that enraged her. She wanted to march after Kraash-nagun right then and there and put everything to rest. “I will put an end to him—right now if I must.”

“There is no need. Again, I have not told you this to prompt action from you here. As I stated, he will not attack you while we are with the Kalarael. But this will be an issue when we have left them and are on our own. You will need to take action then, not now.”

“After all I have done. How dare he think so little of me. I cannot wait to put him in his place.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“I do not want to kill him,” she seethed. “I want to beat him. Into submission, into the ground. I want him to look up at my face and beg me for mercy.”

Bewilderment crossed Tauthin’s face. “But you can kill him—much more easily than you could defeat him in combat. In combat, you are no match for him.”

“I have all of Nagogg’s skills. You saw me wield his spear in the Zone Runner. This staff the Kalarael gave me would be no different.”

A guttural huff escaped Tauthin’s mouth. “You have extracted muscle memory, not experience. Combat ability is not something one can simply siphon.”

“Why not? Did I not do that with Bakmanese? Did I not do that with Nagogg’s role as a rider?” She looked at Mishka, who was licking his massive armpits. “This beast considers me its master. That should indicate more than just the absorption of muscle memory.”

“Look at you,” Tauthin said. “You are malnourished. Weak.”

“So is Kraash-nagun.”

“You would be functioning in an environment in which he has vastly more experience.”

Again, she had him. “That did not hurt me before.”

“Setana…”

Despite her desire to turn away in anger, she kept her gaze on him.

“…you are incapable in your present state of defeating him. If you are to maintain your leadership, you must kill him with Earthae weapons before he can act.”

There was no malice in Tauthin’s words—no attempt to discourage. He was saying it because he believed it was true. That ache in her core grew. “I am incapable of defeating him even though he is blind?”

“His blindness will cease being a factor as soon as he can touch you. You are far from a place where you can defeat a warrior as trained as he is.” He hesitated. “I say none of this to offend you, but what makes you deserving of my respect is not your raw ability. Quite the contrary, it is the great extent to which you have had to overcome your frailties.”

Frailties was the wrong word to use, and her glare let him know it.

He was quick to continue. “I understand what you have absorbed from your siphon with Nagogg. But simply possessing a skill does not mean you know how to use it. As a foot soldier elite, Kraash-nagun has fought many battles on behalf of the Khuladi. And though his muscles are weak, they will redevelop quickly. Will yours? And if so, in what way will you use them? You can twirl a stick, but you have not yet faced a true warrior in combat with one. There are uncertainties in combat that must be navigated by the mind. What has yours seen?”

“Do not speak as if I came from nothing!” For the first time, her voice raised, its tinny reverberations amplified behind her mask. “I am a combat medic! I have been in the middle of the worst of battles. I have seen bodies broken, and I have mended them while plasma streaked past my head. I am EDEN!”

“You are a healer. He is a slaughterer. If you challenge Kraash-nagun as you are, you will lose.”

Had Svetlana been a Kalarael, her eyes would have been red-hot coals. As it was, she could feel her blood boiling. The gall of Tauthinilaas. After all she’d accomplished, after all she’d done for him—for them all. How could she be the Fury of Shanras to one species but just a weak, Earthae female to another? She wanted to whip her shock staff out right then and there.

Calm yourself.

The words were her own. Closing her eyes, Svetlana inhaled and exhaled through her mask. Tauthin respected her. He wouldn’t speak to her out of spite, jealousy, or stubbornness. Logically, she knew that. But to hear herself doubted in such a way—she’d never known anger like what she was feeling now. Especially after all she’d achieved. But what if…

…what if he was right?

Her blond tendrils fell over her face as she looked down. She needed to focus. She needed her emotions to find center. She needed to approach this the way Tauthin was approaching it—with total honesty, no matter how cold it burned. And so, of all the words he’d used in his argument against her, she chose three to cling to. As she was, he’d said, she would lose. She had to be more. With her eyes still closed, she asked him simply, “If I defeat Kraash-nagun, will I have his support?”

There was a pause before Tauthin’s answer. He was considering her words. “If you prove yourself a superior specimen on equal terms, yes. But as I have stated multiple times, it is not necessary.”

Opening her eyes, she looked up at him. “Train me.” The Bakma cocked his head. “Train me to win, in one-on-one combat. You say I lack experience. So give it to me.”

Once more, an mm escaped Tauthin’s lips.

“I need him on my side, Tauthin. I need everyone.”

Pausing, Tauthin said, “I suppose that if given enough—”

That was all she needed to hear. Turning away from Tauthin, Svetlana strode toward the archway leading to the other room.

“Setana!” Tauthin called behind her. “Where are you going?”

Shooting a steely glare back in the Bakma’s direction, she answered, “To challenge him.”

Behind her, Tauthin’s eyes widened.

When Svetlana emerged into the adjacent room, she bellowed, “Kraash-nagun!”

Kraash-nagun, who was seated on a floating stool, flinched at her voice. Rising to his feet, he turned his empty eye sockets her direction.

In the brief moment after she addressed him, Svetlana took in this new part of the suite. It was sprawling—much more so than the side of the chamber whence she’d come. There were numerous, sectioned-off areas, separated by gently swaying draperies, each containing what looked like a floating cot similar to the one in the observation room. There were numerous floating seats and tables scattered about, giving the room the look of a spacious pavilion. In its center was a large depression that looked like a sitting area. So captivating was the sight of all these things, she almost lost track of why she was there.

“Setana?” Kraash-nagun asked, uncertainty in his tone as he listened for her movements.

Focusing on him again, she marched in his direction. He zeroed in on her as soon as her footsteps had reemerged. “I understand you have a problem with my leadership.”

His confounded expression was apparent even without eyes to see her. When he opened his mouth to reply, it hung for a moment. “I do not understand, my lady.”

“Do not my lady me. Your angst toward me is open for all to see. Speak of it.” Once again, he said nothing—so on, she went. “It has been brought to my attention that you take issue with my command, despite the fact that it was I who freed you from the rule of Nagogg and a life of servitude under the Khuladi.”

“I do not take issue with what you have done. I take issue with what you claim to be. Your victory was one of chance, yet you carry yourself as if you are one to be feared. To follow a weak specimen such as yourself is a disgrace.”

Time to throw it all down. “You believe you are superior to me?” Behind her, Tauthin, Wuteel, and Ed slipped into the room to watch.

“I believe you fell into good fortune and attributed it to strength,” Kraash-nagun said.

“Answer my question.”

Lips curling, he tilted his head. “Were I not blind, I could have single-handedly defeated every member of Nagogg’s crew. I was bred by the Khuladi to be an elite warrior. My name decrees it.”

She’d take that as a yes. “Do you want to know what I think?”

“I care little for what you think.”

“I think I am stronger than you.” As the words escaped her lips, a low growl emanated from the warrior. Behind Svetlana, Tauthin and Wuteel listened in pin-drop silence. “I think I am more physically capable. That I am more determined. That I am superior.”

Kraash-nagun’s neck muscles tensed—the foot soldier stood erect, gnarled talons tightly gripping the air as he looked on the verge of pouncing. “Like an untrained sorceress, you bewitch yourself.”

“I challenge you.”

His knobby eyebrows lifted. “To what?”

“To a duel. Of superiority. Of dominance, whatever you want to call it.”

“And to the victor, what spoils?”

Perhaps it was the thought of just how little she knew Kraash-nagun regarded her, but a part of Svetlana was surprised he didn’t laugh the idea off. “Command,” she answered. “If you defeat me, command of the Zone Runner goes to you. But if I win,” she said, leaning closer though she knew he couldn’t see it, “I will have proven myself superior to you. Stronger than you. I will have proven myself worthy to be followed.” That one’s worthiness of command could be measured by such a trivial thing as physical strength was ridiculous to her—but this was how the Khuladi operated. If a test of strength was what it took to solidify her position, so be it.

“I am blind. What challenge would I be to you?”

“You were not blind in the Zone Runner when Ei`dorinthal gave you his vision. He will do the same thing, again.”

Once again, Kraash-nagun’s mouth opened to reply, and once again, no words came out. Behind them, Wuteel looked at Tauthin in disbelief.

“It will be you versus me,” Svetlana said, “both able to see in their own way, both with shock staffs provided by the Kalarael.” She was sure she’d have no problem attaining one for him. “We will have four days to prepare ourselves. On the fifth day, we will duel.”

“And where will this duel be?”

“Outside this place.” That pink plaster-earth would make as good a stretch of turf as anything. “I am sure the Kalarael would not mind observing an Earthae custom in action.”

“And is a ‘duel of dominance’ an Earthae custom?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Earthae have always settled their differences with combat, be it one man versus another or a war of nations. It is a primitive way of solving problems, but if I must partake in such savagery to prove myself again, so be it.” She angled her head. “Your species seems to worship needless warfare. It surprises me that this concept surprises you.”

“The Khuladi do not assign leadership to the weak,” he spat back at her. “That custom is strictly Earthae.” Leaning forward, he rasped. “I accept your challenge. I look forward to putting you back at the bottom of the food chain, where you belong.”

“We will see about that.” With nothing more to say, Svetlana stepped backward, turned around, and strode toward the archway. As she passed by Tauthin and Wuteel, both Bakma stepped aside to clear the way.

Arrogant jerk. Svetlana stormed across the main room of the chamber, heat emanating from her skin. Reaching behind her back, she pulled out her shock staff and twirled it in her hands. She wanted to smash the wall with it. I will grind his face into that pink earth. Glancing at one of the many windows that surrounded the chamber’s outer wall, she stared at the landscape. I will stain it red with his blood.

Tauthin, approaching behind her, minced no words. “That was foolish, Setana.”

“It was necessary.”

“It was not. The reason I told you about his angst was so that you could kill him in the Zone Runner before he challenged you, not so you could race him to your demise.”

She didn’t want to hear it. What was done was done. “Can you train me or not?”

“I can. In six months, you perhaps could stand a chance.”

“We don’t have months; we have days.”

Sweeping his arm to the side in emphasis, he said, “That is my point! What you have done is beyond all rationality. Were there not more important matters at hand than laying down a needless challenge?”

Stepping closer to Tauthin to look him in the eyes, she said, “My priority is learning what I can while I am here and then leaving—with a crew that is loyal.”

“Why is it so important that you have Kraash-nagun’s loyalty? Should you desire, you could leave him here with the Kalarael. Perhaps that is the best solution! What significance is he to you?”

How could she make him understand? For Tauthin, it was a simple matter of logistics. Kraash-nagun was unnecessary, so there was no need to win him over. While that might have made sense from a logical standpoint, it didn’t account for the thing that mattered most. It didn’t account for the reason she was so insistent that every member of her crew—as logistically insignificant as they might have been—was fully faithful to her leadership. It had nothing to do with logic.

It had to do with weakness—something for which she had no more tolerance. She’d spent her life being mocked, ridiculed, and underestimated, not only as a prisoner of Nagogg, but on Earth as well. She was tired of being a laughingstock. She was tired of being a punchline. Overcoming Nagogg and taking control of the Zone Runner had been the boldest thing she’d ever done. It had elevated her to a status she’d never thought attainable. She could be a warrior. A victor. She could be a champion.

And she loved it. God, did she love it. That feeling of confidence, that total belief in her own ability. Look at what she’d done. Look at what she’d accomplished. Who else could have done it? Kraash-nagun claimed that if he had his sight, he could have defeated every member of Nagogg’s crew himself. But because he had no sight, he hadn’t even tried. Svetlana had been beaten down, chained to a floor, mutilated, humiliated. Her assortment of available excuses was huge. She hadn’t used a single one of them. In doing what she’d done, she’d proven herself impervious to her own limitations. She could do anything. Anything.

How dare someone question her now.

“I have been looked down upon for too long,” Svetlana said to Tauthin quietly, voice trembling with emotion. “I have tasted the bitter sting of not being taken seriously. I cannot go back to that again.” She looked him in the eyes. “I must have the belief of my crew. At all costs. Whatever the consequence.”

The chamber fell quiet as Tauthin stared at her. Crinkling his nose, he grunted before saying with bared teeth, “You reek of pride.”

“And what would you know of that? What have you ever been proud of?” It was a harsh thing to say, and she regretted it instantly. She turned away from him. “I am sorry.”

It didn’t stop him from replying. “I am proud of being called your friend. Before you and Remata, I knew of no such concept.”

Her stomach ached. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. “You are a good friend. You have much to be proud of. It was a stupid thing for me to say.”

The Bakma angled his head. “You have become the hunter you sought to escape.”

She almost laughed. That was a thought. “And what am I hunting?”

“Validation.”

Grimacing, she turned away from him, taking a step in the opposite direction to put a little distance between them. That one burned. What she felt next was a touch she’d never felt from an alien—a gesture so thoughtful and well-meant, she could almost have imagined it coming from Scott or Max. Gently placing his gnarled talons atop both her shoulders from behind, Tauthin gave them a compassionate squeeze.

“I have learned much in the presence of your species.” As he spoke, she lowered her head, her blond strands once again dangling forward. “I can see that you are greatly troubled. You fight a war on many fronts.”

How true those words were.

“Your challenge to Kraash-nagun—this duel of dominance, as you call it—I consider unnecessary. I consider it a distraction.” He drew a breath in through his slitted nostrils. “But now, I see that it is necessary for you. I do not understand it, but I have come to learn that not everything is meant to be understood.” He squeezed her shoulders again. “I will help you prepare for your challenge to Kraash-nagun. But know that even if you fail, you will have lost nothing in my eyes.”

Shaking her head, she said quietly, “I will not fail.”

“I hope you are right. I will train you harshly. I will allow no room for error. You will not enjoy it.”

She didn’t intend do.

“My only request is that you not lose sight of why you are here—or of where you are. You are seeing sights that no Earthae has seen. Even I, a lifelong slave of the Khuladi, see the value in that. Will you agree to that?”

It sounded like such an easy assignment—to see what was around her. How very hard she knew it would be. “Yes.”

Nodding, Tauthin slid his talons from her shoulders. “You have mere days to prepare yourself. You will need much more preparation than Kraash-nagun. You will also need to explain your training to Yigôzien, that she might inform the Kalarael of it. They must see it as a customary act and not one of defiance within our ranks. I am sure she and her ilk will be eager to observe.” Judging from his tone, he didn’t seem too thrilled. “You have opened a door for Kraash-nagun to remove you from command. Much as you, he will not consider failure a possibility.”

Sighing, Svetlana blew a breath upward to blow her hair from her face, only to find the effort blocked by the mask. She reached up to brush her strands aside. With one hand on a hip, she motioned to Tauthin. “I understand.”

“I feel we must discuss the dichotomy of our roles.”

She arched an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You are my leader, but you must also heed my every instruction.”

“So you’re asking if I’m okay taking orders? Please. I have taken orders my whole life.”

Tauthin released a guttural mm. “And how well you are handling the prospect of subservience.”

She narrowed her eyes. “So you are trying sarcasm, now?”

With his tone more serious, he asked, “Are you ready for your first task?”

“I am.”

He leaned in close, his opaque, purple lenses locking onto her. “Relax.”

“I’m sorry, relax?”

“Walk around this chamber—it has been prepared for you. This is a place of wonder. Explore it, as we have for many hours before you arrived here. Look upon this alien architecture. Appreciate it. Once you leave after you see the Khuladi, you will likely never return.”

There was wisdom in his words, even if she was itching to start swinging her staff around. “I will do as you ask.” Taking a step back, Tauthin pivoted around to walk away from her. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“To my quarters. There is much I must do to prepare if I am to train you so quickly.”

“We have quarters here?”

Hesitating, he looked back at her again. “We have…cloth.”

The dangling draperies she’d seen earlier. They must have served as separators for each of their living spaces in that same, big room. It was better than nothing.

“Contact Yigôzien, and then explore this chamber. We begin training today.”

Svetlana did as Tauthin suggested, using the control panel that Yigôzien had showed her to summon the invoker back to the chamber. When Yigôzien arrived, she was accompanied by a pair of darishu. Svetlana’s explanation of the duel of dominance was met with amazement by the three Kalarael. She couldn’t help but feel a tinge guilty about the high regard with which Yigôzien seemed to hold this duel, considering it was just an idea that had popped into Svetlana’s head on a whim.

From then on out, it was Yigôzien who was doing the explaining and Svetlana who was taking in every word. It all began with the grand tour of her luxury, alien suite. As Svetlana expected might be the case, there was a delightful surprise at every turn.

The first surprise was that things were not nearly as “white” as they seemed. Yigôzien explained how one of the many consoles along the wall could be used to paint the room’s walls in any color the resident desired. The white was merely a canvas on which splashes of color—quite literally—were expected to land. It took but a few simple presses on the touchscreen display for the room to be cast in the same vibrant blues and yellows that Svetlana had seen on the space station. There were entire walls in the suite dedicated purely to displaying that same flowing, liquid mural she’d seen there.

The floating beds had been brought in specifically for them—just enough to give each member of her crew a place to lay their heads. As for the depression in the center of the room, its purpose turned out to be twofold. In one form, it was a round seating area for the room’s occupants to gather and socialize where each member could look upon the other in equal measure. It was quite large—easily four meters in diameter—and was used for everything from conversing to eating meals, which was always done socially in Kalarael society. It took nothing but a simple press of a display button for floating trays to rise out of the floor to be placed along the depression’s stair-stepped circumference, where its diners would be seated. It was quite wonderful to see a meeting place with such a dedicated purpose geared toward camaraderie.

The second purpose for the depression was more surprising. It could be filled with water, transforming it from a social area to what was essentially a massive hot tub. This was a feature Svetlana could not wait to use. The downside was that it also served as the communal bathing area. The thought of bathing with Bakma wasn’t exactly thrilling, so she made a mental note to order them into the other room when the time came to cleanse.

By the time the grand tour of her chambers had been completed, it was time to eat. Everyone in the chamber joined in the meal, including the two darishu. It was the first time she’d seen any darishu remove their helmets, and it pleased her to see that beneath their silvery, metallic exteriors, they were just normal Kalarael—one a brown-skinned male named Toro-shun with bright green and gold plumes, and the other a violet-skinned female named Akàziendi whose black down feathers were shorter and accented with a dark shade of purple. Unlike Yigôzien and Toro-shun, whose facial features were more vulpine, Akàziendi’s were decidedly softer—almost feline in appearance. Together, they joined everyone else around the depression in the center of the room to break proverbial bread.

The “bread,” so to speak, consisted of a variety of dishes that’d been deemed safe for consumption for Svetlana and her crew. The most visually stimulating of the courses was the luminescent blue bulb of a vibrant, purple plant stalk. As the Kalarael demonstrated, the bulbs were dipped in a condiment that looked like nothing more than thick, clear water, but that provided a sweet, nectary taste to the bulbs, which themselves tasted like a crisp mix of golden apple and watermelon. It offered a fresh, fantastic flavor, and she ate every one of the bulbs on her plate.

In addition to the bulbs, they were also served a bowl of grainy, white seeds not dissimilar to rice in texture, but with a decidedly more sour taste. When eaten by itself it was quite displeasurable, but when mixed with chopped bulbs, it created a sort of fruity, sweet-and-sour flavor that was strangely appealing. There were also long strips of briny meat that Yigôzien explained came from one of the many mammals that inhabited the forests of Kalar, along with something akin to a salad that was comprised of a variety of brightly colored leaflings topped with a tangy red sauce. The drink of choice was a bright red and bubbly drink that burned all the way down Svetlana’s throat before unleashing a cool sensation of mint coupled with the odd taste of pickled cherries. She had no idea if she loved it or hated it, and she found herself drinking two glasses of the stuff just for the experience. Every bite of every dish was so peculiar—so unique. These were flavors and combinations that she’d never fathomed, each distinct from the next but all in harmony. It was a meal as extraterrestrial as the extraterrestrials themselves. But perhaps the strangest thing of all was how normal it all felt.

No matter how alien any part of the meal might have been, she was still eating around the equivalent of a dinner table. She was still sharing it with other lifeforms, as she would have with the Fourteenth. It mattered little that of all the guests at this particular table, she was the only one that was human. Even Mishka felt like the family pet, lying down by himself and occasionally glancing at the table like a dog hoping for scraps. This all felt so familiar. She even felt no reservation about taking off her mask to partake in the meal. She had nothing to hide from anyone there.

There was, however, one thing about the event that left Svetlana feeling cold, and it had nothing to do with the Kalarael or the bizarre food they’d been served. It had to do with Kraash-nagun. Sitting around the proverbial dinner table with him felt much like sitting at the table with a family member one was feuding with. The two didn’t speak. They didn’t even look in each other’s direction—not that it would have made a difference to the blind elite. But that chasm between them was so great, they might as well have been on opposite sides of the planet.

What Tauthin had said had been true: Kraash-nagun was not a necessary part of the process. He could be killed or left behind and it wouldn’t have mattered. There was no function on the Zone Runner that he was required for. But he doubted her. He doubted her. And it was that—so much more so than any role he could have played—that gnawed at her soul. Perhaps that said something about the state of her insecurities. Perhaps that part of her that she hated so much was still anchored deep. But perhaps, she was just more like Nagogg than she’d initially thought. She only knew one thing for certain: she had to win.

At all costs.

When the meal concluded, Yigôzien informed Svetlana that there were no other tasks scheduled for the day. The invoker would be staying in a suite of her own, while Toro-shun and Akàziendi remained with Svetlana at all times. This surprised her, and she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about their already-packed suite housing two more, but she accepted the additional manpower under the condition that two extra cots were “floated” in to provide them with proper places to lay their heads.

By the time Yigôzien bid Svetlana farewell, it was early evening. Outside of her penthouse window, the orange and pink hues of the slowly dipping sun cast pastel rays across the sky. A day on Kalar lasted just over thirty-three Earth hours, which meant that, despite the evening hues, there were still many more hours left to the day. That meant that in effect, she’d have nine bonus hours each day to work with. She intended to take advantage of them. A duel was imminent—one that would finally determine her place among the Bakma she’d freed. One that would require her fiercest effort. Her absolute best.

There was no time like the present to start getting ready.

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Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Date unknown

Time unknown

Ban-Hezikal, Kalar

FROM THE MOMENT Svetlana had first held a shock staff in her hands, she’d felt an urge to put it to use. Clad in the stone blue attire given to her by the Kalarael, she found herself at the precipice of satisfying that urge, feet planted on the pink plaster-earth as she gazed upon the slow yet magnificent setting of the Kalarian sun. She’d been told by Yigôzien that sunset was a process that lasted over three hours on that part of the planet, making it far more of an experience than any sunset Svetlana had witnessed on Earth. Its palette offered the same setting colors as the Sun did on Earth: deep reds, pinks, and oranges with an outline of slowly fading blue. But it was the ground—that pink plaster-earth—that gave the contrast of sky to ground such mesmerizing beauty. She decided to name the surface material runa legras, the Bakmanese words for “pink clay.”

The runa legras, as it turned out, was a fantastic surface for training—just firm enough to give her bare feet a solid foundation while still possessing enough give to cushion any falls. Not that she planned to fall at all.

It was with that mindset that Svetlana found herself standing several meters from Tauthin, who himself had been given a shock staff by the Kalarael. With her stone-blue half mask, its matching outfit, and her hair loose and blowing in the wind, she felt more ninjutsu assassin than interplanetary ambassador. She looked the part of Fury of Shanras. It was time to play it.

Crouching down by the side of the arena space, Akàziendi watched the two warriors keenly. After being told that a Kalarael chaperone was required at all times, Svetlana selected Akàziendi as her one and only escort, leaving Toro-shun behind to watch over the Bakma in their quarters. There were no other spectators present, at Svetlana’s request. She would save the live studio audience for Kraash-nagun’s beatdown.

“Any words of wisdom before we begin?” Svetlana asked, cocking her head. The faint trace of sarcasm matched her gesture.

“Win before you boast.”

Twirling the staff, Svetlana stepped backward and thrust it forward and upward in a ready stance. She waited for Tauthin to assume a fighting stance of his own. Even as inexperienced as she was with these weapons, she could recognize poor form—uncertain form—for what it was. Tauthin looked like a warrior who desperately wished he had a firearm. “Call it,” she said.

“It is called.”

Twirling the staff around her body, she snapped it against her side and thrust it upward and outward—a motion that made Tauthin flinch. Gripping his staff tightly, he held it in front of his body like someone who truly didn’t know what he was doing. A ploy? There was only one way to find out.

Stepping forward, Svetlana manipulated her back arm to jab her staff straight forward, then back and downward, then straight up from there. A simple fake-out and disarm. And it worked.

Halfway through her attack, Tauthin tried to slam his staff down atop hers, just in time for her to yank it back and reposition it to knock his staff clean up and out of his hands. She hit it with a solid thwock that sent it flipping upward and Tauthin flinching backward as if his own weapon might smack him in the face in its exit.

“Da’csh!” he said—a Bakmanese utterance of frustration.

Svetlana pivoted her staff upright and then slammed it vertically into the runa legras. Now, she could be cocky. “I must admit—that was quicker than even I thought.”

Retrieving his shock staff from where it’d fallen, Tauthin dusted it off.

Assuming her ready stance again, she watched him hold his staff in the same manner in which he’d held it before. “You should consider holding it the way I am. When I attack, attempt to parry.”

“I need nothing from you.”

Making a tsck, tsck, tsck sound, she shook her head a single time. “Just trying to help.”

Despite his grumblings, Tauthin did reposition his staff to hold it as she was. Unlike her posture, his didn’t look natural at all. “I am ready.”

His stance was so sloppy—so out of alignment. This wasn’t helping her at all. “Ready, too,” she said.

Striking first, Tauthin thrust his staff toward her head. She parried it with ease and stepped back. Once more, Tauthin thrusted, and once more, she backtracked and knocked the tip of his staff aside. So maybe this can help, she thought, as thrust after thrust was knocked aside. It was like a skill drill. A chance to improve via repetition. To experience the weight of one staff hitting another. She could sense the benefit of that. Until Tauthin ruined it.

Digging in with his rear foot, the Bakma suddenly switched tactics, ducking low to try and sweep out Svetlana’s feet. If the changeup threw her off balance at all, it was but for the most fleeting of moments. Moving out of the range of his staff completely—a sense of staff-depth-perception he apparently lacked—she found herself suddenly in prime position to knock him upside the head in his now off-balance state. The thought crossed her mind that to do so was to take advantage of a far less skilled competitor. It would almost be unfair. Almost picking.

Thwock!

She did it anyway. After switching her grip from that of a spear to a staff, she popped the side of the staff against Tauthin’s head. It wasn’t hard, but it was hard enough. The Bakma stumbled sideways, then slid to his knees in the runa legras.

“You are lucky these staffs are off!” she said, a bit chastising. “I would have just shocked your brain.”

Grumbling once more, Tauthin pushed up from his knees to a fighting stance. Futilely dusting off his staff again, he played around with his grip of it.

It was time to call this one. “Tauthin…”

“Prepare yourself,” he said.

“This is not helping me.”

A thrust, a swing, a jab. Tauthin went on an immediate offensive, shock staff flailing wildly as he strung together attack, after attack, after attack. None came close to connecting—very few even had to be parried. But when the opportunity presented itself, parry she did. Opting to stay on the defensive for the sole purpose of giving the fight a purpose, Svetlana deflected, spun, and deftly dodged his efforts. Though several of Tauthin’s attacks came close, none truly threatened her. She began to sense from the Bakma something she’d sensed in herself: extreme pride. He did not want to lose, and that was driving him forward. But unlike her, he stood no chance of coming out on top. Not in this fight.

Thwack! Crack! Swish!

An upward block, a cross-body parry, a thrust of her own to throw him off balance. Svetlana tried out every defensive tactic in her arsenal—many of which were literally being performed for the very first time. Despite her knowledge of all these moves in her head, these were still things she hadn’t actually done until now. Even as her Bakma counterpart swung at her wildly, her mind marveled at the sheer skill level that Nagogg had possessed. Were all Bakma chieftains so able with these weapons? For a species that walked out of their spaceships carrying plasma rifles, it seemed almost a waste of ability. But perhaps there were moments when the effort to learn the skill could find justification. Perhaps she was finding it now.

Whatever the history of chieftains and their spears, it was certainly something that was beginning to shape the way Svetlana thought of herself. Even as she dodged, even as she parried, even as she countered and moved, a part of her inner being screamed out, I could do this. She could fight this way. She could learn to utilize this weapon—this staff—in actual battlefield combat. Beyond the ceremonial, beyond duels such as the one she was training for. With Mishka, she could close gaps. With the Kalarael’s force field technology, she could repel weapons fire. With decisive hands, she could deal deathblows. The Fury of Shanras could be unleased.

Unleashed.

After twirling her staff end over end, she leaned back and sent it careening off Tauthin’s in mid-attack. The sudden shift from defense to offense caught the Bakma off guard, and he stutter-stepped backward. She wasn’t done. Upon shifting her grip to that of a spear rather than a staff, she thrust it deliberately toward the now-awkwardly-held staff in Tauthin’s hand. A sure-handed wrest later, and his staff was sent flying. There was no hesitation—her finger activated the staff’s power source. Minimal charge—but a charge just the same. With a lightning-fast thrust, she jabbed the tip into Tauthin’s exposed chest. There was a pop of energy; the Bakma came off his feet. Tauthin rolled and then slid backward on the runa legras, kicking up dry, pink dust as he did. Svetlana had a genuine moment of elation. Of power. But it quickly passed, and her eyes opened wide. “Tauthin!”

From the sideline, Akàziendi angled her head.

His gaping mouth grimacing, Tauthin propped himself up with one hand while his other rubbed his chest. Lowering his head, the Bakma moaned. Even as Svetlana slid to his side and put her hands on him, his head stayed downcast.

“I am so sorry!” Svetlana slid one hand to the center of his back to steady him. “I did not mean to do it.” But she had. “I do not know what happened! My finger must have…” All she could do was hope that he bought it. “My finger must have slipped.”

Pushing up to a painful stand, Tauthin stretched his neck from one side to the other. The movement was ginger. It reminded her of David after a battle. Far too old-seeming for a Bakma leader in what she felt was his prime. It wasn’t until he slowly shuffled toward his fallen shock staff that her eyebrows arched in surprise.

“Tauthin, you cannot be serious.”

“You have five days,” he said, voice hoarse. “That is your fault, not mine.”

Rising back to her feet, she followed him. “I am going to hurt you if we continue like this.”

“You will not hurt me.” Bending, he reached down to claim his weapon.

Svetlana’s foot slammed down on top of it. When he looked up at her, her eyes glared above her mask. “You are not good enough with this weapon to train me.”

The Bakma’s gaze matched her. “I must.”

“You must what? Break your body? Be my personal punching bag?”

“You are not as good as you think.”

After what she’d just witnessed, it was hard to believe. “I am better than you. Far better. In this skill, superior.” Allowing her gaze to drift, she looked at Akàziendi. “I would be better off fighting her. You are no match for me here—I do not say that in disrespect. If this was a gunfight, I would say the opposite. But it is not.”

Reaching down again, Tauthin tugged on the shock staff despite her foot pressing down on it. At long last, she stepped away. The weapon was his again. “Such arrogance. Such self-belief.”

“Did we not just experience the same fight?”

“You experienced a situation which allowed for perfect execution. It is not one that exists in reality. In combat, plans fail. Other factors enter. There are variables.”

“And so what is the solution? To beat you to a pulp? That would teach me nothing.” Once more, she looked the darishu’s way. “I will tell Akàziendi to fight me. There is no doubt she has mastered this weapon. She would push me.”

Tauthin scoffed. “She would do anything but. You are a gift from a goddess to these creatures. Do you believe she would dare strike you? She would hold back. You know that she would.”

She did.

“Only I am willing to push you to the point that is required,” he said.

There was no gentle way to say it. He needed to hear the truth. “I think, Tauthin, that we both know you cannot.”

Turning away, Tauthin took several steps in the opposite direction. He said nothing.

“I am not trying to be disrespectful. But—”

“Hear yourself,” he interrupted, though his voice remained calm. “Hear your arrogance. That is what it is. You have earned nothing. You have had a skillset installed into your brain with no experience to put it to proper use.”

Hear herself? Was he hearing himself? “I will spar Akàziendi. She knows how to wield this weapon. Even if she does not push me, she will still allow me to practice my form. That is what I need, is it not?”

Shaking his head, Tauthin said, “You need to fail.”

Blinking, she looked back at him. “I need to what?”

“You heard my words.” He faced her again. “You are not the Setana I knew. Your lust for power has corrupted you.”

“Does not everyone lust for power over their situations? Do you not lust to have your captain’s chair returned to you? Do you not lust to defeat me now?” Now she was getting mad. “Do not speak of my lusts until you address your own.” Throwing her hands up, she turned away in disgust. “How did this conversation even get to this?” Then, right back at him. “Because I defeated you. Because you envy me.”

He bared his teeth.

“I am your superior. I earned that on the Zone Runner. I am more skilled than you. I am more revered than you. And for those things, you resent me. You are no different from Kraash-nagun.”

Eyes staring back darkly, he angled his head low. “And you are no different from Nagogg.”

The glare that was already on her face narrowed further. Beneath her half mask, her mouth was twisting, even though he couldn’t see it.

In her silence, Tauthin continued. “You say that your finger slipped on your staff when you struck me. I do not believe that. I believe that you wanted to inflict pain upon me as pain has been inflicted on you. That your Earthae heart burns for vengeance, and that I am perceived as a weak target. But I am not so weak as you believe.”

“Come at me again.”

“I intend to.”

“Come at me again, and we will see who is weak.”

For almost ten full seconds, Tauthin’s deep purple gaze stayed on her. But in all that time, he said nothing. He said nothing still, even as he dropped the shock staff to the ground and turned to walk away.

Angling her head, Svetlana asked, “Are we now finished? Have I so insulted you that you can no longer proceed?” When he continued to walk away, she took a single step after him. “Answer me, slave.”

The word had just come out. Like it had been there all along. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. But what surprised her more than its emergence was that she didn’t feel bad for it. Not nearly as much as she felt that she should have. But she still knew when she’d crossed a line. “I did not mean that.”

At that, Tauthin stopped—but only enough to slant his head down and to the side. “We both know that you did.”

Deep within her came an awful swell. Deep down in the core of her soul.

“You are still under my tutelage,” Tauthin said, “and I will still spar against you. But not at this time. At this time, you are correct—there is nothing I can teach you. But as is the case in other matters, that is your fault, not mine.”

Eyes closing, she looked down. The rush of anger and adrenaline had subsided. Now she just felt ashamed.

“I recommend that you spar with Akàziendi. As you stated, she is far more skilled with the staff than me. But I ask of you two things. First, that you not be deceived into thinking she would ever actually try to strike you.” He hesitated. “The second is that you speak to your God. Instruct Him to return you to your former state. Though not as skilled as a warrior, she was better as a friend.”

The words cut deep. They hurt. As Tauthin returned to the main structure of Ban-Hezikal, a dry breeze blew beneath her, dusty granules of runa legras caressing her feet. She watched them blow past—a momentary distraction from the turmoil within. But no distraction could subdue such a feeling for long. No distraction could change the fact that her best friend in that part of the galaxy had just turned and walked away.

Lifting her head, she turned to Akàziendi. She must be wondering what just happened. She must be so confused. Without Ed there, there was no way for her to relay to her darishu guardian what had just taken place. But perhaps that was for the better. Perhaps it wasn’t always best to leave the truth out in the open. Perhaps sometimes, it was just too ugly.

But she could convey one thing.

For the next hour and a half, Svetlana and Akàziendi sparred on the pink, dusty surface. Despite not having an Ithini to connect to her Kalarael escort, Svetlana was able to get the point across easily enough as to what she wanted Akàziendi to do. It did not take long into their session for Svetlana to realize that what Tauthin said was absolutely true. Despite Svetlana’s desire for Akàziendi to push her, there was virtually no chance that the darishu would. In a way, Svetlana couldn’t blame her. She wouldn’t want to be blamed for bruising the face of one sent by the Purities.

But it was something—and something was better than nothing. She even managed to break a sweat by the time she was through. The air was dry—cool. Perfectly comfortable. Tauthin would have told her that was the problem. Perhaps, he was right. Then again, perhaps not.

When Svetlana returned to her chamber, she discovered that her training session had not been so private as she’d believed. A multitude of Kalarael were in her and her cohorts’ quarters, gathered by the glass windows where they’d observed things. They made no attempt to hide their prying, nor did they seem embarrassed by it. With their innocuousness in mind, she assigned no condemnation. She simply requested that they depart so she could bathe and then find rest. Yigôzien practically insisted that she be permitted to bathe Svetlana as a courtesy from a saikuran to a master. Custom dictated, she assured. But that was a custom Svetlana had no interest in upholding. As much as she appreciated the gesture to have Yigôzien go Medieval servant on her, she politely declined. Yigôzien was hurt, naturally, but not offended. It did not bother Svetlana now so much as the first time. And so, she bathed in peace. Shortly after, she was informed by the invoker that tomorrow, she would be taken to Sélestere for the much ballyhooed Celebration of Shanras—an affair that Svetlana was not nearly as excited about as her counterpart. Whatever custom dictated, she supposed. By the time night fell outside of Ban-Hezikal, the effects of a thirty-three-hour day were taking their toll. She was exhausted.

And so, she slept. In spite of the strangeness all around her—from the runa legras, to the alien servants, to the mesmerizing chamber she’d been given—a bed still felt like a bed, even if it happened to float. Tomorrow would be an important day.

Tomorrow couldn’t get there soon enough.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

Date unknown

Time unknown

Sélestere, Kalar

IT WAS ENDLESS. As far as the eye could see, in every direction Svetlana looked. The runa legras was endless.

Svetlana had thought after boarding the transport from Ban-Hezikal to Sélestere that at some point, her pupils would stop dilating at the sight of the pink landscape and the bright, turquoise sky. But for the life of her, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from them. She knew that Kalar was a world rich with vegetation—that much could be determined from the marbled blue and green colors she’d seen from orbit. But she was yet to see those blues and those greens. She was yet to see that familiar sight. The pastels before her were almost more alien than the aliens themselves.

Yigôzien had awoken Svetlana early that morning to inform her that a full crew of Kalarael glorifiers had arrived to help her achieve something called featherglow, a state of optimum physical beauty. The glorifiers approached Svetlana’s dolling up with religious fervor. First there came a ritual cleansing, which consisted of each glorifier ceremoniously pouring a bowl of water over her head while reciting chants about Shanras, the Purities, and something Ed translated as the valesprings. They then proceeded to dance, raise their hands, and shout praises in the Kalarael tongue as they gyrated around her while she knelt dripping in the gathering hole, which had been filled halfway with water. All the while this carried on, Yigôzien, Toro-shin, and Akàziendi watched in reverence. After a much more traditional cleansing utilizing soaps, shampoos, and oils, Svetlana was finally allowed to emerge from the water to proceed with the actual “glorification.”

And what a glorification it was.

Svetlana’s body was dashed and sprayed from head to toe with an assortment of spices and incense, to the point where she wondered if she was a guest of honor or the main course. Despite the solemnness the glorifiers attempted to maintain, they couldn’t resist occasionally reaching out to run their fingers along her skin and hair, often inhaling in pseudo-ecstasy at the way both felt. They were captivated by every part of her to the point where it started to get uncomfortable, though at the risk of disrupting one of their sacred processes, she let them marvel.

She was presented with a gown woven with gray and translucent fibers that had been tailored just for her. Some of the fibers, particularly those that dangled from her forearms and waistline, were so light and airy they felt like they were floating. The crowning glory of all of it was the gifting of a new half mask—one polished and streamlined, with angles and sharp curves that looked like angel’s wings clinging to her cheeks. It worked as well for her as the steel blue, less stylistic mask she’d been given on the space station, but its level of sculpted elegance made it look as much a fashion piece as something designed to help her breathe. The final piece of the wardrobe was a pair of shoes that were something like a cross between boots and sandals, sliding onto her legs almost up to her knees but consisting purely of leather straps and lacings.

The last part of Svetlana to receive treatment was her hair, simply because the Kalarael seemed to have no idea what to do with it. They tried wetting it, pushing it back, sculpting it with a thin, clear paste only to have to wash it all over again and start anew. It was during this process that Svetlana realized that for all of the technological savvy the Kalarael possessed, they lacked some of the most basic, primitive tools known to man: brushes and combs. With down feathery hair like they possessed, these tools simply weren’t needed. At long last, and after much debate, the glorifiers came up with a solution. Laying Svetlana face-up on the floor, they spread her hair flat in all directions behind her, divided sections into ribbons, and literally painted them with a glue-like substance that dried to remarkable elasticity. It enabled the glorifiers to roll her hair into literal ribbons that were arranged and set about like a floral display, all held together with a single, silver clip. When she finally had a chance to look at herself in the mirror, she was amazed at what she saw. With her wardrobe, the elegant half mask, and the equivalent of an exotic, alien perm, she looked as sumptuous and luxuriant as she’d ever looked in her whole life. If nothing else, the getup assured her that she’d carry herself daintily just to avoid messing it all up.

Svetlana knew little of Sélestere, the city that Yigôzien was ferrying her to, other than that it was a city of what seemed some significance. Yigôzien, Akàziendi, and the glorifiers were making the trip with her, leaving Toro-shun to watch over Wuteel and Kraash-nagun. Ed, Mishka, and Tauthin, were allowed to accompany Svetlana, the Ithini’s presence invaluable when it came to helping Svetlana communicate, the canrassi the equivalent of her trusty steed, and Tauthin having been recognized as a being of importance to her.

Throughout the ride, Yigôzien explained to Svetlana what the Celebration of Shanras would entail. Despite Svetlana’s genuine desire to listen, she found that after hearing about so many different customs and procedures, she began to drown them out in her mind, focusing more on what she could see outside than what Yigôzien was telling her. Eventually, the hovering train’s velocity slowed, prompting Svetlana to sit upright in her chair. They were approaching Sélestere, Yigôzien explained.

Placing her face as close to the window as she could, Svetlana searched for any trace of the city. To her surprise, she saw only a collection of primitive huts and adobe structures—far less than what seemed deserving of such a revered place. She was about to walk to the cockpit to get a better view when a sudden, downward shift kept her in her seat. Blinking, she watched as the hovering train descended into a tunnel, the bright blue sky disappearing above her as darkness took over. “Where are we going?”

“Many of our cities are partially subterranean,” Yigôzien answered through their connection with Ed. “Most of Sélestere is underground. Many in our species do not fare well beneath the Daystar, particularly those clans with lighter skin tones, such as my clan, Viil-Astrul. With prolonged exposure to the Daystar comes skin irritation.”

How strange that a species so advanced in medical technology—enough to be able to scan Svetlana’s body one day and present her with tailor-made breathing apparatuses the next—was at the mercy of something as simple as sunburn. “When you say clans, do you mean like races within your species? Is that how you differentiate them?” She had seen an assortment of skin tones among the Kalarael—some light, some dark, some blue, purple, or orange. There were even subtle differences in physical features, with some Kalarael seeming more vulpine, while others were more feline. Their ethnicities seemed far broader in scale than humanity’s.

“Yes,” Yigôzien answered. “There are nine clans in all: Viil-Astrul, Ugara, Amaester, Nepthatash, Lysenthra, Voolrevan, Fa`reyashinti, Reshbahim, and Sunistra. Each has a distinct physical appearance. We as a species are careful to avoid sexual intermingling, as to not dilute each clan’s natural splendor.”

How ruthlessly devoted. “Could a clan such as yours not just put on layers of clothing to stay on the surface longer, like the darishu?”

“We are an expressive people. We would never wear something that would hide too much of our bodies from view.” After a brief pause, her smile widened. “But do not think us a species that thrives only underground. There are many city districts and structures, such as Ban-Hezikal, that are above the ground—and even entire cities, for those clans with darker skin tones. We in Viil-Astrul must simply remain inside these places for a majority of the time. In fact, this is why to stay at a place such as Ban-Hezikal is considered a luxury. In a suite such as yours, we may behold the sights of Kalar from the safety of the buildings for as long as we desire.”

Once again looking out of the window, Svetlana watched as yellow tunnel lights streaked past. At long last, and so sudden that it almost made her jump, Sélestere came into view.

Any vision Svetlana had of a bustling, futuristic metropolis was shattered as she beheld Sélestere. There was no neon cityscape. There was no network of flying cars or automated machines doing the bidding of a technologically superior species. Besides the hovering train she was riding on, there was almost nothing resembling technology at all.

Instead, what she saw was an endless expanse of lantern light, so widespread and numerous that it gave the entire cavernous realm an amber glow. She saw crude structures of clay and wood. There was a river—a bona fide, underground river, flowing right through the center of the city. Pressing her hands against the glass, she looked up, down, and in every which way. The way the structures were built in abstract spires, the way the lantern light played on every angle and level of the city…it was the most tribal—the most magical—city she’d ever seen in her life. Like she’d just stepped through a portal into some enchanted fantasy. Inhaling softly, she whispered, “My God.”

Behind her, Yigôzien’s canine eyes dilated. “You are seeing now the beauty that is the Kalarael. Even I, who have visited this city countless times, am enamored by it.”

“It looks so…” Shaking her head, she struggled to find the word. It stayed lost to her.

“Sélestere is a city dedicated to the preservation of our past,” Yigôzien said, “showcasing where the Kalarael have come from and where we will go. You will not see the sights here that you have seen in our space station or at Ban-Hezikal.” Her smile widened. “I have spoken many times about our species’ abundance of customs. You will find these customs on full display here. They are engrained in the hearts of these people. As an invoker of custom, it is something I very much appreciate.”

All Svetlana could do was shake her head in wonder. “I was not expecting this.”

The structures themselves, which ranged in size from huts to what looked like large communes, seemed made out of wood. With so many lanterns about, it was a miracle the whole place hadn’t burned to the ground. She pointed out the window as she looked back at Yigôzien. “Are these all wooden structures?”

“All of these structures are built from petrified wood. It is strong and easy to maintain, while retaining a look that pays homage to our origin.”

“So you were originally from the surface?” If trees were involved, she had to assume that.

The invoker’s whiskered smile widened. “We have spent most of our existence in cities such as these, utilizing the trees that grow beneath the earth.”

“Beneath the earth?”

“Yes,” Yigôzien answered. “While many trees draw their strength from the Daystar, many beneath the ground are nourished by the valesprings.”

The valesprings. She’d heard them use that term during her glorification process. “What are the valesprings?”

Gesturing with her elongated fingers to the window, Yigôzien answered, “In order to provide the Kalarael with life, the Purities created a system of waterways that run beneath the surface of the planet. In times of tribulation, the valesprings sometimes overflow to the surface as a sign from Kukira. These waterways contain nutrients not commonly found on the surface. You were cleansed with such water. Surely you must feel their effects on your skin?”

Eyes narrowed a tad suspiciously, Svetlana ran her hand along her arm. Indeed, it did feel smoother than normal. But was that just because Yigôzien had planted the seed in her mind? “I do not know,” she answered, honestly.

“In time, you will feel it.”

She hummed in thought. Looking back out the window, Svetlana watched as the train continued at its leisurely pace. “Where are we going?”

“To the Jubilation Grounds. It is where the Royal Assembly awaits your arrival.”

Sitting a bit more erect in an effort to stifle her ever-budding jitters, Svetlana looked out at the passing city sights. What a place this was. What a magical, enchanting place. She could see Kalarael citizens moving about the city streets. Even from far away, their flamboyant, tribal wardrobes stood out among the hearth-like illumination of the city. After angling her head to get a clearer view of what was beneath them, she could see a parade of Kalarael moving across the city. There were so many of them. She leaned back and stared at the back of the seat in front of her. These Kalarael were on their way to see her. To see Svetlana, the one sent to them by the Purities themselves. The Fury of Shanras. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply through the mask. She fought to steady herself.

Ed’s thoughts emerged in her mind. You are nervous.

She wished she could lie—but he’d never believe it. Yes.

Why does being viewed with such reverence disturb you?

It doesn’t disturb me. It did. It is just…they are treating me like royalty. I have never been anything close to that.

You are such a contradictory species. You long for respect, yet when you receive it, your instinct is to reject it.

How could he understand it? She didn’t herself. I wish I had an answer. We are what we are.

As are we all.

Looking out the window again, Svetlana’s eyes widened when she saw a massive fire burning in the middle of an arena-sized clearing. It had to be forty meters across. Pressing her finger to the window, she looked back at Yigôzien. “What is that?”

With eyes the brightest blue, the invoker answered, “The Sacred Embers.”

Svetlana allowed her gaze to settle on the flames.

“In times of celebration,” Yigôzien said, “the Sacred Embers are fed coremilk from the bosom of Kalar. This was done today, in anticipation of your arrival.”

“…coremilk?”

Ed’s impromptu re-translation cut in. Gas.

As in fossil fuels?

It would seem the closest comparable.

Unaware of the interjection, Yigôzien continued. “Coremilk has sustained the industries of the Kalarael for millennia. We harness it purely, and with it, we have grown from villages that looked much like Sélestere does now to a civilization that reaches for the stars. There is a vent passage for coremilk beneath the Sacred Embers that we are able to regulate as we see fit.”

In other words, they turned up the heat like a gas furnace. She watched as the hovering train began a long, sweeping orbit around the Sacred Embers. It was as if the pathway the train was on was designed to showcase the massive firepit. Perhaps it was.

“That area around the Sacred Embers—those are the Jubilation Grounds. There, we will celebrate your arrival with a proclamation and feast.”

The train decelerated just as they came around the final turn. Yigôzien’s large, vulpine eyes glowed brighter. “Prepare yourself. This celebration is one I never thought I would see in this lifetime.”

That makes two of us, Svetlana thought, though the thought remained hidden. Briefly, she looked across the train aisle at Tauthin. The Bakma had been silent throughout the journey, his own eyes glued to the window on his side of the train. He must have been taking it in as she had.

Finally coming to a stop in a wide tunnel, the hovering train released a brassy reverberation. All around Svetlana, the Kalarael on the train rose to their feet. “Come!” Yigôzien said, reaching exuberantly to pull Svetlana to her feet. “The celebration awaits!”

Before Svetlana knew it, she was being pushed along among the throng of glorifiers and darishu. Her hands clung to Ed’s and Yigôzien’s—the former to not lose him and the latter to not get lost herself. Knocked about from all sides, Svetlana was thrust out of the train and into the tunnel hub.

“Your war beast!” Yigôzien shouted. The next thing Svetlana realized, she was being handed Mishka’s harness as the canrassi emerged from its own train car. “You must mount it at once!”

Gripping Mishka’s harness, she yanked herself atop him as quickly as she could. With this much frenzied excitement on the ground, there was no place she’d rather be than atop the canrassi—though even he was notably agitated at all the goings on.

Her heart was pounding. This was it, whatever “it” was. She was about to be thrust into the spotlight—or the hearth light—of Kalarael celebrity. At this stage of the game, it might as well have been worship.

A blue-skinned Kalarael bumped into Mishka, his eyes bright yellow as they locked onto Svetlana. He gasped at her in awe. Svetlana had no idea what to say. Only a taken aback, “Itsukae,” escaped from her—an utterance of sheer habit by this point. Upon whipping her head back to find Yigôzien, she saw that the invoker and Ed were following closely behind her. Tauthin was nowhere to be seen.

“The procession will lead us to the Jubilation Grounds!” Yigôzien said, her voice shouting over the vigorous crowd. “There, you will take your place before the Royal Assembly!”

Procession? If this madness was a procession, then Mishka was a white horse. As far as the eye could see, Kalarael lined the street that led from the train station—some reaching out to touch the hem of her garments, some falling in adulation on the road’s stone-paved surface. And the noise! From the maniacal yodels of the worshipful to the rolling vibrations of what felt like a million footsteps, there was so much noise. It felt like this alien crowd was about to tear her apart. There was but one thing she wanted to do: get to wherever it was they were going as fast as she could.

Rushing up from behind her, two lines of darishu appeared, surging ahead with their shock staffs at the ready. The crowd parted before them as for the first time, some semblance of order emerged from the chaos. She could feel the nervousness emanating from Mishka beneath her. Hand reaching into his fur, she stroked it rapidly, but assuredly. Glancing back, she looked for Ed. He was keeping pace, running alongside the darishu. She also spotted Tauthin being escorted by his own darishu. Gaze turning forward, Svetlana surveyed the area.

Crude structures—houses, perhaps—lined the roads with no real sense of order. There were no skyscrapers here, no discernable districts. For the first time, she was able to tell that the little floating light orbs were small, bioluminescent lifeforms, perhaps Kalar’s equivalent of fireflies. The place had an earthen smell to it, but other fragrances were adrift, too. They reminded her of cumin and nutmeg. Ceremonial incenses, perhaps?

The procession continued up the winding road and into the clearing that formed the Jubilation Grounds. It was massive—the size of several athletic fields. The Sacred Embers blazed in their full glory—a towering flame that reached toward the cavernous ceiling. The heat was not nearly as intense as she had expected. Perhaps force field technology was in play. There was a spacious boundary between the Sacred Embers and the growing crowd. As they began to parade her around the grounds, she craned her neck to spot their final destination.

A table. A massively long, strikingly rustic table. It was elevated on a flattened mound of earth. What must have been a hundred chairs lined it, though only on the side that offered a view of the Sacred Embers. At the table’s very center, towering above everything around it, was the tallest chair Svetlana had ever seen. There was nothing ornate about it. There were no encrusted jewels, no intricate designs, no patterns. It was just big.

As they neared the table, she found herself in awe at the rapturous crowd. This went far beyond anything humans would have done for a person. Kalarael shrieked, they yodeled, they fainted, they flailed in emotion. It looked like the whole of the city had flocked there en masse. There were no monitors, no devices like cameras of any kind that she could see. If someone there wanted to catch a glimpse of her, they would have needed to get close.

By the time the parade came full circle, the entire Jubilation Ground was standing room only. Suddenly, a loud voice reverberated across the grounds. It seemed to fill the entire cavern, as if originating from a speaker system. She had no idea what the voice said; it went uninterpreted. Whatever it was, though, it caused the crowd’s ear-piercing adulations to settle to a murmur.

Svetlana set her eyes forward again as they approached the table, along with the many Kalarael lined up in front of it. Unlike the crowd behind her, these Kalarael stood in an orderly fashion. They were among the most vividly decorated she’d seen; their skin was painted in bright colors, they wore ornate garments, their down feathers were primped up like headdresses.

I am connecting you to Yigôzien, Ed relayed. A second later, Svetlana sensed Yigôzien’s presence.

The invoker wasted no time. “You approach the Royal Assembly,” she said, her delicate Kalarael tongue translated into English. “You shall meet them in order of ascending significance, concluding with Darishukan Korlustus, High Priestess Linjan, and lastly, Queen Chechera and King Xi’qirian.”

“Queen?” Svetlana asked, blinking. “King?”

“Of course. Would they not attend such a momentous ceremony?”

She’d had no idea if they would. She’d had no idea that the Kalarael were led by literal royalty at all. She’d assumed that the term Royal Assembly was more traditional than anything else. Closer toward the line, Mishka tromped, the beast’s massive paws churning up dust with every step until Yigôzien gestured for her to dismount from the beast. She did so as a darishu took hold of the canrassi’s reins. Scrutinizing the line of Kalarael, Svetlana leaned toward Yigôzien again. “These are all members of the Royal Assembly?”

“Yes.”

“How many of them are there?”

Eyes brightening, the fox-eared alien smiled at her. “There are one hundred and seven in total, including the king and queen. It is rare that they are gathered in one place as they are today—a testament to the occasion at hand.”

“And I will meet them all?”

“Of course. We would dare not deprive any the opportunity to greet the Fury of Shanras. For the purpose of brevity, I will handle all introductions. They will each be allowed to perform a single bajuine—one of their choosing.”

Bajuine. The word for those interpretive gestures they were so keen to make.

“It is a great honor for each of their tribes to be able to choose what bajuine to present. Each will have significant meaning, if not for you, for them.”

How Yigôzien managed to keep track of so much in her head was beyond Svetlana in and of itself. “Do you know every single one of these individuals in the assembly?”

Yigôzien nodded. “I must, as must any invoker. Names and their conventions are of the utmost importance in our society, as I have explained to you. To know one’s name is to commit a part of them to your spirit. It is of great significance.” As they approached the line, the invoker’s voice quieted. “Though it would be customary at an occasion such as this for bajuines to be exchanged, I am aware that you do not know any with which to reply. Instead of a bajuine, you may reply with, ‘Itsukae.’ I will explain the word’s significance to each who hear it.”

The word’s significance. If Yigôzien only knew.

“We begin,” the invoker said. After clearing her throat as she approached the first of many in line, she proclaimed proudly, “To the Fury of Shanras, I present: Orindebo, songmaster of sorrows, fohr’devinder Nepthatash. You may present your bajuine.” The indicated Kalarael—a turquoise-skinned, green-plumed specimen—extended his arms in both directions before leaning backward, then forward, then down to the floor. Before him, Yigôzien smiled. “Casterista kon-vulane, a bajuine that conveys exhaustion yet satisfaction at the end of a long journey. It is a reference to his own life, all of which has led him to this moment and the satisfaction he feels to set his eyes upon you. An appropriate bajuine for the occasion.”

If she said so.

Yigôzien turned her eyes to Orindebo. “The Fury of Shanras will now greet you with a customary phrase of harmony and oneness.”

Harmony and oneness? Is that what they thought, “It’s okay,” meant? Behind her half mask, she tinged red. Mustering her dignity, she dipped her head toward the Kalarael. “Itsukae.”

Orindebo’s body quivered, his ecstasy impossible to hide behind his bright, yellow eyes.

And right on to the next, Yigôzien stepped. “To the Fury of Shanras, I present: Bilanstra, songmaster of jubilation, fohr’cravish Amaester. You may present your bajuine.”

Another songmaster, another bajuine, another explanation by Yigôzien as to what Svetlana was supposed to be seeing. Another, “Itsukae,” another tremble of adoration. If there was a hundred and five more of these to get through, this was going to take a long time.

Then another. “To the Fury of Shanras, I present: songmaster of conflict, Reshauané fohr`zieas-gal, Viil-Astrul.”

Then another. “To the Fury of Shanras, I present: Fasana, ministress of provision, fel’shestriya Ugara.”

Then another. After ten or so Kalarael down the line, their names and appellations began to blur—at least, until she heard a title she knew.

“To the Fury of Shanras, I present: Zin`Tesha, invoker of custom, fel`ismereis, Nepthatash. You may present your bajuine.”

The turquoise-skinned, feline-favoring invoker began her performance, which was as crisp and precise as any she’d seen from Yigôzien. Hearing Zin`Tesha’s appellation, it didn’t surprise her.

“Sinester del-athera juapiene,” Yigôzien said, “an expression of humility at the apex of one’s ambitions, which have come to full fruition. A meaningful bajuine.” Once more, she smiled. “The Fury of Shanras will now greet you with a customary phrase of harmony and oneness.”

Dipping her head, Svetlana said, “Itsukae,” to which Zin’Tesha dipped her head lower. Just before Yigôzien could take another step forward to greet the next in line, Svetlana addressed the Kalarael before her again. “So you are also an invoker of custom?”

What she heard next startled her. All around—in every direction—the Kalarael in the assembly gasped. Zin`Tesha’s already large eyes widened further. Even Yigôzien beside her looked stunned.

A startled sensation swelled within Svetlana. What did I just do?

After staring at Svetlana for several extremely long seconds, Yigôzien faced Zin’Tesha again to translate to her Svetlana’s words. A brief exchange ensued between the two before they set their eyes back on Svetlana. “She humbly answers that she is, and she offers you praise for the blessing of your words.”

“The blessing of my words?” Svetlana asked Yigôzien, voice lowered despite the fact that no one around her could understand her anyway. “Yigôzien, what did I do? I only recognized her title as one the two of you share.”

“You blessed her with the honor of additional words—words none with whom you’ve spoken have received.”

That was it? “But was what I said really that…” Glancing back at the ones before Zin’Tesha, she saw that they were all staring at both she and Svetlana. More alarming were their eyes. Half of them were bright red. “…significant…” What would have been a question trailed away as she realized the ramifications of what she’d done. “Are they angry at me?”

“Their anger is directed toward Zin’Tesha for being the recipient.” In other words, they were jealous. Now it was Yigôzien’s voice that trembled—her eyes darkening, a sign of fear. “We must continue. There are many invokers of custom—one for each clan. Is it your intention to address them all individually?”

“No.” Not hardly. Not anymore.

Yigôzien replied, “I believe that is wise. Please. We must move.”

Turning her gaze one more time toward Zin’Tesha, Svetlana beheld the dark yellow hue of her irises. Yellow was the color of both reverence and fear. The darkness made Svetlana fear it was the latter. She followed Yigôzien to the next in line. “Was my speaking additional words to her really that significant?”

Solemn in her answer, Yigôzien said, “Her life will never be the same.” Not missing a beat, she came to the next in line. “To the Fury of Shanras, I present: Harshastica, invoker of custom, fel`corabult, Sunistra. You may present your bajuine.”

And so she did. As did the next. As did the next. Svetlana was introduced to one Kalarael after the other, all the way down the line, only Zin’Tesha receiving more than a single, “Itsukae.” For as much as their names and titles blurred together, she was sure she would never forget the name of the one she’d so “blessed.” She hoped that that blessing hadn’t come at the risk of peril by the others’ jealousies.

At long last, after what felt like an eternity of repetition, they drew near to the end of the line—near to the ones she knew were worthy recipients of her words. En route to them, she’d been introduced to artists, invokers, and advisors of every make and model. There were ministers and ministresses for commerce, agriculture, and law. There were invokers for not only custom, but worship and judgment. There were even individual Kalarael who oversaw aspects of culinary art. More than anything else, all things aesthetic and expressive saw representation. If there was a gaping hole to be found, it was in that of military counsel. Not a single Kalarael on the row thus far—other than a single songmaster—dabbled in conflict or war.

But that was about to change.

“To the Fury of Shanras, I present: Korlustus, darishukan, fohr`koratian, Reshbahim.” This time, there came no instruction to perform a bajuine. On the contrary, it was Yigôzien who performed one. Svetlana didn’t need to ask why. The Kalarael’s title made it easy.

Darishukan.

This was the leader—or at least, the overseer—of the darishu. His skin was dark, burnt orange, and he was covered with crevices and scars. Unlike most of the assembly, who wore garments of leather and fabric, Korlustus’s outfit was sleek, polished metal. Ornate patterns and symbols were carved into its silver and red surface. As for his feathery mane, it was bright silver—almost white—with no other coloration of any kind. His eyes, a medium shade of yellow notably less bright than the Kalarael before him, locked onto Svetlana’s with the closest thing to sternness she’d experienced. The words he spoke, coarse and guttural, were precise in their enunciation. They felt right to the point.

“Darishukan Korlustus greets you nobly,” said Yigôzien, a tad breathless, “and wishes to convey his most ardent regard.”

It did not seem most ardent. Svetlana was thankful that her half mask hid her poor attempt at a smile—for there was a distinct, forced tolerance in the eyes of the one beholding her. “Please convey my gratitude,” she said in reply, eyes never leaving the darishukan’s even though she spoke to Yigôzien. She dipped her head, a gesture Korlustus returned in kind.

His gaze drifting from Svetlana, he craned his neck to see past her. Svetlana followed his gaze, where she saw Akàziendi assume a rigid posture. Immediately, Akàziendi dipped into a bajuine.

A brief dialogue began between the two, the darishukan’s firm, short words making a clear distinction between commander and subordinate. The exchange’s conclusion left Akàziendi dropping to a single knee and removing her helmet. So long had it been since Svetlana had seen Akàziendi helmetless, she’d almost forgotten what the violet-skinned darishu looked like. Few Kalarael she’d met matched the luster of her black and purple down feathers—or their relatively short length.

“The darishukan has instructed Akàziendi to remove her helmet,” Yigôzien said, “as your protection is currently in the hands of his personal guard. Her obligations have been temporarily alleviated—for only this occasion, of course.”

In other words, she’d just been put at ease. Korlustus’s eyes returned to Svetlana, where they lingered before Yigôzien moved on. “To the Fury of Shanras, I present: Linjan, high priestess, fel`embrissia, Viil-Astrul.”

A representative of Yigôzien’s own Clan Viil-Astrul. That must have been a great honor to an invoker who cared as much about her role as Yigôzien did. The trend of older Kalarael continued, as Linjan showed the most wrinkles by far. By contrast, her down feather hair was perhaps the brightest she’d seen, consisting of streaks of orange, green, yellow, and red that were practically neon in radiance. Dressed in garb that was appropriately tribal, but still highly decorated, she looked the part of shaman.

As had been the case with Korlustus, Linjan spoke to Svetlana in the Kalarael tongue. Afterward, Yigôzien translated. “The high priestess sees the glow of Shanras in your eyes. There are no doubts that you are given to us by Kukira.” Linjan smiled pleasantly, which Svetlana returned in kind.

The next in line was the queen. She was young, her saffron yellow skin devoid of the wrinkles of the two Kalarael who preceded her. She was bewitchingly beautiful.

“To the Fury of Shanras I present: Chechera, queen, fel`iositep, Amaester.”

Chechera’s down feathers looked like silk, blowing in a breeze that Svetlana could scarcely feel herself. The brightest purples and golds streaked through them, and her eyes were darkened by an excess of eyeliner that made them look far larger than they actually were. Despite her youthfulness, there was wisdom in her bright yellow eyes—and perhaps, a tinge of compassion.

The bajuine that Yigôzien performed was grand, sweeping, and downright lengthy. It was by far the most elaborate Svetlana had seen her offer—though in present company, that could be understood. Chechera spoke, after which Yigôzien translated. “She says they are honored by your arrival and look very much forward to what you have to say.”

Simple. Purposeful. Polite. The mark of someone who knew the significance of the position they held while still realizing the importance of what was literally staring them in the face. Svetlana said simply, “I also feel honored. I eagerly await the chance to speak with you.” Yigôzien’s translation was made, and the queen smiled and dipped her head.

And that left the king.

“To the Fury of Shanras I present: Xi`qirian, king, fohr`vikuliv, Amaester.”

The same clan name, the same saffron yellow skin tone as the queen. Seeming to pick up on Svetlana’s note of that, the invoker chimed in again.

“The king and queen are always chosen from the same clan. Clan Amaester currently controls the Sovereignty—though representatives from another clan will be selected to succeed them. The same clan never holds the Sovereignty twice in a row.”

As soon as she finished her brief aside, Yigôzien faced the king and performed an identical bajuine to the one she’d performed for Chechera. As for the king himself, he was a strikingly tall Kalarael with almost blindingly bright white and red down feathers.

Both Xi’qirian and Chechera’s garments were made of leather, but were so decorated with jewels and ornaments that they bordered on gaudy. For being presumably the two most important Kalarael on the planet, Svetlana found their outfits the least cohesive of any she’d seen. Whereas other Kalarael wore garments that seemed to stylistically flow, theirs were so busy as to be distracting, possessing an excess of neither form nor function.

The king addressed her. “Welcome to Kalar, Fury of Shanras,” translated Yigôzien.

Dipping her head, Svetlana smiled and offered her thanks. The introductions were officially over.

Stepping forward from her place in line, High Priestess Linjan placed her hand on Svetlana’s shoulder. Locking her now-blue eyes with Svetlana’s own, she smiled and spoke. Though her words were untranslated, they were spoken with warmth. Giving Svetlana’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, she then regarded Yigôzien. After a brief word between them, Yigôzien addressed Svetlana, her eyes radiating with blueness. “High Priestess Linjan has requested that you follow her to the front of the Assembly, that you might be anointed before the gathered.”

Before any more explanation could come, Svetlana found herself ushered away from her place before the king and queen, escorted by a pair of Korlustus’s darishu toward the front of the massive crowd. Casting a look back to Ed, she felt alarmed when she saw that he wasn’t being permitted to follow. Neither was Tauthin, who had been under strict darishu escort and essentially out of the picture during the entire introduction sequence.

Upon reaching the center point of the lined assembly, Svetlana was rotated to face the crowd. Gently, she was guided down to her knees. Though not instructed to bow her head, Svetlana did anyway—it just felt like a proper gesture to make, and it was better than staring down this yellow-eyed crowd. Behind her and to the hushed masses, High Priestess Linjan spoke.

“Kalar’s children—seekers of the Purities—chosen of Kukira, I stand before you a humbled servant.”

Despite the fact that Linjan was speaking, the translated voice in Svetlana’s head was Yigôzien’s. Svetlana could only presume that Ed was using the invoker’s understanding of what she was hearing as his chosen conduit for communication. It made more sense than him trying to tap into the high priestess’s own mind. She listened as Linjan continued, the gathering before her stone silent.

“Our people have seen many trials in recent times, from the Great Famine that has stricken Clans Voolrevan and Reshbahim to the arrival of the Khuladi and Bakma at the very gates of Kalar. We live in constant threat of the Kalareim, whose intrusions into the Realm grow more brazen with each passing year and whose leader, Tributurian, has amassed an army formidable enough to challenge even the best of the clans’. I have seen the fear of Istéres in the eyes of each and every one of you. I have shared that fear, myself. But today, my beloved, is not a day of fear.”

Even in that tiny introductory statement, there was so much for Svetlana to digest. A famine, an amassing enemy, invaders from the stars. These problems sounded so…familiar. So human. Linjan continued.

“I weep daily to Kukira on your behalf, that she might call upon the Godwinds to deliver us a blessing in these dark and dangerous times. It pleases me to say that my weeping prayers have been answered, for the blessing we have received is one that even I could not have anticipated. We have received not only a blessing from the Godwinds, but the hope of the Purities themselves—for I say to you, my beloved, that today, the spirit of Shanras walks in our very midst.”

The spirit of Shanras? Well that’s a weird thing to say.

“For the being that kneels before you may call itself an ‘Earthae,’ but I have looked into its eyes. I have perceived their radiance. Such serenity could only be achieved by Shanras itself. I say to you that this is not merely a lifeform from another world. This is Shanras Incarnate!”

Shanras Incarnate? As in, Shanras in fleshly form? Eyes widening, Svetlana froze in terror.

Above the murmurs of a million worshippers, Linjan continued. “The spirit of Shanras resides in this vessel that calls itself, Svetlana, Fury of Shanras. It is that aspect of Shanras—that righteous fury—that Svetlana embodies. It is the chosen expression of Shanras as it walks among us. For a time, it was restrained by the forces of Ophareim, in the form of the Bakma. Now freed, it has revealed itself to us that we might look upon it and have hope.”

Svetlana’s heart was palpitating. Sweat drops formed at her brow. She channeled her thoughts to Ei`dorinthal. Connect me with Yigôzien—now!

You are already connected with her, master.

I mean directly, not a translation!

A feeling of affirmation came, and she felt Yigôzien’s presence emerge. Immediately, she addressed the invoker. Yigôzien, this is wrong. I am not the incarnate form of a deity. You must make her stop!

Adoration swelled throughout the link, projected unto Svetlana from Yigôzien herself. Do you hear what the high priestess says? To be Shanras Incarnate—what an honor!

I am not Shanras Incarnate! If I was, do you not think that I would know? She is wrong.

Linjan continued on, though Svetlana’s focus was now on Yigôzien, who spoke again. You are not the first Incarnate to walk among us. None have known they are Incarnate until the revelation. It is not surprising that you were unaware until now.

She wasn’t unaware until now. She wasn’t Incarnate at all. You must listen, please. I am not Shanras, or an Incarnate, or a being from the Godwinds, or however it works. I am an Earthae who was taken captive, much as you were. Do you actually expect me, a lifeform from another world, to be the chosen vessel of a Kalarael deity?

Kukira chooses her vessels—it is not our place to say what she can and cannot do. You are Incarnate, whether you realize it or not.

Yigôzien, that is ludicrous! How can you be so certain of something of which you have zero evidence?

Linjan has seen it!

And what if Linjan is wrong?

For the first time, frustration swelled in the connection, the invoker its source. Linjan has been chosen by Kukira to be high priestess. Kukira would not select a high priestess that cannot interpret her signs. That Linjan has seen it is evidence enough. You are Shanras Incarnate, whether you choose to believe it or not. That you fail to understand it does not make it untrue.

It was getting hard for Svetlana to remain motionless—frustration was building in her, too. Look, I know how much faith you put in your religious customs—

These are not customs, the invoker interjected. There was heat in the connection now. A righteous temper. Linjan is not declaring you Shanras Incarnate because it is customary. She has done so because it is truth—irrefutable, infallible. To deny it is to call Kukira a liar.

This is not about Kukira. This is about Linjan being wrong! There was no other way to say it. I cannot say it in any other way than how I am saying it: I am not Shanras Incarnate. I do not even share your faith.

Once more, the connection was interrupted—but not by Yigôzien. A warm, wet sensation suddenly came to Svetlana’s shoulders. As she flinched, the liquid dribbled from her shoulders, one to the other, down the sides of her arms. When she realized what must have been going on, Yigôzien made it clear to her.

You are anointed.

Anointed. Chosen. The incarnate of a trinity she scarcely understood and most certainly didn’t believe in. She realized as the oil ran that nothing she believed truly mattered now. They weren’t going to wipe the oil away, pat her gown dry, then take it all back. Linjan wasn’t going to suddenly say that she was mistaken or that she’d misunderstood—that Shanras was not, in fact, kneeling before them. Svetlana was past the point of no return. As the oil ceased and Linjan placed her hand atop Svetlana’s head, all Svetlana could think was, What have I done?

In actuality, she had done nothing to encourage this. She’d only been kidnapped by Bakma, broken free, then returned a pair of Kalarael to their homeworld. And now, here she was, anointed in a way that seemed all too human. All too flawed.

“We recognize your Incarnate blessing, our Life Bosom—she who speaks into being, who directs the Godwinds,” the high priestess said, her hand pressing down atop Svetlana’s ribbons of hair. “We worship the beauty that is yours and yours alone.”

My God, I am so sorry. Svetlana’s eyes transfixed on the ground beneath her, where droplets of oil fell. I did not want this, nor did I ask for it. What am I to do?

“In our time of great need, you have sent forth your serenity. You walk among us with great purpose. I anoint this vessel—this Earthae form you have predestined—as your holy temple while you walk this, our hallowed ground. Shanras guide us, your elect to inherit the forever that awaits. Shanras guide us.”

The crowd—the great multitude—repeated the phrase. The words, even in Kalarael, reverberated through the cavernous city. Then…silence. The loudest, most frightening silence Svetlana had ever heard. The crossing of a threshold.

At long last, Linjan spoke. “Send forth the invoker of custom and the chosen protector.”

Glancing to the side—the first movement she dared to make—Svetlana watched as Yigôzien and Akàziendi were escorted to the front of the assembly. Both their eyes gleamed yellow. Was it reverence? No. It was tinges of fear. This beckoning was not expected.

Only after the pair was placed at Svetlana’s sides—Yigôzien to one, Akàziendi to the other—did the high priest continue. “I anoint these beings as Servants of the Incarnate—one to provide counsel, the other, protection. The three of you are bonded for eternity, inseparable, united in purpose in the service of Kukira. You shall forever be sisters, not only to one another, but to the chosen vessel of the Purities. May harmony be your eternal companion. So it is decreed, so it is the will of Kukira.”

Turning her head to Yigôzien, Svetlana saw that the invoker was hyperventilating. As the warm oil was poured on her shoulders, her eyes fluctuated between the brightest and darkest of yellows—reverence and fear equally represented. Svetlana’s gaze followed the bowl as it was carried to Akàziendi for her christening. But it was there, in looking at the darishu chosen as her protector, that Svetlana saw something different. There was no hue of reverence in Akàziendi’s large eyes. The yellow there was dark—nearly black. She was rigid. Terrified.

“What is your name, my child?” Linjan asked as the last trails of oil fell from the bowl.

Breathily, Akàziendi answered, “Akàziendi, darishu, fel’Ziendi Voolrevan.” Though Akàziendi spoke, the translated voice in Svetlana’s head remained Yigôzien’s.

Returning her attention to the assembly, Linjan said, “By Kukira’s will, I present: Yigôzien, counsel of the Incarnate, fel’dinstra Viil-Astrul, and Akàziendi, protector of the Incarnate, fel’Ziendi Voolrevan.”

New appellations. Did this mean that Yigôzien was no longer an invoker? That Akàziendi was no longer a darishu? The thought that all of this was predicated on a lie—a mistake—was…there were no words for it. Her heart thumped as Linjan continued.

“May the Spirit of Shanras forever dwell with us.” Lifting her hands, Linjan said, “Let us proclaim our celebration to Kukira!”

The cavern erupted with wails and shouts of acclamation. So loud was the volume, it made the ground tremble. The next thing Svetlana realized, she was being lifted up from her knees by Korlustus’s darishu. A brief glance to one side revealed Yigôzien, whose bright blue gaze and ecstatic smile indicated her exhilaration. On the contrary was Akàziendi, whose eyes were as dark and amber as they had been all the while. A far cry from the emotions of the invoker, the darishu looked outright troubled. Svetlana scarcely had time to contemplate anything, as she and her two new “sisters” were led by the hand to the feasting table. Before she knew it, she was being seated in the massively large chair she’d seen upon her arrival and surrounded by the Royal Assembly—the king and queen at her right and left, respectively, followed by Linjan and Korlustus.

As it turned out, there were no seats specifically for anyone else in her party—not her alien comrades or newly christened sisters. Instead, each was given their own chair behind the table, presumably out of sight and out of mind. With all the players and pieces in their place, the Celebration of Shanras began.

Never in Svetlana’s wildest dreams had she imagined a sight such as the one she beheld next. Line after line of servants ushered in platters and goblets of every size, each holding foodstuffs that were as varied and colorful as the Kalarael themselves. Yigôzien explained via connection that all of the food had been “approved for her biology,” so there was no concern on the Kalarael’s part that they would inadvertently kill their new Incarnate goddess with an allergic reaction. Just the same, Svetlana opted to take small bites just to be safe. There were meats, fruits, vegetables, or at least what seemed the Kalar equivalents. The flavors were so odd in the sense that she’d never tasted spices or seasonings like these before, but familiar in that, well, a feast was a feast.

Then, of course, there was the actual celebration. Relegated to the role of onlooker, all Svetlana could do was observe as group, after group, after group of Kalarael took turns whooping and gyrating in front of the towering Sacred Embers, which appeared turned up to maximum fervency. They threw their hands up, they shrieked and shimmied, they danced like ancient Pagans. Some twirled with torches, some blew fireballs like circus performers. All the while, those around her—the king, queen, and the rest of the Royal Assembly, spoke jovially amongst themselves at Svetlana’s right and left.

Yigôzien maintained her composure as best she seemed able, chiming in throughout the event with tidbits of information about specific dishes and the various performances that were playing out. Svetlana quickly found herself drowning in information, until at long last she had no choice but to tune the invoker out—easier said than done when the link between them was telepathic. Ed, seeming sensitive to her plight, lowered Yigôzien’s mental volume. As fascinating as it was to get a full dissertation on every dish and dance she was witnessing, it wasn’t what Svetlana wished to focus her thoughts on. There were much more pressing matters at hand—namely, in the fact that these beings thought she was their deity in bodily form.

At no point—not during the eating nor the observing of the performances—did Linjan’s anointing leave her mind. She wanted to get the high priestess alone. To explain, as best she was able, that she was not the Incarnate of Shanras. That back on her own planet, she was more accustomed to being anointed with porridge than oil. That this was all a mistake. It surprised her that at no point during the celebration did any of the Royal Assembly—not even the king or queen—speak a word to her. Perhaps that was one of their many customs—that of leaving deities be unless there was a distinct purpose. There came a point, however, in what felt like the second or third hour of the proceedings, that Svetlana could contain it no more. Would it be possible for me to speak to Linjan? she asked Yigôzien through their connection.

Yigôzien’s whiskers twitched. “You may do whatever you wish.”

“I am sorry. I did not want to defy custom by acting out of turn.”

“Your customs are our customs, my goddess. It is yours to tell me what you wish, not mine to tell you what you may wish for.”

Her goddess. This was going to get old—and dangerous—fast. How could such an advanced species be so utterly foolish? After swallowing her frustration, she said, “Please inform the high priestess that my companion, Ei`dorinthal, will connect with her telepathically. Warn her that there may be mild discomfort.” Now that she was thinking about it, the Kalarael seemed to handle Ithini connections better than humans did.

“I will do as you wish,” Yigôzien said. Performing a bajuine, she stepped away from Svetlana’s chair to approach the high priestess.

Svetlana steeled her eyes ahead, where the celebration was ongoing. Ed, I want you to sever my connection with Yigôzien once I am connected to Linjan. What I have to say to the high priestess, I do not want Yigôzien to hear. She didn’t want a third wheel chiming into what was bound to be a very uncomfortable conversation.

I understand, master.

Master. How better that sounded than “my goddess.”

Seconds later, Yigôzien approached. “I have spoken with the high priestess.” As she talked, Svetlana leaned forward to look at Linjan, two seats away. The elder Kalarael was already looking straight at her. “She awaits your connection.”

“I will sever my connection to you while I speak with Linjan,” Svetlana said. “Please do not be offended—what I must say, I must say to Linjan alone.”

“I understand, my goddess.”

Before Yigôzien could detect Svetlana’s disdain for her new moniker, the connection was closed. Ed’s voice filtered through. I will now connect you with Linjan.

The mental click came to her. The high priestess’s presence was felt. There was no need for Svetlana to speak, so she merely relayed to the high priestess her thoughts. High priestess…I appreciate all you have bestowed on me. It is something I never imagined I would receive, not in this life or any other. But there is something I must say, and when I say it, you must listen.

For the first time, the interpretation of Linjan’s voice emerged in her mind. I will listen. It was old. Wavery. In a strange way, it was almost melodic. Svetlana wasn’t sure if it was a true projection of the high priestess or a liberty taken by Ed, but there was a distinct level of calmness to it. It was a far cry from the awe of all the other Kalarael she had met.

Focusing her thoughts, Svetlana relayed, This may be difficult for you to hear, but it is truth that must be spoken. I know you believe me to be an Incarnate—a vessel of Kukira and the embodiment of Shanras in physical form. I assure you, though, that that is not the case. Your god is one I do not recognize and most certainly do not feel. While I am honored by what you have done and while I certainly accept that I may have been sent by the Creator of us all to accomplish some broader purpose, the role of Incarnate is one I cannot accept. It would go against my own faith to do so. It would be a sin if I did not confess this. It would be akin to me elevating my own status to that of the God that I worship.

Mental mouthful or not, making the confession was the right decision. She had no clue what Linjan’s reaction would be, but there was no way Svetlana could have justified saying nothing or even playing out this role for any period of time. Her only hope was that somehow, Linjan would accept it. Whether she did or not, though, was not Svetlana’s responsibility. In her confession, her hands were now clean.

A sense of clarity came to the connection. She wasn’t sure if it was from Linjan or Ed. When the high priestess’s voice reemerged, it was in the same calm tone she’d used before. You are wrong in your thinking.

And there they went. I assure you, I am not. I would know if I was an Incarnate—I would feel something. But I do not. I feel as I have always felt. Shanras is not in me.

The high priestess angled her head, though her blue eyes remained fixed. It is not in that belief that you are wrong.

Not in that belief? If not in that, then…?

You are wrong in thinking that I believe you are Incarnate.

Hidden by her half mask, the corners of Svetlana’s mouth sunk. Staring bewilderedly at the high priestess, Svetlana said, I don’t understand.

You are a gift from Kukira—of that, there is no doubt, relayed Linjan. But I am aware that you are what you call an Earthae, and nothing more.

Unable to restrain a physical reaction, Svetlana leaned her head a little bit closer, as if that would somehow impact the connection. Queen Chechera, who sat between the two, seemed to notice the silent interaction between them. The wide-eyed queen stared at Linjan and Svetlana with curiosity. In the midst of her own confusion, Svetlana waited for Linjan to elaborate. It did not take long.

Our people are facing many trials in this present time—none so dangerous as the Kalareim. Some clans have long been hesitant to engage in an active military campaign against them. They fear the cost of chasing down the Kalareim, who are nomadic by nature, is too great. They fear it would put us at a disadvantageous position that the Kalareim might exploit. All the while she spoke, that calm demeanor—and those blue eyes—remained. Yet by doing nothing, we have allowed the Kalareim to grow in number. Every day we do not act is a day they grow stronger.

The hair on the back of Svetlana’s neck stood on end.

I and some of the Royal Assembly know that the time for conflict has come—that it must come if the Kalareim are ever to be defeated. As it stands today, the nine clans are unwilling to unify for that purpose. But if they witnessed a miracle—if they received the order to muster for war from an Incarnate—then they would unify without question.

Oh my God. Svetlana didn’t mean for the mental utterance to slip out. It was just that for the first time, she realized what was happening.

Linjan’s gaze remained steadfast. After you see the Khuladi that you wish to visit, you will proclaim to the Kalarael people that the time has come for the Kalareim to be eradicated. With your words, they will unify. With your blessing, the Kalareim will be destroyed once and for all. There was a pause—one that was intentional. Then, we will allow you to leave.

Goose bumps. A horrible chill. As the realization of what was taking place came to her, Svetlana’s entire body tensed. A knot—a twisting, aching knot—formed in her stomach.

Master, Ed said, his voice only for her, I believe this may complicate things.

From her seat, Linjan turned her wrinkled head forward. Her gaze settled back onto the performers before them. Seconds later, the connection was closed.

Looking ahead herself, Svetlana leaned back. Though the performers and the Sacred Embers were before her, she did not see them. Her eyes looked at nothing at all.

They were using her. They knew well that she wasn’t an Incarnate. They wanted her to give them a blessing to begin a crusade against a species she had never met. She was nothing more than a tool. The only thing she’d heard of the Kalareim was that they were vile, treacherous monsters. Yet she could think of nothing more treacherous than what had just been revealed. Her connection with Ed still in place, she asked, How can they do this? How can a species whose entire culture is predicated on truth do this?

In Linjan’s defense, she is not lying, Ed answered. She is likely presenting you with more truth concerning her motives than you would receive from your own species. She made no effort to hide it from you.

And all the while, her eyes stayed the bluest of blues.

Once more, the Ithini elaborated. Blue is not indicative of honesty. It is indicative of serenity and contentment. She is indeed very content with your presence here. It is not you who is being manipulated.

Indeed, it wasn’t. It was Linjan’s own species. It was every single Kalarael at the celebration. Had this been their plan all along? At the first sight of a new alien species, had their government’s thoughts not been of wonder, but of how they could use that species to their advantage? Was she just a means to an end?

How utterly…human.

Gently, Queen Chechera placed her hand on Svetlana’s knee. The gesture was sudden, and it made Svetlana flinch. She looked at the young, beautiful queen. Chechera’s eyes were deep yellow. Concerned.

She has likely recognized the expression on your face as discontentment, Ed said. It is highly possible that Chechera is unaware of the manipulation at play. It is impossible to know who is involved and who isn’t.

All Svetlana could think about was how Scott had left for Cairo to follow the trail of a conspiracy at EDEN Command. Halfway across the galaxy, Svetlana had just found the same thing.

Do you want me to connect you with Chechera? Ed asked.

No, Svetlana answered honestly, for she truly wanted to speak to no one. But I must not leave her gesture unaddressed. If she is part of the conspiracy, she may become wary. If she is not, she may think her goddess displeased. Though I do not desire to speak with her, I know that I must.

As you wish, master. I will connect the two of you now.

Seconds later, the connection was established. Svetlana saw the queen’s eyes visibly wince—a reaction distinctly not seen in the eyes of the high priestess. Perhaps it was because she hadn’t had the benefit of a heads up from Yigôzien. Regardless, it prompted Svetlana to briefly explain. I am mentally connected to you via Ed, the being known as an Ithini beside you. We may speak by simply thinking.

A swell of slight confusion emanated from Chechera, though Svetlana couldn’t tell if it was from the connection or concern over Svetlana’s state. Seconds later, the queen addressed her in a voice as sweet and flowing as honey. Are you displeased, my goddess?

I have deduced that Chechera is extremely young, Ed said, even more so than Yigôzien. In human terms, you would consider her development little beyond what you would call a teenager. It is unlikely, in my opinion, that she is aware of any conspiracy, if human equivalencies are to be made. I can probe her thoughts to verify this, if you would like me to.

Will she detect it? Svetlana asked.

It is possible.

If it was possible, it wasn’t worth it. She sensed that Ed picked up her decision and accepted it, so she directed her thoughts at Chechera instead. I am not displeased. This is a wonderful celebration.

The queen’s eyes subtly brightened. Has Yigôzien been interpreting the performances to your liking?

She has.

Since she is your counsel now, I am happy to provide you with another invoker of custom, should you desire it.

There was an innocence to her voice—at least, insomuch as Ed was interpreting it. It almost broke Svetlana’s heart. I appreciate the offer, but it will not be necessary. I am sure she can fulfill both her former and current roles. Provided that doing so does not defy some other custom.

It does not. The corners of the queen’s vulpine lips lifted. May I be so bold to ask a favor, my goddess?

There was no other way to answer but, You may.

Might you bestow upon me wisdom, that I might lead my people well?

When she heard the request, her heart broke. How was she supposed to answer that? There was only one way she could think of. Placing her hand atop Chechera’s, she answered, You already possess all the wisdom you require.

The queen’s blue eyes glowed truer. Whiskers lifting, she revealed to Svetlana the largest of smiles. Thank you, my goddess.

Turning away, Svetlana returned her gaze to the Sacred Embers and the celebration around it. Reflections of the flames dancing in her own blue orbs, she relaxed her shoulders and leaned back in her chair, if for no other reason than to convey to the queen that she was pleased. To give her the impression that all was well. That Kukira was truly among them. As the minutes passed, however, long after Ei`dorinthal had severed the connection, the direness of her situation returned to her mind. How could it not?

For the remainder of the celebration, Svetlana instructed Ed to add Tauthin to their connection, so she could consult with the true members of her counsel. As she kept up the guise of being engrossed in the performance, she revealed the entirety of what she’d discovered with her Bakma counterpart. Though he said little, his mounting dourness could be sensed. When she asked if he thought Wuteel and Kraash-nagun should be included in the discussion upon their return, Tauthin simply said, No.

The return, as it turned out, came sooner rather than later. After an announcement to the crowd that the celebration was ending, the Kalarael filed away from the Jubilation Grounds with surprising order. There was one final exchange between Svetlana and King Xi`qirian, but only to convey that he, Chechera, Korlustus, and Linjan would accompany her tomorrow to a nearby military depot named Winduster, where the Khuladi was being held. They would do this to both observe her reaction to the Khuladi and to discuss the ramifications of the Earthaes’ and Kalaraels’ new, shared threat. Shortly after that revelation, Svetlana was ushered back onto the train for the ride back to Ban-Hezikal.

There was little to do during the ride, which afforded Svetlana time to ponder her situation. Could Linjan and her cohorts truly prevent Svetlana from leaving Kalar? Yigôzien had told her time and time again that she would be allowed the freedom to depart. It was hard to imagine the invoker-turned-counsel willfully misleading Svetlana in such a way. Svetlana only knew one thing for sure: at no point could she justify posing as an Incarnate goddess in order to declare genocide against a species she had yet to meet. She could only hope, and pray, that a resolution presented itself. That her God would show up to see her through. That this false religion would not impede her. But it was that line of thinking that led to the most harrowing question of them all.

What if Kukirism wasn’t false? Linjan’s motivations aside, what if there was something to all of this that she, an Earthae, couldn’t understand? If she believed in a single, all-powerful creator—which she did—then the truth would have to exist that this same creator created the Kalarael. It was not Kukira to them on Earth, but…what if it was to the Kalarael? What if her God and Kukira were not only interchangeable, but one in the same, just by a different name and a different set of rules? Could God not play in parallel sandboxes? God could do whatever He wanted. To assume anything else was to ascribe finite human wisdom. Against the scope of an infinitely powerful and unimaginable sentience such as God, that hardly seemed prudent.

And if Kukira could possibly be God, then what of the god of the Khuladi? What of Uladek? Could one sandbox be so vastly different—so vastly more violent—than all the others? The more she tried to understand, the more her understandings troubled her. There was only one concrete and logical conclusion she could cling to: that in the grand scale of everything, she knew nothing at all.

Ultimately, Svetlana fell back to the one thing that’d sustained her thus far. God, I am so lost and confused. I do not know what to believe or what to do. I do not even know what awaits at any given moment. But I trust You. Please, guide me through this.

Juxtaposed against the complexity of her situation, the prayer was simple. But sometimes, simple was best. She didn’t always need to understand what God was doing. She just needed to have faith in it.

“Eisa nici tah’reshina!” Yigôzien stood erect from her seat, the invoker’s loud proclamation repeating as she stood up and rushed to the train windows. “Eisa nici tah’reshina!”

Forcefully ejected from her thoughts, Svetlana looked at the invoker. All around her, the Kalarael in the train looked out their respective windows. With her eyes widened and heart pumping from the sudden commotion, she followed Yigôzien’s gaze to the pink landscape outside. Ed took the initiative to form the connection.

“The waters have risen for you!” Yigôzien exclaimed.

Eyes narrowing, she peered out of the window. No water could be seen. “The waters…what?”

“The waters have risen! It is a sign from Kukira! You are indeed the Incarnation of Shanras!”

Svetlana peered closer, until at long last she could make out a distinct wetness to the runa legras. Its pink hues were noticeably darker. Angling her head curiously, she asked, “What, did it rain?”

Yigôzien waved her hands in front of her face in a brief bajuine. “The ground is not wet with rain. It is the valesprings!”

The valesprings. The underground waterways. She remembered Yigôzien talking about them during the ride to Sélestere. She had said they occasionally rose to affect the planet surface. They took such events as miraculous signs.

Yigôzien gestured to the runa legras. “This is the overflow I was telling you about, when the valesprings rise to the surface. Such events are given to us by Kukira as signs of affirmation! Surely everything that took place today was in accordance with her will. This is a sign of great significance!”

The only sign Svetlana saw was one of trouble. This was obviously a natural phenomenon of some kind, but the Kalarael didn’t see it that way. This was being taken as a sign of affirmation from Kukira. It lent credibility to the proclamation that Svetlana was Shanras Incarnate. That was the last thing she needed. Behind her half mask, her lips downturned. She’d just told God that she trusted Him. What kind of a response was this?

The whole while the train continued along its course, the Kalarael gazed out of the windows in awe. The overflow stretched as far as the eyes could see, certifying that this was not some localized event. The impact would be impossible for the Kalarael at large to ignore. Leaning her head back in her seat and staring forward, Svetlana just waited to arrive at Ban-Hezikal.

Another half hour passed before they finally did, the entire duration of which the Kalarael crew bajuined and whispered hushed praises. There was no conversation amongst them—no activity beyond marveling at the expanse of saturated runa legras. Only when the train door opened did any of the crew dare tear their eyes away from it. As for Svetlana, she couldn’t wait to get out the door.

Her first step out of the train made her face twist. The Kalarael could call it whatever they wanted; this was nothing more than squishy, pink mud. Lifting her garments to keep them clean, she carefully trudged toward Ban-Hezikal.

Exhausted, confused, and bordering on total disillusionment, Svetlana’s mind was in a million dark places. How was she going to play off this role of Incarnate deity? How was she going to avoid sparking the Kalaraels’ next holy crusade? How were any of them going to get home? All she knew was that she wanted to collapse. To fall on her floating bed, order everyone to leave, and just think.

Just think.

“Setana.”

Halfway to the structure, Tauthin called out from behind her. Stopping, she turned to face him. When she did, the Bakma tossed an object at her from afar. The toss was not hard, but it caught her off guard. Eyes widening, she released the hem of her airy gown to grab it.

Her shock staff.

Arching an eyebrow, she looked at the weapon and then back to Tauthin. “Why are you…?”

Holding out his own retracted staff, Tauthin pressed the button on its surface. It extended to full length in both directions. As the Kalarael around him watched in confusion, Tauthin stepped forward. “Defend yourself.”

Defend herself? What? Mouth open behind her mask, she looked at her counterpart like he was crazy. “Are you joking?”

“Instruct the Kalarael not to intervene. Tell them that to do so would defy custom.”

“I will do no such thing,” she said.

Tauthin walked closer. “You will. You swore to me that you would.”

“Are you trying to train me now?” she asked, her voice incredulous. “In this muck, dressed up like this, after what we experienced? You must be crazy.”

“Are you unprepared?”

Pulling up her gown again, she answered, “You had better believe I am unprepared!”

“Then it is the right time.”

Mouth opening, she sought a reply, though none came to her. She turned her head away from him briefly to look off in the distance, only to return it. “Okay, I understand the point you are trying to make, but—”

“There is no ‘but.’ You accepted my tutelage. It is you who chose to challenge Kraash-nagun, not I. You are skillful with the staff when all things are comfortable. Let us see how you are when things are not.” Tone unchanging, he repeated his prior words. “Instruct the Kalarael not to intervene, then defend yourself.”

Once more, she drew in a breath, and once more, she sought a retort. But as had been the case before, none came to her. To argue that she was not prepared would only bolster his argument. Snarling behind her mask, she exhaled firmly. His case for this, as unfair as she felt it may have been, was valid. With a sigh of resignation, she looked at Ed. There was no need for her to issue the instruction. He connected her with Yigôzien immediately. Seconds after it was established, Svetlana addressed her. “Tauthin and I will undergo training.”

Yigôzien’s fox ears pressed back. “Now, my goddess?”

“Yes, now.” Much to her chagrin. “Please instruct everyone present not to interfere, no matter what happens. It would…defy Earthae custom.” Her words were laced with disgust.

After a second of what seemed like hesitation, the invoker-turned-counsel bowed her head. “As custom dictates.” Yigôzien turned to address the crowd from the train. Ei’dorinthal closed the connection.

Pressing the button atop the shortened staff, Svetlana expanded it to full length. Her gown, her hair, her skin—it all looked so immaculate. That was about to change. Releasing the hem of her gown, she planted her back foot into the wet runa legras. Holding the weapon out, she waited for Tauthin’s attack.

His first was not one she’d expected.

“We could have returned to Earth. We could have gone anywhere in the cosmos. Yet, you chose to come here.” Circling her slowly, his bulbous eyes narrowed. “Kraash-nagun was right. You are no worthy leader.”

She didn’t have a choice. There were Kalarael with them on the Zone Runner. What else should they have—

Tauthin swirled the staff around and surged forward.

Snapped out of her thoughts, she quickly raised her weapon to defend. Their staffs collided right in front of her. His attack, though lacking finesse, was strong, and she quickly found herself being pushed back as he followed through. Her boot slipped, and she fell on her rear with a disgusting, wet plop. Making a face as the cold mud soaked through her gown, she glared up at Tauthin through a loose ribbon of hair. All around them, the Kalarael watched nervously.

“Your actions have put us in this position. We had freedom. Freedom!”

After pushing herself up, she tried to reaffirm her grip on her staff. Now mud-caked, her palms were so slippery. She wiped them off on her gown; it was already ruined.

“You live life in such a place of privilege,” Tauthin said, circling again. “To you, freedom means nothing. It is your base assumption. For us, it was a gift unlike any we’d received. And you gave it away.”

Enough of this. She wasn’t going to let him distract her again. Moving forward herself, she jabbed the staff outward in an effort to disarm him. She succeeded in only disarming herself. As he slammed the end of his staff against hers, her slick hands failed her. By the time she reached forward to hurriedly reaffirm her grip, it was too late. Tauthin brought his staff around low, knocking her clean off her feet.

Landing on her side with an oof and a splatter, Svetlana grimaced behind her mask. After rolling her head around to glare at him again, she slowly pushed herself up. The whole left side of her gown was covered in pink. Flipping that same ribbon of hair out of her face again, she trudged miserably through the muck to retrieve her staff.

“You have failed us.”

“Zatknis,” she spat, the Russian curse slipping out. Reaching down, she retrieved the staff. After wiping it off as best she could, she tried once again to get a firm grip. Daggers in her eyes, she asked her counterpart, “Is this what you wanted for me? Are you happy now?”

“No happiness abides in me,” he answered. “I am a despised creature imprisoned on an alien world—because of you.”

She’d had about enough. Snarling aloud, she once more struck out at Tauthin with her staff, twisting and jabbing it as she pressed in on his defense. But her footing was compromised. With every step she took, she lost fractions of seconds in adjustments. Her more experienced adversary, however, was unfazed.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

Their staffs collided, Tauthin parrying as he moved backward, her offensive relentless—until he suddenly shifted gears. Pushing forward, he grabbed the end of her staff with his hand and shoved it away hard. Momentum carrying him through her, he swept her feet out from under her. Eyes widening, Svetlana outstretched her hands to try and catch her fall. It was no use. Her forward momentum only stopped when she landed face first.

Lifting her head from the pink mire, she reached up to sling mud from her eyes. Tauthin grabbed her blond ribbons. In a vicious motion, he yanked her head up, ripped off her half mask, then slammed her face right back down. As the Kalarael around them gasped, Tauthin slung the mask away, far into the distance.

Svetlana sucked in a breath and then coughed. Globs of runa legras were crammed into her nasal cavities. Half of her hair was now caked and dangling down. She pushed it back and staggered up.

“The guise of power falls.”

Her mask. He’d just ripped off her mask. Svetlana frantically wiped mud from her face as she spun around to find him.

He struck her again, this time in her stomach. Svetlana buckled forward, mouth opening in pain and still unable to see clearly. His staff struck the back of her ankles from behind. Her body bent backward as she once again fell, the fall this time knocking the wind out of her. Writhing in the pink mud, Svetlana rolled over onto her side. She struggled to find her breath as a new, terrible sensation washed over her. Fear. This no longer felt like a training tactic. The words Tauthin spoke sounded horribly real.

“Behold,” he said through snarled teeth, “the Incarnate.”

Tauthin grabbed her shoulder and then rolled her over onto her back. Still unable to see clearly, she wildly fought to free herself as he lifted her up with one hand. Her ruined ribbons were tossed to and fro as she struggled. His gnarled talons tightened around her throat. The next thing Svetlana registered was her body being tossed through the air. She landed in the mire, rolling several times before stopping. With her limbs sprawled out, she laid her head back. Her body went still.

Silence. No wind. No rustling. Just pure, deafening silence. The entire gathering of Kalarael stared in yellow-eyed horror—they did not even speak amongst themselves.

Svetlana rolled over again, her body a mere pink lump in the runa legras. Slowly, she crawled away from Tauthin. She fought to get distance between them. Several moments passed before she realized he wasn’t chasing her.

“Kraash-nagun will kill you,” he said with finality. Dropping his staff into the mire, the Bakma leader walked past her and into the structure.

Somewhere between the pain and the humiliation, Svetlana found it within herself to push up to her knees. Flashes of her old life returned. Her shortcomings on the battlefield. Her failed attempts at personal relationships. Her suspicions and jealousies of those around her. In comparison to all of this, those things seemed insignificant. But at the time, they had been among the many, many things that defined her…at least, to her. The tipping point had been her imprisonment by Nagogg. For her, that’d been rock bottom.

But then she’d fought back. She hadn’t been freed—she’d freed herself. Then, she’d freed those around her. For the first time in her life, as she’d thrust the tip of her spear through Nagogg’s throat and then ordered Tauthin to relinquish his chair, she had been the one on top. The one with power. The one to be feared.

The Kalarael had only made it worse. Their adoration had enabled her to play a role she’d never played: that of savior from above. It’d allowed her to believe that she—a single being—could make a difference in humanity’s war. It’d allowed her to believe she could defeat Kraash-nagun, one of the Khuladi’s most elite warriors. Perhaps, even if to the faintest degree that she didn’t even want to admit was there, it’d made her feel like an idol to be worshipped. But that golden calf was melting. It was on its knees in the runa legras, its fine garments stained and its ribbons of hair heavy. But she couldn’t blame the Kalarael for this. She couldn’t blame Tauthin. She had no one to blame but herself.

A pair of hands slid under her armpits. A breach in supposed custom, perhaps, but one she dared not spite. The Kalarael knew the fight was over as well as she did. Svetlana couldn’t bring herself to look at Akàziendi as the protector lifted her up. She could barely look at Yigôzien as her invoker and friend approached her.

“Your mask, my goddess,” Yigôzien said soberly.

“I am not your goddess.” The words tumbled out. Taking the mask in hand, she staggered back to the structure.

As brutal as the lesson had been, it was not the worst part of the experience. That was reserved for the trudge back to her quarters. Covered in wet runa legras from top to bottom, there was no place for her to hide from the Kalarael as she walked past them, a trail of pink mud following her, staining the once pristine floor. There was no place for her to hide when she returned to her chamber—when she walked past Wuteel and Kraash-nagun en route to the cleansing pool. Or when she walked past Tauthin. The Bakma leader, for what it was worth, never turned his head to look her way.

Unlike the cleaning she’d undergone in the space station, there was nothing liberating about slinging off her mud-caked garments. There was no joy in seeing chunks of clay rinsed from her hair. There was only the sting of embarrassment.

As the orange and pink hues of sunset faded and the events of Sélestere transitioned into memory, Svetlana prepared herself for slumber. In doing so, she forced her sights on the events to come. On what could still be controlled. A visit to the Khuladi at Winduster awaited tomorrow. Along with it, hopefully, would be clarity concerning their true adversary—the one now shared between two species.

She could ill afford to allow the events of a single day to relegate that, no matter how humbling they may have been.

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Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

Date unknown

Time unknown

Winduster, Kalar

IT WAS SO beautiful.

Rolling fields of the most vibrant grass Svetlana had ever seen whizzed by as she pressed her face against the train window. The runa legras had disappeared from her view some time ago, replaced by a blue-green foliage that was as unlike anything she’d ever seen as the pink landscape they’d left behind. This palette of colors on this alien world was dreamlike. It was so extraterrestrial that it seemed wrong, like it was induced by some hallucinogenic drug. Speckled among the fields were tall trees of a similar color, though they were few and far between—oddities among the turquoise expanse.

To say the events of the morning contained far less pomp than the prior day was an understatement. There were no glorifiers to tend to her, no featherglow to achieve. There was only the donning of her blue, skin-tight jumpsuit and the tying of her ponytail. That was just as well for her. She’d had quite enough formality for one week.

Svetlana had decided to include everyone but Mishka on the journey. Being that the Khuladi had been captured in a damaged Zone Runner and that Wuteel was a capable engineer, the hope was that he could look at the spacecraft and then isolate and possibly fix whatever had made the ship inoperable at the time of its capture.

“We are nearing Winduster,” Yigôzien said from the seat beside her. Svetlana glanced at her briefly, one of the few times during the whole journey that her eyes graced the interior of the train car. Across the way, she caught sight of the rest of her alien comrades, though none looked at her. That was just as well, too.

Svetlana had tried to think little of her encounter with Tauthin and the beatdown he had dished out. This was made easier by the fact that no one—not a Kalarael or Bakma—dared mention it themselves. Just the same, it was impossible to purge the experience completely from her thoughts. Shame was no stranger to her, but this was shame on a level she’d never quite felt before. This was her getting knocked off a pedestal. That it was a pedestal she never should have been on in the first placed mattered little. The fall still hurt.

Still, Svetlana knew enough about awkward circumstances to know that at some point, she and Tauthin would talk. The Bakma leader was more human than maybe even he liked to admit. If he didn’t address the issue, she would. Eventually. For now, such emotions and drama were nothing but distractions. Winduster was there, and with it, the potential for the unlocking of knowledge. She felt like she’d learned so much about the Khuladi already. How much more could she learn when she actually saw one?

So far as settlements went, Winduster was considerably larger than Ban-Hezikal, roughly the size of several city blocks. There were numerous squat, matte silver structures spread out over a distance, with architecture that was decidedly more angular in appearance than anything she’d seen previously. It looked like a military base, even if it was smaller than most on Earth.

Surprisingly, the Zone Runner was not hidden in some underground chamber, but parked in a sort of open hangar structure that was right in the middle of the base. Though it all fell in line with the openness of Kalarael culture, she couldn’t help but wonder at what point openness became stupidity. This thing needed to be sealed away.

It was as she observed the damaged Zone Runner that a new thought entered her mind. What if Wuteel could indeed repair the damaged spacecraft, whatever its issues were? It was right there for the taking. If Linjan and her ilk tried to prevent them from leaving Kalar…

…well, it was an option.

As the train slowed to a stop, the Kalarael around Svetlana unstrapped themselves and rose to their feet. Svetlana and company did the same. With nowhere near the fanfare of her visit to Sélestere, she was escorted off the train and onto the turquoise grass.

“Winduster,” Yigôzien said, extending her arms to indicate the facilities before them.

Svetlana knelt down next to her, her focus on the strange vegetation they’d stepped out upon. It wasn’t grass at all, but more like a kind of moist, leafy moss. She wondered if the valesprings were playing a part of the moisture, though it mattered little. She was just thankful not to be walking on pink mud. When Yigôzien performed a bajuine, Svetlana rose to her feet again.

Approaching them from one of the structures were King Xi`qirian, Queen Chechera, High Priestess Linjan, and Darishukan Korlustus. All wore identical garb to what she’d seen them in before.

After a brief reintroduction and a series of bajuines, Yigôzien turned to Svetlana and asked, “Do you feel Ed would be able to connect all of us together at once? With as much as I’m sure there will be to say, the job of translation will be considerably difficult.”

Glancing at the Ithini, Svetlana raised an eyebrow.

I will try, Ed said in response. The Ithini’s eyes widened. Almost to Svetlana’s surprise, the wide-area connection came quickly. Color her impressed. Ed could sense it. I feel I am beginning to master communication with this species.

They do not seem as adversely affected by connections as we do, Svetlana asked him. Is there a reason?

A sense of uncertainty came from the alien. I do not know for sure, but I suspect it may be associated with the openness of their minds and emotions. Whereas humans feel telepathy as an intrusion and naturally resist it, the Kalarael do not seem fazed by it at all.

Was Yigôzien affected by it in the Zone Runner when we first connected? She couldn’t remember.

I do not know, master—though any seemingly adverse reaction may have been a general stress response to the situation. Regardless, it matters little now.

To that, he was right. She returned her focus to the now-connected group. “It is a pleasure to see you all again.”

“We are equally pleased,” King Xi`qirian answered. His voice was rich—and translated into British. “Thank you for your visit to Sélestere yesterday. I am sure we will have many things to discuss today.

Stepping forward, the resplendent Chechera offered Svetlana an actual bajuine—the first she’d received by this particular group. “My goddess,” the young queen said. Extending her hands, she offered what appeared to be a necklace, complete with a small, attached medallion encrusted with a yellow stone. “A gift, from Clan Amaester.”

The necklace sparkled beneath the Daystar. Genuinely touched by the gesture, Svetlana took it in hand carefully. There were inscriptions on the medallion, all written in Kalarael. Before she could examine it too closely, Yigôzien stepped in to assist Svetlana in clasping it around her neck. With a magnetic click, the necklace was in place.

It was not lost on Svetlana that the significance of being handed a medallion from the queen’s clan—from the queen herself—was tremendous. She felt wholly undeserving of it. Before she could gather her thoughts, the salutations continued.

“Daystar shine upon you, Incarnate,” said Linjan.

“High priestess,” Svetlana said, a touch cordially. The blueness in Linjan’s eyes was as vibrant as any Kalarael that Svetlana had seen. How she hated it.

The last to greet her was Korlustus, the orange-skinned, silver-maned darishukan. His translated voice was deep, guttural, and unmistakably…Dutch. “I look forward to our discussions today, Incarnate.” For the most fleeting of moments, Svetlana’s eyes narrowed, and she cast a glance Ed’s way. The accent was an obvious allusion to Ignatius van Thoor.

The Ithini responded to her look with a simple question. Am I wrong?

He was not. But that didn’t mean she had to like it. Focus returning to the group, she said, “I saw the Zone Runner as I entered Winduster.”

King Xi`qirian replied. “We would very much appreciate your engineer repairing its damaged components and sharing with us its secrets.”

She would appreciate that, too, if for no other reason than to give her and her comrades another option of escape—as potentially dangerous as it might have been. “I will have Wuteel inspect the spacecraft, but first, I should like to see the Khuladi.” It was the whole reason she was there.

“Of course, Incarnate,” the king answered. “Follow, and we shall take you there.” Turning toward one of the structures, he led Svetlana into the base.

With every step Svetlana took, she found her attention shifting more and more away from the structures themselves and instead to the turquoise, mossy surface they strode upon. As moist and slippery as it appeared, she found that she had no issues whatsoever maintaining her footing. In fact, as paradoxical as it seemed, she found her footing on the ground covering to actually be improved. It took the full walk across the grounds to understand why, but she did eventually realize it was because the vegetation was literally sticking to her like little suction-cupped tentacles. Her assumption was that this was a vegetative surface, but on an alien world, who knew? She could have been treading on a widespread colony of small, alien lifeforms—a zooid of some sort.

It was impossible to discern any overall shape to Winduster from where she was standing. It seemed as if its tallest buildings were centrally located, but in even that, she wasn’t entirely certain. She knew only that there was quite a gap between each of the structures—at least thirty meters. She hypothesized that they must have been connected underground, allowing the more sensitive-skinned Kalarael the ability to traverse Winduster with no threat from the Daystar. This hypothesis turned out to be correct, as she soon found herself escorted down an open ramp into a subterranean structure.

Once the ramp leveled off, the group found themselves traversing a small corridor that looked similar to a military base on Earth. The walls were stark white, but unlike Ban-Hezikal, she saw no panels to control wall-mounted murals. At long last, after several twists and turns through the structure, they came upon the holding area.

The room was full of rows of cylindrical glass cells, almost each of which contained a Bakma prisoner. She had never seen a layout like this before, which allowed for three-hundred-and-sixty-degree viewing of the subjects within. It was like walking through a zoo or aquarium. It must have felt like such a violation of privacy to be inside one of the cells. Despite the fact that these were Bakma with little sympathy to be deserved, she felt a tinge of pity for them.

Oddly, none of the Bakma acknowledged them as they walked by. She realized soon after that this was because they couldn’t see her. These glass cylinders must have been like her first quarters on the space station, with walls that could be turned opaque. How terrible it must have been to be in one of those cylinders. It must have been like solitary confinement.

But Bakma were not the only lifeforms in them. An assortment of strange creatures were also present, indeed much like a zoo, complete with what looked like mock habitats for each. One-eyed crawling creatures, furry-looking mammals, vibrantly colored insects. It was alien life sensory overload. Staring at a slimy, crawling, spider-like thing, she asked aloud to anyone who would answer, “What is this place?”

It was Chechera who answered. Smiling widely, the young queen said, “Winduster serves as a military research facility. Our species strives to learn about the many species we share Kalar with. Through this knowledge, we technologically advance.”

Humans, of course, did the same thing. She’d just never seen it with quite this much flair. “We have research centers on my planet, but I have never seen one like this.”

At long last, at the far end of the room, there appeared the main event. The reason she was sticking around on Kalar in the first place. The enemy of them all.

When Svetlana saw the Khuladi in the last cylinder, sitting cross-legged on the floor, she drew to a stop. It was the same kind of creature she’d seen in the vision Ed had provided her back in the Zone Runner. It was like stepping into a dream.

It was perfect in form. Completely humanoid, but with muscles so toned it was like looking at an ancient sculpture of a divine figure. Though the creature had appeared the deepest of blacks in the vision, she could now see in the bright room that its skin was actually blue—the darkest blue she’d ever seen on a living thing. Blue like midnight.

Just like in the vision, its face was nearly featureless save two things: large, oval bulges where eyes normally would have been and a pair of vertical slits where there should have been a mouth. Other than that, there was nothing. No hair. No features. Nothing but pure form.

Unlike in the vision, this Khuladi was not clad in violet armor. It wore nothing at all. Its muscle tone made it look male, though there were no discernable genitalia she could identify. It simply looked perfect. Its pose was akin to a yoga pose, cross-legged with its hands resting atop its knees and its head bowed as if it was in some meditative or transcendental state. It was almost perfectly statuesque. She could barely tell it was even breathing.

Next to Svetlana, Tauthin, Wuteel, and Kraash-nagun’s gazes were fixed—the latter through Svetlana’s eyes, courtesy of Ed. The Khuladi, much like the Bakma before it, seemed oblivious to the observers’ presence. She was ready for that to change. Eyes still on the alien, she tilted her head in the Kalaraels’ direction. “Let him see me.”

Xi`qirian said, “Do as the Incarnate asks.”

One of the Kalarael approached a nearby pedestal, above which hovered a holographic control panel. The being’s delicate fingers swept across the hologram a single time, causing a faint shimmer to appear across the glass cylinder’s surface.

The reaction from the Khuladi was instant. Lifting its chin, its bulging receptors homed in on Svetlana.

Svetlana had braced herself for the Khuladi’s inevitable reaction to her, expecting it to leap to its feet and stand face-to-face with her in an effort to startle her. But the being did nothing. There was no expression to read, no noticeable difference in the alien’s breathing. It just looked at her.

She couldn’t get over how strong it looked. Its muscles were so tight, like they were designed to absorb blow after blow. Like they were designed to kill.

Slowly, the Khuladi turned its head to the Bakma, causing them all to step back.

It doesn’t matter that this creature is behind glass, Svetlana thought to herself. It doesn’t matter that Tauthin and Kraash-nagun despise it. They are submissive; they back away like scared dogs.

As for the Kalarael, their dark, yellow eyes were equally split between the Khuladi and Svetlana, clearly eager to see what her reaction would be to it. Eager to see what their goddess would say or do. But she could bring herself to do nothing. She was frozen in awe.

Slowly, the Khuladi pressed its palm—a five-fingered hand that looked much like a human’s—against the floor. Upon uncrossing its legs, it pushed to a stand. Eye bulges on Svetlana, it approached her.

The first wave of nerves hit her as they stood face to face. This thing—this destroyer of worlds—was peering right through her. She was scarcely an obstacle. Not daring to tear her eyes away from it, she relayed the question to Ed, Can you connect me to it?

The Ithini replied, There is no need. She looked at him. You already speak its language.

Bakmanese. A language wrongly attributed to the only species humanity had ever heard speak it. The language of the Khuladi. Her head turned back to it. She tried to find her reflection in its eyes, but there was none. Preparing herself, she addressed it in its native tongue. “Do you know what I am?”

Svetlana had thought that it might have been surprised to hear her speak its language, but it once again offered no outward reaction. If it was surprised, it was hiding it well. At long last, after almost fifteen seconds of silence, she heard the alien’s ethereal, almost whispering voice. “Incomplete.” There was no movement in the two vertical slits at the bottom of its face as it spoke. It was as if its voice simply emanated from the slits themselves.

Her brow furrowed at its answer. “What do you mean, incomplete?”

This time, its answer came quickly. “You are the pre-subjugated. That which is lacking in form and purpose. You are dust.”

“Dust?” she asked incredulously—perhaps even with a trace of nerve. “If I am dust, what are you?”

“I am the—”

“—you are captured,” she interrupted. “That is what you are. Do not forget it.”

Beside her, Tauthin and Wuteel looked at each other. Leaning toward her, his voice warning, Tauthin said, “Setana…”

“I am not afraid of this thing. Of this…creature,” she said, her eyes locked on it. “You call me incomplete because you presume to be the one to complete me. To give me form and purpose. To mold this walking pile of dust into something you can use. That is what your species believes, is it not?”

“Please be cautious,” Tauthin said quietly.

“Cautious,” she said, uttering a single huff of laughter. “All my life, I have been cautious. It has never gotten me anywhere.” Her blue eyes locked onto the Khuladi, and she shook her head. “No. This monster does not recognize caution. Only strength.”

The Khuladi continued to stare straight into Svetlana. Straight through to her soul, until it spoke again. “Are you a warrior?”

She had no intention of answering the question—not because she didn’t have an answer, but because she wanted to establish early on that it was she, not he, who was doing the asking. And so she asked, “When is your species going to attack Earth?”

No answer came. It only looked at her in silence.

She continued, her tone sharpening. “Have you figured out what you will do with us, yet? If we will be workers? Warriors? Entertainers? I am curious how you think we will best serve our new masters?”

“Setana…” Tauthin said behind her, his voice growing firmer.

“Or perhaps you don’t yet know. Perhaps you are still figuring us out. Trying to determine our true purpose. Trying to determine what Uladek intended.”

Finally—at the invocation of its god—the Khuladi tilted its head.

Svetlana’s eyes narrowed. “I am not supposed to know of Uladek, am I? An Earthae is not supposed to know the name of the Khuladi god. Oh, but I know more than you think.” She leaned in closer to the glass. “I have seen the Dishan. And the Nerifinn. And the Annihl. I have basked in the violet glow of Vasvuul. I have stared myself in the face as I attempted to decipher Uladek’s purpose for us. I have heard the chants of your servants. Bringer of Order. Bringer of Chaos. Keeper of the Eternal.”

The Khuladi leaned closer to her.

“I have felt that singular purpose you instill in all those you subjugate. I have felt it.” Behind her half mask, she bared her teeth. “I reject it.”

Smack!

The Khuladi’s palm slammed against the glass right in front of Svetlana’s face. Everyone—the Kalarael, the Bakma, Ed—leapt back in startlement. Everyone but one.

Blue orbs steadfast, the corners of Svetlana’s lips curved as she released a single, soft laugh. “Hph. That is what you have come to expect, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice quiet—almost whispering. “For everyone before you to fear. For everyone before you to tremble. You crave it. You need it.” The whole while she spoke, the Khuladi stayed still, its open palm still pressed inches in front of her face. “Every species you meet bows down in terror. They submit to your will, just as you intended. They do not even fight back.” Her eyes narrowed, as her already hushed tone found new depths of hate. “But you have not yet met me.”

Slowly, the Khuladi pulled its hand from the glass, withdrawing it back to its side. The two vertical slits at the bottom of its face widened, as a pair of long, white appendages flickered out like a snake’s tongue. They retracted and disappeared, and the alien stepped backward. Its skin-covered eyes staying on Svetlana, it lowered itself back to the floor, where it sat crisscrossed as it had when she’d first seen it. It slowly lowered its head until its gaze was aimed down, its efforts to maintain eye contact abandoned for the sake of its meditation.

In contrast, Svetlana lifted her chin as she watched it. “What is this Khuladi’s name?” she asked the Kalarael around her.

Korlustus answered, “It has not given us one. It has told us very little about anything. What we have learned, we have done so from the Bakma.”

Gaze still on the being, she asked, “And what do they call it?”

“They call him Caragbuul.”

“Caragbuul,” Svetlana repeated. She looked back at Tauthin. “Does that name have a meaning?”

He grunted quietly. “It does not. Slave names are assigned by function. The Khuladis’ sole function is to rule.”

A few more seconds passed before she stepped back from the cell and looked at the Kalarael. “I would very much like to discuss this creature now—I would like to hear all that you have learned of it. I will share with you what I know, as well.”

Korlustus bajuined. “As you wish, my goddess.” Gesturing to a room along the back wall, the darishukan led Svetlana and the rest of the party inside.

In the heat of the moment, it was difficult for Svetlana to put into context the significance of the encounter that’d just occurred. She had just stared a Khuladi in the face. She’d just stared into the eyes—so to speak—of the villain behind the Alien War. She wasn’t sure whether it bothered her or not that she was left unimpressed. Perhaps it was the righteous indignation in her. Perhaps she had been blinded by her abject hatred of them. Or perhaps, it was the fact that the Khuladi—Caragbuul—was locked in a cell.

“Setana.”

Tauthin’s voice emerged behind her as she approached one of the many floating stools positioned around a similarly antigravitational table. She angled her head the Bakma’s way.

“Some of the Bakma imprisoned here may not be loyal to Uladek. I would like to speak with them to ascertain their level of allegiance. Some may be willing to join our cause—whatever it may be.”

Those last words had been inserted with purpose. She had spoken little to Tauthin since their clash in the wet runa legras. With the high priestess issuing ultimatums about their being allowed to leave, Tauthin was likely wondering what their next step would be. Svetlana was, too. Tauthin may have sounded disgruntled, but it was better than sounding despondent. “Do so,” she answered with a tip of the head toward the door. She turned her focus to King Xi`qirian. “We will need as full a crew as we can assemble upon our departure. I am sending Tauthinilaas to speak with the Bakma you have captured. Whichever ones show disloyalty to the Khuladi god, we will take.” She was through asking permission. As they would soon discover, declaring her an Incarnate for their own personal gain would be a double-edged sword.

Xi`qirian looked at her strangely—at least, by Kalarael standards as she’d experienced them thus far. She swore she saw the blue in his eyes fade a bit. Finally bajuining, a significant gesture considering it came from their king, he dipped his head. “As you wish, my goddess.”

“I will also send my engineer, Wuteel, to inspect the damaged Bakma spacecraft. Please have him escorted there at once.”

This time, there was a more visible reaction. Xi`qirian and Korlustus exchanged a very noticeable and wary look. There was no subtle shift in their eye color this time. They went straight to dark yellow. After a hesitation that bordered on uncomfortable—and an unwavering stare from Svetlana herself—the king acquiesced. “As you wish, my goddess.” Turning his head to several guarding darishu, he relayed the instruction.

The hushed voice of Tauthin addressed her from nearby. “Do not overestimate your power.”

There was nothing to overestimate. This was the Kalaraels’ doing, not hers.

Svetlana watched as the Kalarael divvied up darishu between the two parties—Tauthin’s and Wuteel’s. The fox-eared aliens would not be able to understand what the Bakma were saying, but that mattered little for the purpose of what they were doing. Tauthin and Wuteel just needed to observe, report, and in the engineer’s case, potentially repair. Beyond asking a darishu to pass him a wrench, what else could Wuteel possibly need?

There was but one Bakma who didn’t have a task. Turning her head toward the blinded elite, Svetlana said, “Kraash-nagun, you will answer any questions as it pertains to the Khuladi or your species’ subservience to them.”

Kraash-nagun’s chin dipped. “Of course, my lady.”

“Include him in the connection, Ed.” The subtle presence of Kraash-nagun emerged in her mind. With all tasks attended, she set her eyes upon the Kalarael. It was time to talk. “Shall I begin, or shall you?”

“If you would be so inclined, my goddess,” Xi`qirian said, “it would please us to hear first from you.”

As the Kalarael listened, Svetlana recanted the full account of Earth’s experience with the Alien War. She explained that the Bakma had been the first to appear over one of their cities and that they’d attacked without so much as an attempt at communication. She explained that the Golathoch had appeared shortly after. To the best her memory could serve her, she explained how humanity was thrust from an era of peace into a war the likes of which the planet had never seen. She talked about her vision of the great gulf in her mind and how she had seen the slave species of the Khuladi. She told of their roles. The Ithini to innovate. The Bakma to agitate. The Nerifinn to herald. The Dishan to serve. The Annihl to destroy. The Khuladi to rule.

In addition to the events of the war, she explained how she came to be involved in things. How she’d entered the Academy to become a combat medic—a healer, so to speak—and how she found herself at a base called Novosibirsk. She explained how she came to be kidnapped by the Bakma and imprisoned on their spaceship. But it was at that point in the story that she decided to rewrite history. The notion came to her as she was speaking—a deliberate, on-the-fly edit. She claimed that shortly after the Bakma attacked the Kalarael spacecraft, she began to feel the presence of Shanras within her. She began to feel her transformation take place.

It was a calculated move that would not only cement her status among the Kalarael present as an Incarnate but also offer a clue as to who among the gathered may have been privy to the truth: that she was nothing more than a pawn in their war against the Kalareim. She was gambling that their expressions—that the colors in their eyes—might reveal the conspirators. She was right.

Linjan. Korlustus. Xi`qirian. The high priestess, the darishukan, and the king. The only one present from the Sovereignty, or whatever they called it, that showed no dimming of the eyes was Queen Chechera. The queen listened in awe as others around her watched in growing leeriness. Svetlana realized that if she was to have any influence on royal affairs, it was the queen who would have to be her conduit. Quite frankly, she could trust no one else.

In the end, however, this subtle revelation was far less significant than it was enlightening. It would not affect the retelling of her story beyond a single, selective edit. It would not actually change history—just her situation, as trivial a change as it may have ultimately been.

As for the other side of the table, they listened to the story of the Alien War with the keenest of interest. In addition to numerous darishu positioned about the room, there were also Kalarael who seemed to serve as scribes, feverishly writing as Linjan spoke to them, repeating Svetlana’s words word-for-word for the purpose of dictation in the Kalarael language. It was not lost to Svetlana just how valuable this information was for them. It was giving them a preview of what was potentially to come. What could humanity have done with such an advanced report on the Alien War? After she finished her story, she addressed that very thing.

“You have now heard my story,” she said to the gathered. Yellow-eyed and still, they listened with flattened whiskers. “What will you now do?”

The Kalarael remained silent for a good while—looking at her, looking at each other—before Xi`qirian offered a reply. “There is much for us to consider.”

“You are more technologically advanced than we were when we were attacked,” Svetlana said. “You may have time to prepare—to forge a global army, as we did.”

Korlustus spoke. “We have numerous vessels traversing the system. Perhaps they should be recalled.”

“Yigôzien and I saw what one Zone Runner could do,” Svetlana said. “Imagine a star system full of them. I agree, recalling whatever spaceships you have in the system would be wise.”

“We must also summon the War Council,” the darishukan said. “If the clans are to unite under this purpose, it must be done in an official capacity.”

Angling her head cautiously, Svetlana hesitated before asking, “Perhaps the Kalareim would be willing to set aside their differences with you to join in this effort?”

The beings’ red eyes glowed fervently. Several of the fox-eared aliens even hissed. The only two present who seemed able to control their emotions to a degree were Yigôzien and Akàziendi, the former of which turned to Svetlana to address the issue. “It would be unwise to suggest a course of action that cannot be. You are not as familiar with the Kalareim as we are. There can be no harmony between our species.”

Voice lowered and eyes a tad narrow, Svetlana looked squarely at her. “I would very much like to see this species I am supposed to be fearful of.”

“A conversation for a different time, my goddess.”

“We will summon the War Council,” said Korlustus again. “Only then can we properly discuss a unification of the clans. I will determine the time and location soon.”

Folding her arms atop the table, Svetlana waited for the next Kalarael to speak. Seconds passed in silence. Arching her eyebrows, she glanced between the Kalarael leaders in front of her. “Anything else?”

“I do not understand your question, my goddess,” Korlustus answered.

“I mean, will you do anything else? Besides summon the War Council? Will you take no other action?”

Eyes a medium shade of yellow, the darishukan answered, “Summoning the War Council is enough for now. We will determine a course of action in due time.”

“In due time?” She scoffed. “I don’t think you understand the threat that you face.”

“I assure you, my goddess,” Korlustus said, his eyes shifting a shade of red, “we will take the proper courses of action to prepare. It is impossible to make any decisions without first processing the information we have heard. That will require much time and discussion.”

She sighed. “Listen, Korlustus—”

The redness brightened. In contrast, the yellow shade of the Kalarael around him dimmed. They were getting nervous. “There is nothing more we can do at this time, my goddess. It is not a matter of desire. It is a matter of logistics.”

It astounded her how they could simultaneously refer to her as their goddess and argue her points. She knew, deep down, that they were correct. She had literally finished telling them about the Alien War a minute ago. It was reasonable to expect a delay in the decision-making. But she didn’t want to be reasonable. She wanted the Kalarael ready. Now. Angling her head in Yigôzien’s direction, she whispered, “Is it customary for Kalarael to display such anger at an Incarnate?”

“Custom dictates very little in an affair such as this,” Yigôzien said, a tad nervously. “I do not believe he is arguing against your will—he is simply stating that, at present, summoning the War Council is his only possible course of action. Once summoned, they will determine how best to proceed.”

Ed chimed in. Once more, may I remind you that the darishukan’s eye color is indicative only of his frustration, not a desire to defy your will. I am sure there have been many times in your life where you have been angry with your Creator, yet you worship Him still.

Beneath her half mask, she was almost snarling. Stop it.

Stop what, master? I am only making sense.

You are defending them.

A swell of disappointment emanated. I sense that your response has more to do with your pride and the appearance of rejection than it does Korlustus’s argument. Might I suggest that you attempt to behave more rationally?

Unaware of the mental back and forth, Queen Chechera leaned forward. Beneath her canine nose, she smiled. “If it pleases you, my goddess, I will let you know when the War Council will meet. Perhaps you would like to accompany me there? As queen, I am permitted to attend anything I desire.”

Svetlana was on the verge of telling Chechera that, indeed, she would like that, when Ed’s mental prodding returned. Rationality, master. We do not know when this event will take place. It may be days, weeks, or months away. I would caution against accepting any offers that might delay our departure—if indeed, you still wish to depart as soon as possible. Might I remind you, you are not responsible for the well-being of this species. That is up to them.

She did want to depart as soon as possible. She also wanted to attend this meeting of the War Council. What Ed was saying was that she might not be able to do both. Closing her eyes, she said to herself, Be rational. Be rational.

That is very wise—

Get out of my head when I am talking to myself! After allowing herself a final moment, she opened her eyes and looked at the queen. “I appreciate your offer. It is very kind of you. I need not be present at this summoning of the War Council.” She turned her focus to the darishukan. “I am sure much will come from this meeting, Korlustus. The Kalarael are in good hands.” A needless word of flattery, but she inserted it anyway. It was better than a goddess apologizing. Leaning back, she surveyed the table at large. “Is there anything else that is to be discussed? If there is not, I would very much like to hear what you have learned about Caragbuul—however little it may be.” At this stage, she was just ready to move on.

And so they did.

For what felt like the next hour, Svetlana listened as the Kalarael discussed the Khuladi in full detail. As Caragbuul had apparently shown little interest in conveying anything helpful, much of what they’d learned was either from his Bakma underlings or their biological scans—but of the latter, they’d learned a great deal.

A pair of scientists in the meeting room was able to bring up a full image of the Khuladi, much as one would have expected to find in a medical textbook. Svetlana found this fascinating, and immediately asked if she could receive a copy of their information not only for Caragbuul, but for all of the extraterrestrials they’d encountered. Much to her delight, they agreed. These images were far more detailed than anything she’d seen from Earthae scientists. She was certain there was a great amount to be learned, even concerning the species humanity had already encountered.

As for the Khuladi, they were biologically fascinating from the top down. Their visual receptors, as it turned out, were indeed under a thin layer of skin that served as protection, not wholly dissimilar from the brille that covered the eyes of some reptiles. As for the strange, vertical slits on the lower portion of his face, it was primarily used as an olfactory receptor, but also to create speech. Where things really went into left field was when the two white appendages that protruded from the slits were discussed. In addition to being a visual display of some kind, it was also the means by which the Khuladi consumed sustenance. Like a strange sort of stylet, the two appendages could fully protrude to allow the Khuladi to drink up liquid as if through a pair of straws. The beings possessed no teeth of any kind. All of their consumption was liquid-based. The stylets themselves were quite sharp, enabling them to pierce the flesh of whatever prey they targeted. This meant that, essentially, a Khuladi could kill prey and then penetrate the target’s flesh with the stylets to drink its fluids. The stylets were attached to maxillary sacs containing digestive enzymes, meaning that much like a spider, the Khuladi had the ability to liquify the insides of prey via enzyme injection.

In other words, they were horrifying.

The Kalarael had been feeding Caragbuul primarily with mastrin, the same chalky paste substance they’d fed her on the space station, though they had also provided him with several different meats and vegetations simply to observe the manner in which he digested and ate his food.

It was during that conversation that she learned about nura—one of the bits of information they’d gleaned from the captured Bakma. Nura was a type of thick nectar that the Khuladi were keen on consuming. Several specimens of what the Kalarael referred to as a nura plant had been present on the Zone Runner. The Kalarael escorted Svetlana to a cylindrical tank that housed the nura plants they’d taken—it was one of the many tanks she’d passed on her way through the observatory zoo. There was nothing extraterrestrial about the plant or its flowers at all. They looked like elongated bluebells. At the base of the plant, which was somewhat large for the size of its flowers, there sat a large, leafy basin. It was practically overflowing with thick, clear liquid. The scientists explained that the nectar from the flowers constantly dripped into the basin, which could be filled to the brim in a matter of hours. It was this nectar—this nura, as the Bakma called it—that gave the Khuladi their strength.

Literally.

It was at this stage that Kraash-nagun spoke up for the first time. As an elite, he was apparently privy to more information than most as it concerned the Khuladi, who were incredibly secretive about their homeworld—the lush, boggy moon that orbited Vasvuul. The Khuladi, appropriately, called this homeworld Khuldaris. The nura plant was bountiful there, thriving under the glow of the violet gas giant. Their nectar was more than a sustenance to the Khuladi; it was a super booster. It accelerated their metabolism, it heightened their senses. It was like a steroid on steroids, with none of the ill side effects other than a slight increase in adrenaline. The more Svetlana heard about it, the more she wanted to guzzle a whole liter of the stuff just to see what it’d do to her body.

As Kraash-nagun explained, this would probably not be a good idea. Though he could not vouch for other species, he could attest that the Bakma were forbidden from drinking the liquid, as it apparently contained a toxin that the Khuladi were immune to but that caused foaming at the mouth, paralysis, and death to anyone else who ingested it. Before she could argue that perhaps this was a lie intended to stop the slave species from becoming powerful, the scientists confirmed the toxin’s presence. They had already determined that it was unsafe for their consumption. Svetlana had to assume that it was unsafe for hers, as well, considering the many similarities between Bakma and Earthae internal anatomy. It certainly changed her opinion about taking a sip.

Though the Khuladi could ingest all manner of liquid, or liquefied flesh in some instances, nura was essential for their survival, containing a nutrient that their body needed. The nura plant sustained them, and in return, the Khuladi treated it like precious metal. They grew it. They harvested it. They propagated it. They made it their most valuable commodity.

The Kalarael revealed that literally hundreds of vials of nura were found stored in the Zone Runner—rations for Caragbuul in the event the nura plants died. Carrying a nura stockpile was the only way the Khuladi could survive space travel. Without a steady supply of the nectar’s nutrients, they would die. And therein came the most stunning discovery.

Nura plants only grew on Khuldaris. It was that unique, boggy world—and that violet glow of Vasvuul above—that kept the nura plant alive. And it was in that news, that stunning revelation, that Svetlana saw a weakness.

If only the nura plant could be destroyed. A single application of planetary weed killer to liberate the galaxy. If only.

Unsurprisingly, it was not an original idea. With such a glaring weakness, Kraash-nagun explained, it was only logical to see it as a means of destroying the great scourge that was the Khuladi. But it was easier said than done. Only the greatest of elites was taken to Khuldaris. Kraash-nagun himself had not been among them. He had only heard stories. As a chieftain and rider, Nagogg had been taken to the moon as a sort of religious pilgrimage, hence how Svetlana had been able to see it in a vision formed from his memories. The moon was the most heavily guarded place in all of Khuladi space. Considering the critical nature of its central export, this was not hard to believe. But still.

But still.

There was little more of genuine intrigue to be gleaned from the discussion of Caragbuul. In the end, all that mattered was that he was stronger, faster, and more perceptive than any Bakma, Kalarael, or Earthae could ever pretend to be. He was trained in the art of every conceivable weapon from ballistics to blades and everything in-between. He would be superhuman, were he human at all. He was a monster not easily felled.

The only other topic of interest was a brief presentation of Caragbuul’s armor and weapons, which had been acquired from the damaged Zone Runner. The armor was a deep, vibrantly reflective metal that was violet in color, not unlike the revered gas giant, Vasvuul. It was relatively sparse so far as armor went, with a spandex-like covering for much of the torso and the only actual armor consisting of a large shoulder harness and knee-high leg guards. Kraash-nagun explained that Khuladi were minimalists when it came to body armor, preferring to keep their bodies as unhindered as possible. Considering how advanced the Khuladi were relative to humans and the Kalarael, the armor was somewhat unremarkable.

The same could not be said, however, for Caragbuul’s weapons—a pair of wrist-mounted devices that Kraash-nagun called battle gauntlets. Each gauntlet was dual purpose, containing both a long, retractable split blade and a mounted plasma blaster. With one attached to each hand, a Khuladi could decimate an opponent in close or ranged combat. According to Kraash-nagun, elites such as he were the only Bakma trained to use battle gauntlets in combat, though on strict, preordained basis. To his knowledge, no elites had been sent to Earth brandishing the weapons—yet.

Shortly after the discussion ended, Svetlana was rejoined by Tauthinilaas in the small meeting room. Having had an opportunity to visit the many Bakma the Kalarael had in custody, he presented Svetlana with a list of potential candidates for a crew—Bakma he was certain wouldn’t mind turning their backs on the Khuladi, even though they’d scarcely say it out loud. As a defector himself, Tauthin was one of the few with whom they’d likely share their willingness to trade allegiances.

As for Wuteel, he too returned shortly after. In his own words, the damage to the Zone Runner involved a short circuit both to its drive systems and its rift generator. Though neither was beyond repair, it would take additional visits to the spacecraft to put a plan into action. His time spent in the interim would be dedicated to formulating that plan. She was glad he at least had something to do.

Her final act before leaving Winduster was an extension of grace toward someone who in no way, shape, or form deserved it. Approaching one of the scientists away from the group, Svetlana inquired about the possibility of using their detailed scans of Bakma anatomy to create an optical device for Kraash-nagun. She had no idea if such a thing was possible, but they had created an apparatus to assist her breathing, so it was something she wanted to mention—out of earshot of the blinded elite, of course. As she expected, the scientist offered no promises, but he did say he would pass the request along.

As suddenly as it’d seemed Svetlana had arrived at Winduster, she was once again walking across the mossy vegetation to board the train back to Ban-Hezikal. As much as it would have been beneficial to go over Tauthin’s list of potential defectors or discuss the malfunctioning Zone Runner with Wuteel, she could bring herself to do little more than stare out of the window at the passing landscape. Eventually, the rolling, blue hills of vegetation transitioned into the pink runa legras to which she’d grown accustomed. Before she knew it, they were pulling up to Ban-Hezikal again.

Despite having seen the Khuladi once in a vision, Svetlana hadn’t known what to expect before she’d walked up to Caragbuul’s cell and looked him in the eyes. Her hope, long before they’d even docked on the Kalarael space station, was that by seeing a Khuladi, she would be able to bring something back to Earth that was of value. That mission had been accomplished. But it was not in the biological data provided to her by the scientists that she placed her highest regard. It was not the information on their diet and dependance on the nura plant. It was the fact that she, an Earthae, could stare one in the face and be unafraid.

Even as a recent convert to warrior status, Svetlana recognized that the first step in defeating an opponent was realizing that victory was possible. It was hard not to feel victorious standing on the outside of a glass cell looking in. Caragbuul, for all of his physical supremacy, was still a captive. The ramifications of that, far more than any biological information she could glean, were significant. It meant they could be on the losing side of things. The only reason that Caragbuul was alive now was because the Kalarael wanted him to be.

That message, as important as the tangible information she’d collected, was what she’d take back to Earth. They were beings of flesh and blood just like she was. Just like the Kalarael, the Bakma, the Ithini, and the Golathoch were. They were capable of being contained.

So, apparently, was Svetlana.

She had expected someone from the Sovereignty to approach her concerning the endorsement of a war against the Kalareim. It surprised her greatly when they did not. Perhaps her boldness in the meeting had given them pause. Perhaps it had forced them to regroup and reconsider. Or perhaps they’d just not yet come. Whatever the reason, she was grateful for the time.

Over the days that followed, Svetlana speculated on how she and her companions would leave Kalar. She addressed it several times with Yigôzien, who insisted every time that she had brought the request to the Sovereignty. They were simply yet to reply.

In the interim, Svetlana prepared for the possibility that she and her crew would have to take the damaged Zone Runner by force. It was not an ideal solution. Not only would they have to steal it, they would have to escape Kalar without getting shot down in a Zone Runner that couldn’t shift into the Zone. She wasn’t a fan of those odds.

She also prepared for her duel of dominance with Kraash-nagun. For hours every day, she practiced on the wet runa legras, which was continually saturated by the overflowing valesprings. Practice was a muddy, messy affair, only worsened by the fact that Akàziendi had replaced Tauthin as her sparring partner. To say that her purple-haired protector was a formidable opponent was an understatement. Akàziendi mopped the floor with her. By the end of the sessions, Svetlana was dragging herself into Ban-Hezikal caked from head to toe in pink, with Akàziendi following behind, mere speckles staining her from where Svetlana had fallen to the wet runa legras next to her. But she was getting better. She felt like she was getting better. She found herself more determined to improve every day.

Akàziendi, as it turned out, was far more willing to assault a goddess than Svetlana ever imagined she would be. Despite the prestige of being referred to as an Incarnate, Svetlana found that the only real benefit was that simple requests were carried out with more zealous efficiency. It most certainly did not mean that things were her way or the highway.

There was a reason for this, she discovered. While being christened an Incarnate meant that Shanras resided in her, it did not mean that it always spoke through her. It did not mean that it was her. She was merely a vessel that’d been chosen. When the Kalarael acknowledged her in deified terms, they were actually acknowledging Shanras inside her. And Shanras, apparently, could shine or not shine whenever it wanted.

All Svetlana could think was that this was far too convenient for the purpose of setting a person up as a religious or political prop. If Svetlana said something that royalty approved of, they could say it was Shanras. If she said something they disapproved of, they could claim it was not. This allowing of the Kalarael to pick and choose, in Svetlana’s mind, almost negated the entire aspect of being divine.

The bottom line for her was that with each passing day, the luster of being an Incarnate faded a little more. She was sure that at some point, it wouldn’t matter at all. But that point wasn’t quite there, yet. She would take advantage of the eager service while it lasted.

A duel and an escape. Those were Svetlana’s two priorities now. The thought did not escape her that with the potential for an expanded Bakma crew also came a lessening of the importance of Kraash-nagun’s loyalty. As it stood now, he was a fourth of her crew. Soon, he might be wholly irrelevant. The only thing preventing her from calling the whole duel off was not to lose face in front of the Kalarael, who were eagerly waiting to see this new, Earthae custom in action. That, and the fact that his disloyalty just bothered her. But that slight feeling of inadequacy, she surmised, would diminish in time, just as the prestige of being referred to as a goddess. Then, of course, there was her deep desire to just beat him.

That, she feared, would not go away soon.

And so, as one thirty-three-hour day gave way to the next, Svetlana practiced, plotted, and prepared for both her fight against Kraash-nagun and her escape from Kalar. Despite the perceived triviality of time in this new environment, she knew the clock was ticking. She knew that countless star systems away, home was waiting for her return.

Every moment that passed brought her closer.

OceanofPDF.com

PART III

PART III

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-one

Thursday, April 5th, 0012 NE

0325 hours

Atami, Japan

One week later

“NATTIE.”

Natalie’s eyes opened, the hushed call of Logan waking her from her slumber. As she blinked groggily, she could see that he was wearing a full set of tactical armor, complete with assault rifle slung over his back.

“It’s time.”

“It’s…” She looked at him strangely. It felt like the middle of the night. A look at the clock confirmed it. “Time for what?”

Behind Logan, the lights in the suite’s living room turned on. Ikeda-kai lackeys, all armed and outfitted, were hustling about. “It’s time to move,” he answered.

Beside her, Esther stirred, rolling her head around to look at Logan. The scout moved her hands up to rub tiredly at her eyes. “What do you mean?” the scout asked.

“The Nightmen are en route to the city. They’re ready to make the trade.”

And just like that, Natalie’s drowsiness vanished.

“We’re going home?” Esther proclaimed as she sat upright, her voice as animated as it’d been all week.

“Trade?” asked Natalie with a raised eyebrow.

Logan gestured to the living room. “They’re waking everyone up now. Get your gear on.” Without another word, he stepped out of the room.

The next ten minutes were surreal. After tossing on a plain white T-shirt, Natalie soon found herself throwing on a bulletproof vest and light tactical armor that looked straight from the police force. With Nobu’s reach likely everywhere, it just might have been.

All around, the survivors of the forest battle geared up in eerie silence, their sparse comments completely contextual…someone asking if anyone needed a clip, or offering to help with a back strap, or requesting that someone swap boot sizes. Despite the windowless walls that protected them from the outside world, every word spoken was a hushed one, as if at any second, some unseen enemy might overhear them.

After tying her hair into a ponytail, Natalie holstered her pistol—the lone form of weapon the survivors were given, sans Logan, who was packing an assault rifle—and observed her surroundings. There were about a dozen Ikeda-kai present, Youko included. The expression she saw on the punk princess’s face was the most focused she’d seen on the woman, which for her, said something. Everyone was finding their zone. As Logan approached Natalie to claim a pistol for himself, she asked, “What’s the plan?”

The Australian’s eyes were shifting everywhere. She’d seen him like that before. It meant he was nervous. “All we have are coordinates near the docks. I presume when we get there, we’ll find out what’s next.”

And that explained his nervousness. Logan was not a man who liked to wing things. He was among the most meticulous and organized planners Natalie knew—very much like her, in that regard. He wanted to know every turn, every anticipated enemy. For him, a situation like this was a nightmare. “Near the docks? Are we leaving on a boat?”

“I have no idea.”

“I mean, they couldn’t be flying in? Not with the level of EDEN presence in the city, right?”

Tiredly, he looked at her. “I said I have no idea.”

Nagoya was on high alert in the event that the outlaws made an appearance, and there were numerous patrol teams, comprised both of EDEN and local law enforcement, making constant rounds on the city streets, day in and day out. One of those units was Vector Squad. The thought of the Nightmen trying to fly in wasn’t just ludicrous, it seemed logistically impossible. The only operational aircraft left at Northern Forge was the Pariah, and it was busted up beyond operability. That same uneasy vibe that Logan was feeling was hitting Natalie. By the look of it, it was hitting everyone. “I need to address them.”

“No you don’t,” Logan said, taking a step toward the crowd just as Natalie looked at him. “Listen up, people. Task is simple. We have two coordinate paths. First brings us to the Ithini and Lisa Tiffin. Second takes us to the Nightmen. That’s all we know. I presume that after a transfer of custody, the Nightmen will exfil us to wherever it is they intend us to go.”

“Exfil us how?” Tom asked. “We ain’t gonna fly out…”

It was the same question on Natalie’s mind. “We don’t know the answer to that,” she said. “We just have to trust.”

Tom’s eyes widened briefly, then he whistled and shook his head. “Whatever you say, Vee.”

Logan spoke again. “There’s a dense fog out, so that’ll provide a measure of cover. Not much, but it might be enough.”

Natalie loved a plan with a good might.

“Clock is ticking, so let’s get a move on.”

As eerie as it’d been gearing up in Nobu’s suite, the trek through the empty dance club was even more so. The first time Natalie had been escorted through it, the music was so loud, it hurt. Now she could have heard a pin drop.

Leading the pack was Logan himself, flanked by Youko, Natalie, and Esther, who had quickened her pace to take to Natalie’s side. Bringing up the rear, behind the rest of the Nightmen and Falcons, were Mark Remington and Jakob Reinhardt, the former assisting the latter along the way. Jakob had been in pain all week long, but at Natalie’s request, had been prepping himself both mentally and physically to move if need be. Though the burn gels had done wonders for him, he was far from one hundred percent. She only hoped he’d be able to conjure the strength to run or fight if the situation arose.

As Logan had claimed, the fog outside was horrendous. It blanketed the streets in a cold stickiness. The streets were devoid of people—so far as she could see. Vector was out there, somewhere. According to the local news, they were making around-the-clock patrols of the city along with everyone else, splitting into shifts to make it possible. She didn’t want to think about what might happen if the group ran into them.

It wasn’t long until a minivan approached the curb. The driver rolled down the window and engaged in a brief dialog with Logan and Youko before the door was slid open and the punk princess beckoned Natalie and Esther to enter. “They’re staggering vehicles so as not to arouse suspicion,” Logan said. “More will come for the rest of them. Right now we’re to get in here to rendezvous with the team that has Tiffin and the alien.”

Natalie motioned to her mocha-skinned counterpart. “Hop in, Esther.” The scout complied, and after offering a brief explanation to the rest of her team, Natalie climbed aboard, too. Logan and Youko were the last two aboard, Youko riding shotgun to their nameless driver. In a vehicle that looked capable of carrying eight, there were five on board. That left room for Lisa, Ju`bajai, and one other soul. As the vehicle pulled away, Natalie cast a glance behind her at the rest of her team, all of whom were waiting by the curb and watching them drive away. A horrible feeling formed in the pit of her stomach. “Just trust,” she whispered to herself, the hushed words only loud enough to be picked up by Esther, who looked at her. Natalie caught the woman’s look and offered a faint, albeit wary smile. After a short span of silence, Natalie whispered to her, “What do you think the Nightmen’s plan is?”

Esther brushed her hand back through her bob. “I think…”

The pause that ensued was long enough to make Natalie wonder if the scout knew something she didn’t.

“…we should be prepared.”

“For what?”

Esther’s expression was unchanged. “For anything.”

Eyes narrowing, Natalie asked, “Do you know something?” When the scout didn’t reply, she said, “Esther…”

Voice lowering, Esther leaned her head closer. “I have no idea what’s coming, but I know that if the Nightmen are on their way, there’s a proper plan in place. Even if it’s not one we’re going to like.”

That didn’t help ease Natalie’s nerves at all. The all-too-familiar feeling of wool being pulled over Natalie’s eyes was there again. As to what extent Esther could possibly know more than her about this situation, she had no idea. Just the same, the scout was radiating a sense of privileged information.

Esther seemed to pick up on the suspicion. “If there’s one thing I can tell you, it’s never underestimate a Nightman plan,” she said. “It’s never what you think…and it usually works.”

The best Natalie could do was hope she was right. Sighing, she asked, “You gonna be okay with Tiffin in here? I know there was some kind of bad blood between you.”

Much to Natalie’s surprise, Esther opted to be forthcoming. “We were in scout training together, though she was ahead of me. When she flunked out, I mocked her relentlessly for it. I told her she was garbage.”

“What would possess you to do that?”

Shrugging, Esther answered, “I didn’t like her.”

“Did she do something to you?”

“No.”

This girl was perplexing. “Why didn’t you like her?”

“I like who I like and I don’t who I don’t.”

Sheesh. Natalie looked off to the side. “I’m glad we’re friends.”

Looking casually the other way, Esther said, “We’re not.” Though neither could see it, both women smirked.

* * *

“ALL RIGHT, y’all, get in,” Javon said, motioning for his comrades to board the second vehicle—a much larger van—as it drew to a stop at the curb and the side door slid open.

The operatives complied, filing into the vehicle as Javon and Feliks waited last to board. With more people crammed into the van than it was intended for, its occupants had to sit on the floor and atop each other to make room.

“How you feelin’ about this?” Javon asked Feliks as they climbed inside with barely enough room to slide the door shut.

The ginger-haired slayer shook his head. “Probably the same as you.”

“That good, huh?”

With a single, humorless chuckle, Feliks placed his hand against the door to steady himself. The van pulled away through the fog.

* * *

WITHIN MINUTES of leaving the nightclub, Natalie’s minivan was pulling up to the same building she’d visited Ju`bajai and Lisa at. Though their forms were barely distinguishable through the fog, Natalie could make out two individuals standing by the front door of the building. Ikeda-kai lackeys.

In the passenger seat, Youko rattled off something in Japanese. Logan leaned toward Natalie and Esther. “We’re picking them up here.”

The minivan door slid open. Natalie finally saw Lisa and Ju`bajai being led from the building. Though Ju`bajai wasn’t handcuffed or restrained in any way, Lisa’s hands were cuffed behind her back. Looking up, the ponytailed Vector caught sight of Natalie and Esther and glared.

This was going to be an interesting little ride. Just stay quiet, Esther. For once, just stay quiet. Thankfully, the scout did, and within a matter of seconds, Lisa and Ju`bajai were being moved into the rear row of the minivan, along with another armed Ikeda-kai. With the minivan fully loaded, the door was slid shut and the vehicle once again pulled away.

The mental prick of Ju`bajai’s connection emerged seconds later. Another awareness—Esther’s—could also be felt. She was linking all three of them. We are reunited, was all Ju`bajai said, as if any such statement was needed.

Natalie was still wrapping her mind around the conversation she’d had with Ju`bajai’s ponytailed Esther doppelganger. The alien seemed to take on two entirely different personas depending on whether she was in construct form or not. It was perplexing, to say the very least.

I am pleased to see you, Esther.

Glancing in Esther’s direction, Natalie searched for any reaction on the scout’s face. Esther only stared ahead. Whatever relationship these two had, she could scarcely comprehend it. At long last, Esther’s voice emerged telepathically through the connection. It’s good to see you, too.

The SUV turned down a small side street, its headlights cutting through the dense fog that blanketed the city. Youko snapped a sharp glare the driver’s way, and a torrent of angry Japanese spewed from her lips. The driver, answering quickly and on the defensive, pointed in front of the vehicle. Eyes narrowing in confusion, Natalie looked at Logan. “What’s going on?”

The Australian leaned toward her. “He knows a shortcut. She doesn’t want him to take it.”

Natalie didn’t care what route they took, so long as it got them there. She redirected her mental focus to Ju`bajai. Have you been able to learn anything new?

Even before the Ithini answered, a swell of negativity made itself apparent. I have not. Very few have visited me while I was confined, beyond supplying me with the basics of food and water.

Natalie wondered if she’d tried her hand at reading Logan’s mind since arriving in the vehicle with him—a curiosity the alien apparently picked up on.

Much like Lisa, Logan has had anti-connection training. It is impossible for me to siphon anything beyond base level information without my efforts being detected. I have calculated that it is not worth the risk.

This anti-connection training, whatever it was, seemed incredibly beneficial for the purpose of keeping information hidden from prying alien minds. She had to figure out how to tap into it. The same sentiment was detected from Esther.

Once more, Ju`bajai was on it. I am happy to provide such resistance training to both of you.

Glancing sidelong at Lisa, Natalie saw that the Vector was still glaring ahead in silence. Apparently, Logan had worked alongside Vector Squad for some time before turning on them in the woods. How awkward it must have been for Logan to have Lisa sitting in that back seat now, surely stewing about everything that had gone down.

The vehicle slowed. Craning her neck, Natalie peered through the fog, where the silhouette of a man appeared in the middle of the street. Holding his hand out, he indicated for the SUV to stop.

Must be our contact, Natalie thought.

Turning her head to the driver, Youko spewed off a slew of Japanese—her voice fast and breathy. The driver’s response was equally jittered.

Uh oh…

The man in the street drew closer, the forms of several others emerging from the fog behind him. The silhouettes of combat armor and E-35 assault rifles appeared shortly after.

This was an EDEN patrol.

“Bloody hell,” Logan murmured, shifting in his chair as he reached down for his firearm. “So much for his bloody shortcut. Stick to the plan, stick to the plan, stick to the plan.” Before Natalie realized it, Logan’s pistol was withdrawn and pointed at Lisa.

“Hey!” said Natalie.

The Australian was already keyed in. “You say one word,” he said to Lisa, “you make one bloody sound, and your ride ends right here.”

Heart racing, Natalie swapped a look with Esther. Both women watched as the soldier at the front of the patrol approached them. The van driver slowly rolled his window down. There was nothing else he could do. Next to Natalie, Logan lowered the weapon, concealing it. The soldier—the emblem of Japan plainly visible under his nameplate—addressed the driver in Japanese. Back and forth, the three of them spoke: the soldier, the driver, and Youko. If the driver leaned in—if he turned his head to any degree and peered through the driver’s side window…

Please don’t let him. God, for his sake, please don’t let him…

The soldier lifted his hand. A tiny flashlight was flicked on. He shone the beam toward the back seat. Right…on…

…Ju`bajai.

The soldier’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth and shouted. From the passenger seat, Youko withdrew her sidearm.

The seconds that followed seemed to go in slow motion. The barrel of Youko’s pistol flashed orange. The soldier’s face rocked backward. Natalie saw the EDEN soldiers reach for their weapons. The next thing she registered was Logan yelling at the top of his lungs. “Engage!”

The sensation of slowing time came to a blurring end. Bullets shattered the windshield as Youko dove into the middle row. Blood erupted across the chest of the driver who’d been sitting next to her. Logan leapt over Natalie to jerk the van’s sliding door open while everyone frantically ducked for cover. Bullets tore through the van, shattering windows and blowing stuffing out of seats. Natalie’s instincts told her to fire back—to raise her pistol and lay down suppression—but she was completely suppressed herself. With a torrent of bullets tearing through the van and all of its occupants hugging the floorboard, there was nothing any of them could do.

Except Logan.

With momentum already behind him, the Australian burst from the open sliding door and ran for the building nearest them on the side of the street, breaking through the windowed storefront with weapon raised to shield his face from shards of glass. Natalie barely had a second to catch a glimpse of him, but in the second she did, she saw the Australian take position around the corner of the storefront and raise his weapon. The next sound she registered was his return fire. For the most fleeting of moments, the attackers relented.

Pouring out of the van by both its side and rear doors, its occupants quickly traded the cover of seat cushions for the vehicle’s metal frame. Only Natalie went another direction, making a beeline straight for Logan by the shattered storefront window. Dashing behind a column, she poked her head around to see how EDEN had positioned themselves. She saw only fog.

Raising his assault rifle and peering through the scope, Logan stalked back toward the street. “Counted six before they scattered!” A split second later, the Australian squeezed the trigger, a pair of quick tat-tats erupting from his weapon barrel. “Make that five!”

Natalie’s focus shifted to her team, all of whom were clustered behind the van. Esther and Youko were leaning around the vehicle’s sides, exchanging fire with whoever they could see through the fog. In between them, Lisa and Ju`bajai took cover from the bullets. There was no doubt in Natalie’s mind that had Lisa’s hands not been handcuffed, she’d have made her move against them already.

Natalie saw the body of another fallen Ikeda-kai member sprawled out on the concrete. Two down. The only able warriors left were herself, Logan, Esther, and Youko. By this point, there was no doubt the EDEN soldiers had radioed in. The entire city’s worth of EDEN and law enforcement was about to converge on top of them. “Fall back!” she shouted over the weapons fire. “Everybody, fall back now!”

And it was right then—at the worst of all possible times—that Lisa made her move. Just as Esther and Youko averted their attention to Natalie, the Vector slid to the ground, entwining her legs around Esther’s and twisting hard, sending the scout toppling forward to the street. A second later, Youko was on Lisa, swinging the butt of her weapon around to hit the Vector in the back of the head, only to miss as Lisa released Esther and rolled to the side. Spinning around on her back, Lisa—somehow—managed to twist all the way up to her feet. The next thing Natalie saw was Lisa’s heel smacking Youko square in the face. In the span of about three seconds, both Esther and the punk princess were on the ground.

Veck!

Tensing her legs to bolt for the van, Natalie was stopped as the eruption of weapons fire emerged from the fog. The Japanese EDEN soldiers had taken up a new position. The attack was more focused now; it was coming from more directions. They were being surrounded. Both Natalie and Logan were forced back into the storefront to avoid getting mowed down.

Suddenly, Lisa let loose a blood-curdling shriek. Upon whipping her head in the Vector’s direction, Natalie saw her drop to her knees, hands clutching her head as she lowered it and screamed. Still covering behind the van, the dark, oval eyes of Ju`bajai were fixated on their target. It was a mental attack—just like the Ithini had done to Natalie in Cairo.

Under her breath, Natalie uttered, “Atta girl.” Seconds later, Esther and Youko were back on their feet. With the back of the van under control, Natalie’s attention returned to their EDEN assailants.

They’re innocent. We can’t engage them. They’re just doing their jobs.

No. It was that line of thinking that’d prompted her to pack rubber bullets on the train hijack mission. It was that line of thinking that could get them killed right then and there.

God, forgive us.

Raising her pistol as she saw the silhouette of an EDEN soldier moving through the fog, Natalie targeted the soldier’s neck. Holding her breath, she pulled the trigger. The double-pop of an impact resounded through the gunfight. The EDEN soldier toppled and fell. She’d just killed a man.

She was about to kill another.

“Change of plan! Engage, engage!” she yelled, dashing back toward the van. Using its side as cover, she and Logan fired at will. As they did, Esther dashed off into the fog, out of sight.

Whipping her head toward Logan, Natalie shouted, “Cover me!” The Australian changed his positioning as Natalie’s eyes beaded in on the EDEN soldier she’d just felled. The man’s body was ten meters away. So was his assault rifle. There was no time to waste. Trust Esther, trust Logan. Now go get that weapon. Natalie burst from the cover of the van and through the fog toward the body. She made it halfway before the first shots were fired at her. As they zinged past her head, all she could do was hope Logan would adjust his focus. He did. Bullets streaked from behind the van at a whole new angle, and the assault on Natalie was stopped. In a single, fluid motion, Natalie slid to the ground, bracing herself with one hand while the other snatched the abandoned E-35. From the ground, she aimed toward the EDEN weapons fire and pulled the trigger.

Natalie had no idea if she was hitting any of her targets. The combination of fog and weapon exhaust was too dense to see through. All she knew was that, for at least the time that she and Logan were pulling their triggers, the bullets from EDEN stopped firing. The suppression might have only granted her seconds—but they were seconds she would use. Reaching for the EDEN soldier’s body, she quickly snagged a spare magazine. And just like that, she was bolting for the cover of the van. She reached it just as EDEN’s weapons fire found her again.

“How many did we take down?” Natalie asked.

Logan shook his head. “One, two maybe! Hard to tell!”

Upon moving her comm to her lips, she shouted through the channel to her comrades—both there and in the other van. “Esther, give me a bead on your position! Javon and Feliks, we are engaged, I repeat, we are engaged!”

* * *

“WHOA, WHOA!” JAVON said as Natalie’s words came through, and he reached forward to slap the driver of his van on the shoulder. “Slow it down! Y’all hearing this?”

As the driver applied the brakes, Esther’s voice crackled through. “I’ve got position on the hostiles! Counting three.”

Nobu’s voice emerged on the line, addressing his lackeys in Japanese as he was obviously listening in on the situation. The van’s driver hit the accelerator, spinning the wheel wildly to about-face in the center of the street.

“The hell is goin’ on, man?” Tom asked from the back row, where he, Jakob, Mark, and Pyotr were flung against the side of the vehicle amid the 180-degree maneuver.

From the passenger seat, the lone English speaker among the Ikeda-kai—a slender, clean-cut man by the name of Haruki—shouted back to the survivors, “EDEN just sent out an alert for all units to converge on the other van’s position! We have been ordered to continue to the rendezvous by a different route.”

“Like hell we’re divertin’!” Javon said. “If they’re in trouble, we’re going after them.”

“Nightmen, prepare for combat,” said Feliks from next to Javon. Pyotr, Paul, and Bedrich withdrew their pistols.

Haruki looked back and said, “Our orders stand.”

After withdrawing his own pistol, Tom pointed it at Haruki from the back seat. “How you like your orders now?”

The van skidded to a halt, its brakes applied in full mere seconds after it’d reached cruising speed. Jolted again, the van’s occupants collided against the seatbacks in front of them then stared ahead through the van’s front window. Facing them from the next corner up the street was a Grizzly APC. For several seconds, both vehicles, clearly not having expected to come face to face with each other, sat at idle. The collective focus of the van zeroed in on the only visible soldier from the APC—a man manning the mounted gun atop the Grizzly itself.

He was wearing purple and white.

“Chikushō,” the driver muttered. He slammed the van into reverse, whirled the wheel around, and floored the accelerator, sending the van flying in the opposite direction. A second later, the Grizzly’s own massive wheels surged forward in pursuit.

Wide-eyed and frantic, Javon raised his comm to his lips as he held on for dear life. “Vee, we just hit the wrong people at the wrong time!”

* * *

“WE GOT VECTOR hot on our six!” Javon’s voice crackled through the static on the Ikeda-kai channel.

Cursing, Natalie rose from behind the van to fire another volley at the EDEN soldiers.

In the minutes that the firefight had been ongoing, Natalie, Logan, and Youko had all shifted to the side of the van opposite from where EDEN had repositioned. Youko was working furiously, with one hand firing her pistol while the other held Lisa at bay. Ju`bajai, weakened from her mental strike on the telepathically resistant Vector, was kneeling beside Youko in exhaustion.

A bullet dinged against the van’s hood, mere inches from Logan’s face. The Australian dropped down and reloaded. “One of these days, Nattie, this luck of yours has to change!”

Ponytail flying as she whipped her head toward Ju`bajai, Natalie shouted, “Ju`bajai, can you connect all of us?” Like her or not, Youko was now a part of the team. They needed to be able to coordinate.

I am weakened, the Ithini relayed, the mere statement confirmed by the faintness of the transmission. The strike on Lisa has drained my energy.

“Well, muster up some more of it! Right now, we need you!”

Though subtle, a feeling of irritation swelled from the alien. Mustering.

“I don’t want the alien in my head,” said Logan.

“I don’t care what you want, let her in!” Natalie shot right back to him.

Snarling, Logan rose to fire off another round.

Another burst of weapons fire emerged, this time from behind the EDEN operatives. It was Esther. Though Natalie couldn’t see the scout through the fog, there was no doubt the new attack had come from her. And just like that, the EDEN soldiers were surrounded. “Press in!” Natalie shouted. Morality staved off in this fight to the death, she emerged from the cover of the van to fire at the soldiers just as they turned to find Esther. Logan and Youko joined her, and within seconds, the three remaining EDEN warriors were overwhelmed. Bullets tore through the weak points in their armor as one by one, they were dropped to the ground. In almost the same instant as the last soldier fell, the flashing blue and red lights of the Atami City Police Department appeared down the street. Sirens blaring, the police cars streaked toward them.

Oh, come on! Natalie’s shoulders sank. Not this! In her mind, there came a sudden burst of clarity—as if half a dozen doorways had just opened. The rush of thoughts, motives, and emotions was unmistakable. Ju`bajai had done it.

We are connected, the Ithini said.

Shrieking in horror, Youko spun around and looked in every direction. “What the hell!”

Natalie turned to look at the punk princess, her Japanese words unscrambled as if they’d been spoken in plain English. “New contacts! New contacts!” Natalie said, pointing at the approaching police cars.

Esther’s voice emerged, this time through the link. We can’t engage these people!

“Agreed.”

Once more, Youko screamed, “What the hell is going on?”

“It’s an Ithini connection,” Natalie yelled as she bolted toward the back of the bullet-riddled van. “You’ll get used to it! We’ve got to move!” Technically, there was no ethical difference between shooting an innocent EDEN soldier and an innocent police officer—but be it an equivalence or not, firing on a police officer felt worse. “Defensive positions! Fire and fall back!” All they had to do was stop those cars. There were only two of them. Once the police officers were on foot, Natalie was confident her team could outrun them. “Kitty, grab the Vector!”

There came no response.

“I mean—Youko, grab the Vector!” Turning Youko’s way, Natalie saw her buckling over and upchucking all over the ground. Fan-vecking-tastic. “Ju`bajai, can you move?” Leaning around the corner of the van, Natalie fired a few shots toward the approaching cars. As she’d hoped, the ricochets on their hoods prompted both cars to skid to a stop.

I may not be able to match your speed, answered the Ithini.

“I bet you can with bullets behind you!” Natalie loaded her only remaining magazine. “Logan, take Lisa. Esther, help Ju`bajai. I’ve got Kita.” Marching to Youko, Natalie pulled the punk princess to her feet. After wiping her sleeve against her mouth, Youko moaned. It looked like she was going to throw up again. “The longer you stay connected, the better you’ll feel!” A little placebo now and then never hurt anyone. “Let’s get moving!”

Falling back into the fog, Natalie and company made their exit with the police officers in pursuit.

* * *

MEANWHILE, THE VAN carrying Javon and the other survivors was rocketing through Atami’s streets, Vector’s Grizzly APC hot on its heels. Just before the van was about to make another hairpin turn at an intersection, there was a loud pop as one of its tires burst, a shot from the mounted gun blowing it out. The van’s occupants held on as the vehicle skidded, then spun and slammed into a metal pole. The hit, not hard enough to injure any of the passengers, was nonetheless enough to stop the vehicle.

Javon and his crewmates unstrapped and abandoned the van. The Grizzly roared toward the intersection. The mounted gun came to life, its bullets shattering the van’s frame as the survivors used it for what little cover it was good for.

Rearing back, Feliks kicked in the door to the building directly behind them, dislodging it from its frame as it swung open. It took no command for the crew to dash inside, though Feliks beckoned them to do so just the same. The building appeared to be a corporate office.

Javon, the last to go through, looked at Feliks. “What’s the plan, man?”

Looking past them at Haruki, who was running with everyone else, Feliks answered, “We cannot rely on the Ikeda-kai to save us. This is not their fight.”

Their brief dialogue was interrupted as a barrage of chaos rounds blew apart the concrete wall of the building. Ducking down side by side, Javon and Feliks fell back with the rest of their comrades. “You gotta call your people!” Javon shouted above the weapons fire. “I could care less about using a Nightman comm channel—we need to know what to do!”

Reaching up instinctively for a helmet comm that wasn’t there, Feliks muttered and grabbed an Ikeda-kai comm from his belt. With his focus between the comm face and where he was running, the ginger-haired slayer adjusted its frequency.

JUST OUTSIDE THE building where the outlaws had taken refuge, a foursome of purple-and-white-clad warriors skidded behind cover. Behind their tinted visors, the stoic and battle-focused gazes of Vincent Hill, Dieter Albrecht, Marty Breaux, and Pablo Quintana zeroed in on their targets.

Vincent, Vector’s combat medic and second in command, spoke into his helmet comm. “Quintana, launch the twins,” he said, his British accent thick.

“I am already on it!” replied Vector’s technician. Reaching to his belt, Pablo retrieved two small, spherical objects. He pressed a large red button atop each of them then tossed them into the air. Seams around the centers of the spheres widened, and pairs of small propeller rotors extended outward. A second later, the spheres streaked upward. Behind his visor, the Spaniard watched as two small camera feeds appeared in the peripherals of his visor HUD. “Twins away!”

Reaching the very doorway the outlaws had just fallen back from, Marty raised his chaos rifle and peered through the scope, barely catching a glimpse of an outlaw disappearing around a turn at the other end of the building. “Got a visual, chief!” said the Cajun. “Kinda-sorta.”

Next to him, Dieter took a similar position. “You see them kinda, you take the shot,” the Austrian said.

“It was more a sorta than a kinda.”

Behind the Vectors, a squad of EDEN supplements from the APC took covering positions. Vincent’s voice crackled through the comm. “Marty, Dieter, you have free reign. Pablo, stay back and give us eyes. I’ve got Delta command.”

“Aye-aye, commander.” Marty motioned to the building with a head nod as he looked at Dieter. “Let’s roll some heads.” Raising their chaos rifles, they emerged from cover and moved into the building.

* * *

NATALIE’S TEAM WAS halfway down an adjacent street when Nobu’s voice emerged over the channel. The oyabun sounded breathless—a far cry from the calm and collected exterior he’d presented before. “The Nightmen have changed the rendezvous point!” he said in English, apparently for Natalie and her friends’ benefit. “I am sending you the new coordinates now.”

To be perfectly honest, Natalie was surprised that the Nightmen were still coming at all.

“EDEN and police units have been dispatched from all over the city,” Nobu continued, “and a call has been put out to Vector Squad. Wherever you all are, you must be vigilant!”

That a call had been put out to Vector meant the team of Vectors Javon ran into must have just been a patrol group. Looking back as she helped Youko along, she said, “Pick up the pace, guys.”

Ding!

Barely a foot from Natalie’s head, a bullet from the pursuing police struck a light post. Logan spun around, slung Lisa behind a vehicle, and raised his weapon. He took aim down the street and fired; the attacking policeman fell.

Releasing Youko, Natalie grabbed Logan by the back of the collar and tried to jerk him out of the fight. Before she could, he fired another shot, dropping the second police officer. “Stop it!” With both pursuing officers down, the street fell quiet.

Snarling at Natalie, Logan said, “This is life or death, Nattie!”

“It doesn’t have to be death for them!”

“Okay, sure,” Logan said. “New plan, everyone! Instead of returning fire, voice your strong disapproval.”

She scowled. “The police are not the enemy. Do you all understand that? If you can evade, evade. If you can’t, you incapacitate. That goes for me, too.”

Storming to her, Logan pointed at her chest. “This was your choice. I was happy to turn ourselves in, to succumb to the mercy of the courts, or to run away and let this ride over. You’re the one who forced us down this road.”

Her hands were shaking. She wanted to wrap them around his throat.

“Guys,” said Esther, “I appreciate the spirit of this chat, but we need to move.” She pointed to her comm, where the new rendezvous point for the Nightman extraction had appeared.

Esther was right. This talk could, and would, resume later. But right now, they needed to get back to business. If they didn’t escape, then those police officers had just died in vain. “Let’s go,” she said, shouldering her E-35 and turning down the street.

* * *

EMERGING FULL SPEED out the back door of the office building, Tom found himself scampering onto a foggy street. Unlike the street whence they’d come, this one had no parked vehicles to provide cover. Turning around, he motioned to Haruki, the sole Ikeda-kai member he could understand. “Which way do we go, man?”

Haruki shook his head frantically as Pyotr, Mark, and Jakob emerged next, the younger Remington helping the pilot along as best he was able. Inside the building echoed a fierce exchange of weapons fire. After readying his pistol, Tom slid to the side of the exterior office door just as Paul and Bedrich dashed out. Poking his head around, Tom watched as Javon and Feliks brought up the rear, both men firing backward as the walls around them were peppered with bullets. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!”

In the same instant that Javon and Feliks burst onto the street, a pair of Vectors appeared at the end of the hallway, leaning around to fire their chaos rifles at the fleeing survivors. Tom ducked his head back before squinting and firing through the dust and debris. Across from him, Bedrich took a firing position, as well.

“Y’all, we can’t stay here!” said Javon.

There came a roar from down the street, prompting everyone to turn its direction. Rounding the corner was the Grizzly APC.

“Y’all, y’all, y’all!” Javon pointed frantically in its direction. “Tom, Bedrich, fall back! Grizzly comin’ down the street!”

Tapping Javon on the shoulder, Feliks motioned to his fellow slayers. “We will hold this position. The rest of you, go.”

“You ain’t holdin’ nothing. We’re in this together!” No sooner had Javon spoken than the sounds of sirens emerged from the opposite direction. Police. With no cover to take, they were sitting ducks. Searching frantically, Javon’s eyes locked onto an alleyway on the opposite side of the street. “Hey! There’s an alley across the street, let’s move!” Almost in tune with his words, the mounted gun atop the grizzly erupted with fury. All of the fleeing survivors abandoned their firing efforts to retreat toward the alley. Halfway there, the first victims of the firefight fell, as bullets tore through the bodies of Paul and one of the Ikeda-kai. For the most splitting of seconds, Feliks looked back and hesitated.

It was Bedrich whose tug snapped him out of it. “We can’t help him!” The two men rejoined their comrades.

Javon was halfway down the alleyway when the group’s comm channel crackled. Over the entire frequency, the guttural resonance of a Russian voice emerged. “Attention, all survivors in Atami. This is Colonel Saretok of the Fulcrum Elite. We are approaching the city with an extraction team. Please send a locator prompt at once.”

Slowing to a half-trot, Javon fiddled with the comm until the prompt was sent. A prompt by Natalie’s team went through, too, followed immediately by her voice. “Be aware, extraction team, the ground here is hot! I repeat, the ground here is hot!”

“It is not of concern. We will contact you soon when a suitable landing zone has been established. Saretok out.”

“Not of concern?” Javon asked in disbelief. “I don’t think he sees what we seein’!”

Far behind them, the Grizzly screeched to a halt at the front of the alley. As EDEN operatives and at least one Vector poured out, they fired down the alleyway toward the escapees. A second Ikeda-kai was struck—the driver—leaving only Haruki standing among Nobu’s men.

There was no doubt that Mark and Jakob were moving slower than the rest of the group, prompting Jakob to shove Mark out of the way in an attempt to move faster on his own. Grunting through pain, the burned pilot was able to run on two feet, his hindrances overcome by sheer survival instinct. If there was another upside to this, it was that Mark was theoretically freed up to help fight—though “help” might have been pushing it. The cadet fired wildly behind him as he ran, occasionally taking out a brick or trash can. But he was trying.

As soon as Javon emerged on the other side of the alley, he, Feliks, and the Nightmen turned to provide cover for those bringing up the rear. Seconds later, they were all onto the next street. Unlike the prior street, this one had parked cars alongside it, providing actual cover. The fog was still heavy, veiling much of everyone’s view. If they moved quickly, they might just disappear before the soldiers in the alleyway reached them. Pointing down the street away from the pursuers, Javon waved his teammates to follow him. Bolting, the group abandoned the alley to escape.

* * *

DESPITE THE POLICE sirens everywhere, Natalie and her team had managed to avoid further conflict by ducking in and out of alleyways as they awaited the new landing coordinates. Though Natalie wanted badly to comm the other team to find out where they were, she knew they were in a battle with Vector. She had to trust that between Javon and Feliks, they would manage to stave off their attackers until the Nightmen arrived.

As they ducked into an alleyway to avoid yet another patrol, Natalie crouched and looked at Esther. “So, who is this Saretok guy?”

She made a face, indicating she was unimpressed. “A holdover from Thoor. A real cretin. Don’t expect much hospitality if we get out of here.”

“I’d like to know what the hell kind of support they think they’ll be dropping,” said Logan. “Nagoya is liable to have an entire fleet en route as we speak. The Nightmen can’t have much of an army left.”

“Well, they’ve obviously amassed some kind of force,” Natalie said. “They must have to try something this brazen.”

Above, low-flying aircraft streaked past, the angry squeal of their engines identifying them as Superwolves. Logan grimaced as he looked up. “Speak of the devil.”

“Come on,” Natalie said, stepping out into the street now that the police were gone. “The faster we get to the landing zone, the better.” The Nightmen were going through all of this to retrieve them, but there was no guarantee they’d stick around if the survivors took too long to arrive. Weapons ready, Natalie and her teammates once again trotted through the fog.

* * *

“SUPERWOLVES,” SAID Tom, pointing upward as the streaking fighters flew past.

Javon and the rest of his men were sprinting away from the alleyway they’d traversed to escape EDEN and the Vectors.

There was a loud mechanical roar from the intersection ahead. The group froze, as the massive Grizzly APC—the same one that’d been after them since the beginning—rounded the corner again. Javon’s eyes widened as he stared down the vehicle. “You gotta be kidding me!”

“How the hell they findin’ us, man?” Tom asked.

“Take cover!” Javon said as he waved his team toward the few cars that were there. “Get in one of these buildings!”

More weapons fire emerged from behind them—from the direction of the alleyway. As bullets zinged past them from both directions, they charged into the nearest storefront to take cover. For a second time, Javon found himself snagged from behind by Feliks. “Let us hold this point. You and your friends need to run.”

“Man, you ain’t holdin’ nothing! They’re gonna tear through you like a hot knife. You know that!”

After hesitating briefly, Feliks nodded his head. “I know.”

“You ain’t gonna do that. I ain’t gonna let you.”

“If you want anyone to survive, then you do not have a choice. Go! Bedrich, Pyotr, and I will hold this point for as long as we can.” From beside Feliks, Bedrich turned the ginger-haired slayer’s way. “Go!” Chaos rounds and shots fired from law enforcement streaked into the store, forcing all of the men to duck back for cover. For a second time as he fired a return volley, Feliks said, “Get out of here, now!”

After moving his comm to his lips while Feliks and Bedrich provided cover fire, Javon said, “Everyone, fall back with me!”

“Zima, Alkaev, you two stay with me!” Feliks yelled. Bedrich, within earshot of the entire conversation, was already engaged. From farther back in the room, Pyotr whipped his head around, wide-eyed.

“I always wanted to take a shot at Vector,” Bedrich said. As a half-terrified Pyotr joined them, the approaching soldiers from Vector, EDEN, and the Atami Police Department prepared to move in.

FROM HIS POSITION outside the Grizzly, Pablo knelt and observed the dual camera feeds streaming into his visor. Inputting several keystrokes into a small pad on his wrist, he directed one of them to the back of the building, where a cluster of yellow, pulsating dots were moving. “The group has split,” said the Spaniard. “Three remained to suppress, the rest are moving toward the rear of the building.”

Vincent’s voice emerged over Vector’s channel. “Breaux and Albrecht, break away and maneuver around to the back of the alley. We’ll take care of the cover team. Quintana, send one of them a feed.”

At the front of the store where he’d engaged the outlaws, Marty ducked back and focused on his visor, where a camera feed appeared in his peripherals. Pablo’s voice emerged. “Route coming up.” After several seconds, a yellow navigation point appeared in front of the escaping outlaws with a line of varying twists and turns connecting Marty and Dieter’s position to theirs. “If you can run, you can catch them.”

“We can run,” said Marty, casting a look toward Dieter. Withdrawing from the fight, the two Vectors made their way toward their plotted course.

KICKING THE DOOR open at the back of the store, Javon found himself once again entering a back alley. As the rest of his team appeared behind him, he quickly motioned for them to follow. “Let’s move!”

Javon’s team now consisted of five people: himself, Tom, Mark, Jakob, and Haruki—hardly a fighting force. Running as fast as they collectively could up the alley, the group found themselves emerging onto a smaller side street. Though they’d made relatively little progress toward the landing zone coordinates, at least they had put themselves in a position where EDEN was no longer between it and them.

A shot rang out, the firing of a nearby chaos round standing out against the backdrop of combat. Mere feet away from Javon, Haruki’s head rocked sideways, the projectile emerging with a puff of red on the other side. The rest of the team ducked back into the alley, from which they’d scarcely taken a step.

“Again, man?” said Tom.

Javon’s eyes focused on the fallen Ikeda-kai. Staring in disbelief, it took him a moment to get his head back in the present—just long enough for an amplified voice to emerge from the street.

“We got y’all blocked in!” decried the voice, one of the Vectors who’d taken down Haruki. “Hands up, come on out!”

There was nothing for Javon and his escapees to do. There was nowhere left for them to go. Above them, Superwolf fighters were streaking past and circling the city. Behind them, Feliks and his brethren were fighting a losing battle. If anyone in Javon’s team tried to make a break for it in the open street, they would meet a fate like Haruki’s. Javon held his breath before saying with resignation, “I think this is it, guys.”

Ka-pow!

Everyone in the alley jumped as one of the Superwolves that was streaking past exploded into a fireball, its remnants plummeting toward the city streets in the distance. Seconds later, a trio of jet fighters whizzed by, the sound of their thrusters markedly different to Javon and his crew. Eyes widening, Jakob Reinhardt took a step toward the street, his awed gaze skyward as the fighters arced out of view. “Omegas,” he said breathlessly.

Staring up in wonderment, Javon and his team watched a second pair of the strange, angular fighters buzz the city, their shrill whine unmistakably different than that of the Superwolves’. The Nightman comm channel crackled, as Saretok’s gruff voice reemerged. “Gagarin Wing is holding off EDEN’s fighters. Prepare for ground reinforcements to arrive.”

“Holding off EDEN’s fighters with what?” asked Tom.

“Those are Kru-21’s,” Jakob answered. “A Soviet design that was never used.”

Javon shot a look skyward. “Sure as hell look like they bein’ used now!”

Tom leaned around the corner with his pistol, firing several shots in the distracted Vectors’ direction. Though none connected, they did force the elite warriors back into cover. Shooting a glance at Javon, Tom said, “Whatever’s going on in the sky ain’t our problem. We got enough down here to deal with!”

Javon nodded. “I hear that.” Looking back at Mark and Jakob, he said, “Lock and load, fellas! We about to have some help.” Whipping out his comm as the two engaged, he sent a message Feliks’ way. “Y’all might want to think about gettin’ over here. Looks like the Nightmen bringin’ the heat!”

“Acknowledged,” answered Feliks, the sound of heavy weapons fire clear through the channel. “We are heavily outnumbered but will try to regroup.”

“Good luck, fellas. We’ll see y’all soon.”

* * *

FROM THE OTHER side of the city, Natalie too had watched a pair of Superwolves fall prey to the Omegas. Much like Javon’s team, they found themselves staring in wonderment at the sight of EDEN’s most lethal fighter being caught off guard—and outmaneuvered—by something altogether different. Even Lisa, in all her disgruntled angst, wasn’t immune to the moment.

The Kru-21 Omega Fighter. Natalie, being the military history buff that she was, knew the design well. For decades before the New Soviet Union rose to prominence, Krupin was a premier aircraft designer for the Russian Federation. Specializing in air superiority fighter interceptors, it was a name steeped in legacy. For enemies of the Russian Federation, it was one draped in fear. As the Russian Federation began its transition into the NSU, Krupin began to show its age. Air superiority fighters were giving way to more multipurpose designs, which were in turn fading away in light of the prospect of world unification and peace. The hope in a “world as one,” as politicians called it, wasn’t enough to cause the militaries of the world to disband, but it certainly lowered the supply for advanced weaponry.

Then came the aliens.

When the need for the ultimate fighter arose, a plethora of contractors threw their hats in the ring. Ultimately, EDEN chose the design of an American company called Miller Avionics. The design eventually became EDEN’s first Advanced Defensive Fighter, or the ADF-1 Vindicator. But among the many companies that’d been turned down was Krupin, a designer that’d all but faded into obsolescence. The Omega Fighter was considered their last-ditch attempt at relevance. Ultimately, it was an attempt that failed. The Omega Fighter, while an exceptional interceptor, was more apt to take on human combatants than the advanced technology of extraterrestrials. It didn’t even make the final five. In a final spat of stubbornness, the NSU—eager to commemorate the achievements of the Russian Federation—put in an order for its own small fleet of Omega Fighters, despite the fact that they would likely never be flown outside of training exercises specifically tailored for the NSU’s military. A novelty fleet.

Until apparently now.

Logan marveled. “Where the hell did they get Omega Fighters?”

“Where the hell did they get sodding pilots?” asked Esther.

Sirens blared behind them, their pulsating resonance emerging through the fog from an intersection a block and a half away. Whipping her head in its direction, Natalie watched as a pair of police cars beaded toward them. There was no way to duck back in the alley quickly enough to avoid detection—the immediate slowing of the vehicles proved the outlaws were busted. These police officers were preparing to pursue on foot. “Run!” Turning around and hoping to catch the next street over, Natalie froze when a second pair of police cars appeared from that very direction. They were getting boxed in.

Back into the alley she fled, company in tow with Logan shoving Lisa forward violently all the while. Lisa was playing along, but there was no doubt in Natalie’s mind that the Vector was biding her time. She’d already seen what Lisa could do, even handcuffed, against Esther and Youko. Whatever shortcomings the woman had had in Philadelphia were insignificant now. All Natalie could do was hope that when Lisa’s strike came, she and her friends would be ready for it. With police shouting behind them, the escapees ran as fast as they could.

The alley was long, its only cover coming in the form of dumpsters and door frames, neither of which were permanent solutions—but at least they were something. Sliding around the corner of a dumpster, Natalie eased around with her E-35 and, for the tiniest of moments, actually took aim at a policeman.

You can’t do this.

Whatever restraint she showed as it pertained to gunning down policemen, her comrades had no trouble tossing it to the wind. Weapons fire erupted all around her as Logan, Esther, and Youko all took shots at the approaching officers. One of the bullets found their target, the officer toppling sideways and screaming on the ground. The other three took cover and returned fire. Even shooting wildly, the police were coming close to their marks, prompting all of the escapees to duck back at some point to avoid getting hit. There was no question about it: despite what Natalie felt, despite what everything in her heart and soul screamed foul about, she had to fire back. Taking careful aim not to hit the targets, she fired a brief volley that ricocheted off the alley’s brick walls. The three police officers that remained stayed down.

“Logan, go! Esther and Ju`bajai, go!” Natalie yelled, signaling for them to continue their retreat. She leaned out from cover and once again fired suppression shots. Looking at Youko, she signaled for her to do the same. “Cover them!” Sparing a glance behind her, Natalie saw that her other comrades had escaped the alley. It was time for Natalie and Youko to move. Holding her breath, Natalie leaned around the corner of the dumpster and laid down one final burst.

Click-click-click-click-click-click.

Out of ammunition! Natalie threw her weapon aside then withdrew her pistol. Looking across the alley at Youko, who had to be getting close to running on empty herself, Natalie shouted, “You ready to move back?”

Still joined by the Ithini connection, Youko snapped back, “No, let’s stay, this is fun!”

Sarcastic little twit. “Let’s go! I cover you, you cover me!” The two of them would never be able to stave off the police officers on their own, but between them, they might have enough ammo to buy an escape. “Go, now!”

Youko hurried down the fire escape and took off toward the next bit of cover—a small car that looked like it could fit in the back of a pickup truck. Just as Natalie had intended, Youko stopped right then, turned around, and provided careful suppression fire so that Natalie could make a break from the dumpster. Though bullets zinged past her, none connected.

The back and forth worked like a charm, and it wasn’t long until the two women indeed found themselves close enough to Logan and Esther to gain the benefit of their added suppression fire.

“I’m almost running on empty!” Esther said, still firing into the alley.

Scanning the area, Natalie saw that the street they were on ran into an outdoor pavilion area. There was certainly enough cover there to protect them, provided they could reach it—and that no other pursuers showed up from the opposite direction. “There!” she shouted, pointing. The group collectively abandoned the alley’s exit for new cover.

Halfway through their run, Colonel Saretok emerged over the comm channel. “Captain Rockwell, we have a team on the ground and en route to you. Please stand by for contact.”

“Oh, we’re standin’!” she said back to him in mid-sprint. She could hear the police officers emerge from the alley behind them. Once more, the escapees were forced to turn around and engage.

The results could not have been worse.

“I’m out!” cried Esther.

“I’m out!” said Logan a split second later.

The only choice the escapees had was to dive for the cover of the various trees, garbage cans, and vendor booths. Police were converging, ammunition was depleting, and help, while on the way, certainly wasn’t there yet.

Just inside of her peripheral vision, Natalie saw Lisa wrap her legs around Logan’s. In a sudden twist and a jerk, she sent the Australian toppling backward. No time was wasted trying to fight anyone else. Lisa scampered to her feet without the help of her hands and began running at top speed toward the end of the pavilion. Before Natalie could shout a command, Youko raised her handgun, took aim at the fleeing Vector, and pulled the trigger. Natalie’s eyes widened.

There came from Lisa a scream of pain as the bullet struck her in the back of the shoulder. Falling awkwardly forward, she landed into a roll that took her right into a tree. Rearing her head back against the ground, the Vector shrieked in agony.

Well…all right, then. Natalie shot an impressed look to Youko. “Nice shot! How you doing on ammo?”

“That was my last bullet!”

Holy smokes. Unsure if that was more impressive or terrifying, Natalie quickly counted her own shots left. Though she wasn’t sure of an exact figure, she estimated that she had four to five remaining, tops. As the police officers drew closer, Natalie realized she was the only one left who could stop them.

Her mind swirling, she tried her best to rationalize the only course of action that seemed viable. No more time could be wasted missing the police officers intentionally. Suppression was not going to work.

The only way to get away from these police officers was to kill them. Of all the ways she could have chosen for this to end, this was the worst. These innocent people. These men and women who’d dedicated their lives to protecting and serving. She was about to gun them down like a cop killer.

Unless she chose not to.

Natalie rose from her cover and lifted her hands, one of which held the pistol. Immediately, the police officers aimed their weapons and shouted. “Don’t shoot!” she said.

Across the way, Logan and Youko looked at her wide-eyed. “What the hell are you doing, Nattie?”

“Youko, tell them they need to get out of here,” Natalie said, eyes on the shouting policemen as she addressed her Japanese comrade.

“Shoot them, you idiot!” Youko hollered back.

No—that was a line she was not going to cross. “Tell them what I said! Tell them they need to run. The Nightmen are coming and things are going to get ugly fast!” When Youko opened her mouth once more to object, Natalie cut her off. “Tell them!”

Still ducked behind cover, Youko shouted, “She says to leave! The Nightmen are coming and they’re going to kill you!”

Close enough.

One of the policemen spoke back, his voice shaking even though Natalie couldn’t understand him. Youko translated. “He says all of us need to surrender our weapons.”

“We can’t do that,” Natalie said, waiting for Youko to translate, which she did. “Tell them this is their one chance to walk away!” Once more, the punk princess spouted off the translation in Japanese.

This wasn’t going to work. There was no way these officers would back down—not with outlaws right there for the taking.

Suddenly, something moved to Natalie’s right, from far down the foggy street. A black blur, followed by another, cutting through the fog and beading straight for the police. Her eyes locked on them. They moved on all fours, galloping in long strides like predators zeroing in on their kills. Her heart nearly stopped as the forms leapt from the ground. Their claws outstretched; their fangs glistened in the streetlight.

Oh my God…

Eyes opening wide, Natalie opened her mouth to shout—to warn the policemen. But she wasn’t fast enough. Before she could even raise her hands, necrilids collided into the officers with primal ferocity. The officers never knew what hit them. Knocked off their feet and with their weapons flying, they screamed in horror as the monsters clutched them in their gaping maws. Within seconds, two were dragged into the darkness.

A third police officer spun around, raising his weapon to fire. Then he, too, was struck from behind. He was flung to the other side of the street, where yet another necrilid leapt down from the building. Then another. Then another. Natalie froze in shock as the police officers shrieked in torment—as the pack tore the three men apart.

One of the monsters saw her. Upon lifting its jaws from its still-hot meal, it growled lowly then stalked Natalie’s way. None of the necrilids she’d ever encountered looked like this pitch-black abomination. Its head, while still flat like a bonnethead shark’s, was wider than any she’d seen, and its fangs were excessively elongated. Though large for a necrilid, it still bore that terrible emaciated shape. But the most terrifying thing about this particular necrilid was its glowing eyes—or more accurately, its eye. It only had one.

She had four bullets left. Five at best. Even if she hit every single one of them, there was no chance that anything but a clean headshot would take them down. Frozen and staring into its shining, yellow eyes, Natalie grimaced as her stomach threatened to upheave. They were about to be eaten alive.

Then she noticed it. A collar clasped around the necrilid’s neck with a vibrant red light flashing upon it. Snarling a single time at Natalie, the necrilid slowly took a step back from her.

Gunfire erupted! From far to the left, the tatter of E-35 assault rifles emerged, tearing through the pack of necrilids, striking some while the others dispersed. Natalie averted her attention to the street, where a small platoon of EDEN soldiers were taking position. Heart pounding, she turned around and signaled to her team. “EDEN, ten o’clock!”

Almost instantly, Logan and Esther emerged from cover and sprinted to the fallen police officers. Bullets from the EDEN soldiers popped and pinged all around them as they claimed the officers’ pistols.

“Locked and loaded!” Logan shouted as soon as he ran behind cover.

By Natalie’s best estimate, there were about a dozen EDEN soldiers firing at them, though half of their bullets seemed to be directed at the street corners and alleys. At the necrilids. Rising from cover, Natalie took aim at one of the EDEN soldiers and pulled the trigger. Though the bullet missed its mark, it pushed the soldier back into cover. Behind Natalie, Logan and Esther joined in. Even as she fired, Natalie could see the dark shadows of the necrilids darting about the city streets, weaving in and out of sight as they disappeared into alleyways and scaled walls. The EDEN soldiers were more focused on them than the outlaws.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

The sound came from the far right—in the opposite direction of the EDEN squad. Whipping her head that direction, Natalie looked to see if they’d just been surrounded. There, on the edge of the curb nearest them, a pair of Nightman warriors emerged from the fog—a fulcrum and a slayer.

Whatever ineffectiveness Natalie and her teammates might have had popping away with pistols, the Nightmen experienced no such thing. Their shots immediately found their targets—downing at least three in quick bursts before EDEN fell back.

The necrilids made their move. In the same instant that the EDEN soldiers were focused on the Nightmen, the necrilids struck, leaping from building tops and darkened alleys to pummel the nearby soldiers. The pile-on was frenzied—the sounds that came from it horrifying. Natalie would surely never forget the screams she was hearing. More weapons fire emerged from the left—more EDEN troops were arriving on scene. But how many? Retuning their focus, the pack of necrilids abandoned the corpses to reengage.

Over Natalie’s comm, a Russian voice emerged. “Captain Rockwell, we are here to assist. Please remain in cover. We will take care of EDEN.”

“Be my guest,” she said, ducking back and signaling for her comrades to do the same.

“Do you have injured?”

Natalie looked in Lisa’s direction. “Yes, our Vector hostage.” Hostage—a word she never thought she’d use in quite this way.

“I am sending a medic.”

As Natalie poked her head around the corner of her cover, she saw the form of a third person sprinting toward them—a woman. Natalie emerged to meet her halfway, behind a row of hedges that while offering no true protection, at least concealed the two women from EDEN’s view.

The medic was wearing tactical combat armor similar to the kind Natalie had been given at Northern Forge. “Where is the wounded?” she asked, her high-pitched Russian accent thick.

“Right over there.” Natalie pointed to the injured Lisa, who’d been watching everything unfold from the ground. “I’ll get someone to help you—that Vector’s feisty.” Turning her head in Esther’s direction, she shouted, “Esther, can you watch Lisa while their medic works on her?”

Blinking, the medic said, “Esther?”

Looking back at the medic, Natalie said, “Yeah, Esther Brooking.” Timmons, whatever. “You know her?”

A second later, Esther appeared on the scene. When she looked at the medic, her eyes widened. “Varya!”

Slapping Esther on the shoulder, Natalie said, “Glad you two know each other—go with her, I’m getting back in the fight.” She looked at the woman, Varya. “Do you have a weapon?” The medic pulled out a sidearm, which Natalie eyed lustily. “Mind?”

“No, take it.”

It was time for Natalie to get back to where she could be of use. Leaving Esther and her friend to tend to Lisa, Natalie dashed back to her original cover, pivoting around to survey the battlefield once more. Her gaze was drawn to the two Nightman warriors. When she focused on the fulcrum, her emerald eyes grew wider.

He moved like flowing water. In one second, he was rolling behind the cover of a parked vehicle. In the next, he was flipping up his E-35 and opening fire in a single motion. Every duck, every cover, every reload, every volley, was like part of choreographed formwork. There was no rigidity to any of it; every attack—every move—glided effortlessly into the next.

This was nothing like the adrenaline-fueled style of Scott Remington. This was pure elegance. One EDEN soldier fell. Then another, then another. If there hadn’t been the need to assist, Natalie could have watched the dark warrior all fight long.

But she needed to help.

Turning the corner, she raised her weapon and fired several shots. With the two-man Nightman army and the necrilids to keep EDEN busy, the escapees had become an afterthought. The soldier Natalie targeted hadn’t even seen her aiming at him. Her shots rang true, and he dropped like a brick.

And just like that, the tide had completely turned. EDEN’s forces dropped until their squad became outnumbered. By the time they seemed to realize that escape was their only option, it was too late. The necrilids converged, leaping buildings and alleys right on top of the soldiers. All weapons fire stopped as screams and the gnashing of teeth became the only sounds in the street.

Moments later, all was still.

Exhaling, Natalie knelt down and allowed herself to catch her breath. The fulcrum stepped into the street. “Psoglav!” he yelled. From the place where the EDEN soldiers had fallen appeared the collective red flashing of the necrilids’ collars. The pack bounded in the fulcrum’s direction.

Natalie arched an eyebrow. Psoglav?

As the pack drew nearer, Natalie could see that the large, one-eyed necrilid she’d encountered earlier was leading it.

“Do not be afraid!” the fulcrum said, holding his hand out. “Let them come around and sniff you.”

Let them come around and…what? Natalie watched as the necrilids stalked toward the escapees. Turning to her comrades, she registered the alarm on their faces—none more so than Youko. Pale as a ghost and with her mouth hanging open, the young Japanese woman stood motionless out of what looked more like horror than deliberate effort.

As the pack moved through them, the fulcrum approached. “Natalie Rockwell?” Behind the fulcrum, the considerably larger slayer stood at ready.

“Right here,” she answered, gaze shifting to the fulcrum from the necrilids.

The Nightman extended a hand. “I am Yuri Dostoevsky.”

As she neared the group with Lisa and the medic, Esther called out to the fulcrum. “Yuri!”

Dostoevsky turned her direction, almost flinching when he saw her. “Esther?”

“Oh my sodding God, is it good to see you!” Esther’s focus shifted to the necrilids around them. “What in the world is this?”

“I’ll fill you in on everything later. Right now, I need you to come. All of you.” He motioned to the group. “We need to get moving.”

Glancing at Logan briefly, Natalie saw him give her an, I don’t like this, look. She couldn’t blame him. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined herself as a criminal on the run, being escorted through the streets of Japan by Nightmen and a pack of necrilids. But there she was. There they all were.

Briefly, her eyes turned to the three dead police officers and the collection of dead EDEN soldiers in the streets. She could only stand to look at their mangled corpses for a second before closing her eyes and turning away. She was as culpable for what’d just occurred as anyone. After allowing herself the briefest of reflections for the fallen, Natalie holstered her pistol and followed Dostoevsky up the street.

* * *

JAVON AND HIS comrades were still embroiled in an intense, long-distance firefight with the two Vectors when Saretok’s voice emerged over their channel. “Second ground team, a transport is nearing your position with your escort. He will drop near you momentarily.”

“Wait, wait, wait, ‘he’ as in singular?” Javon asked, chaos rounds exploding the bricks around him as he popped back into cover. “Look, man, I don’t think you understand what we facin’ over here!”

“Move to the rendezvous once he engages. Saretok out.”

Tom gave Javon a horrified look. “One dude? They serious?”

After shaking his head and swallowing, Javon said, “All I know is that had better be one big—”

Boom!

The ground rumbled beneath both men’s feet. Behind them, Mark and Jakob held their defense efforts to stare. The boom—that earth-shaking tremor—wasn’t from an explosion. It was like someone just air-dropped a tank.

“…dude,” Javon said, his sentiment finally finished.

WHEN MARTY FELT the vibration, the Vector ducked back into cover and stared at Dieter across the street. The other Vector was already staring back. “What the hell was dat?” Marty asked. Slowly, both men gazed up the street, past the alley where the outlaws had been pinned, right where the sound had originated. Slowly, through the dense fog that hovered over the streets, something emerged.

Clad in black, full-plate armor, the monstrosity lumbered forward step after terrible step as if marching in slow motion. The dark contours of its armor, unmistakably Nightman in design, gleamed in what sparse streetlight was able to penetrate the fog. Its thighs were the size of oaks; its robust frame was that of a war machine. Atop its head, jutting above its armored horns and bone frill, was a red, sagittal plume—like a Roman warrior’s.

Eyes widening, Marty uttered, “Holy—”

Spreading its arms out widely, the armored, prehistoric behemoth roared.

FROM THE PRECIPICE of the alleyway and with mouths hanging, Javon, Tom, Mark, and Jakob slowly stepped back.

“PLEASE TELL ME dat ain’t what I think it is,” said Marty, the Cajun slowly back-stepping in the opposite direction. “Please tell me dat ain’t what I think it is!”

Dieter was already on the comm. “Commander, we have a problem.”

“A pretty big veckin’ problem!” added Marty.

The massive creature surged forward. With a gait the length of a car, it closed the gap between it and the Vectors in seconds.

“Light him up!” Swinging up his chaos rifle, Marty laid down on the trigger opposite Dieter. Chaos rounds clanked against the armor of the beast, ricocheting in every direction making nary a dent. “How much armor this thing got on?” screamed Marty.

Lunging forward, the beast launched itself straight though the air, closed fists raised like an enraged brawler. Marty dove out of the way just as the fists pounded the ground right where he’d stood, concrete chunks from the street flying into the air.

Marty rolled along the ground then popped up to a knee, eyes locking on the creature’s faceless helmet. Above him, one of Pablo’s drones dropped in.

“What in God Almighty’s name is that?” asked Vincent over the comm. “Is that a bloody Ceratopian?”

“It’s a bad day’s what it is!” For a second time, Marty dove out of the way as the creature charged him. This time, the beast’s reach was too great. Marty was snagged in one of its massive claws, then flung across the street where Dieter was firing. Hitting the ground, then the curb, then the side of a building, Marty rolled slowly on his back and groaned. “Gahhh!”

The comm channel crackled. “We’re on our way!” said Vincent.

Dusting himself off as he rose to his feet, Marty wiped his mouth and said, “Bring bazookas.”

“LET’S MOVE!” said Javon, waving the others on as they took to the street.

“What is that thing, man?” asked Tom.

Already running full speed toward the direction of the landing zone, Javon answered, “Remember that Ceratopian they had in the med-bay?”

“For real?”

“Either that, or one of Scott’s boys been bulkin’ up!” He got on the comm. “Feliks, now’s the time. Get y’all’s rears in gear, we got a path out!”

Feliks’s reply came immediately. “Moving out now!”

WITHIN A MINUTE, Vincent and Pablo were rounding the corner where their two comrades were battling the Ceratopian. Both men froze and stared. “All—all right,” Vincent said, shaking his head as if to snap himself out of it. “Dieter, get height and set up for a kill shot! The rest of us will distract. Are bullets having any effect?”

“Yeah!” Marty answered. “They tickin’ him off!”

“Well, let’s hope he has a weak point under the neck!”

Slinking out of the fight while the beast was focused on Marty, Dieter made his way toward a stairwell and began to ascend.

Chaos rounds tattered the Ceratopian’s body as Vincent and Pablo joined the fight. Though the rounds struck the alien hard, none were penetrating. After turning his horned, plumed head in the two newcomers’ direction, the beast reared his head back and bellowed.

From the other side of the street where he’d put distance between himself and the alien, Marty yelled, “What’chu gonna do now, huh? You can’t attack all of us at once!”

Turning slowly toward Marty, the Ceratopian cocked his arms back and then jolted them forward. Emerging from where they’d been stowed in hidden compartments, two massive neutron rifles slid out, one attached to each forearm.

The Cajun’s shoulders sank. “Yeah, I didn’t think dat would happen.”

Aiming one rifle at Marty and the other at Vincent and Pablo, the monstrosity pulled the triggers. Flashes of neon red energy streaked in the Vectors’ directions, ray after ray as the men dove for cover. Struck cars went flipping end over end. Garbage cans were obliterated. Entire corners of buildings were blasted into oblivion. The catastrophic recklessness had the Vectors scrambling like headless chickens.

Then came the hit. As Vincent darted across the street, a neutron ray slammed into his torso, sending him hurtling backward through the air until he smacked into a building. The back of Vincent’s head rocked against the brick, and then he dropped.

“Vince!” Screaming from behind cover, Marty rose to his feet and unleashed a volley at the Ceratopian. The bullets careened off the armor like pebbles.

Pablo was scrambling toward Vincent. “I am on him!”

Dieter’s voice emerged. “In position.”

“Take that lizard down!” yelled Marty.

Hollering “Hey!” at the top of his lungs, Dieter raised his chaos rifle and waited for the Ceratopian to notice him. The plumed war beast spun his head around, lifted it, and looked the Austrian’s way. Dieter drew in a breath, aimed for the alien’s neck, and pulled the trigger.

Ping!

The chaos round struck the Ceratopian right in the spot Dieter had aimed for. The alien stutter-stepped backward, the bright red plume on his helmet whipping to and fro as—for a moment—he seemed stunned. Then he planted his foot. After turning his head back in Dieter’s direction, the Ceratopian let out a low, dangerous growl.

Lowering his chaos rifle, Dieter said, “The neck is reinforced.”

Slinging up his arm and without a second’s pause, the Ceratopian aimed his neutron rifle at the stairwell and pulled the trigger, sending a neon red ray screaming toward the Austrian. As the ray struck the stairwell, Dieter was blasted off the building.

Marty raised his chaos rifle and then unloaded on the beast with everything he had left. It did nothing. “Fall back!” he yelled, voice shaking with emotion. “We gotta fall back!”

His earpiece crackled as Chiumbo Okayo, Vector’s top lieutenant, addressed him. “We are arriving in the city now,” said the thick-accented Tanzanian. “Breaux, what is your position?”

“Negative!” Marty answered, ducking into a building as the Ceratopian charged once again. “Do not proceed, I repeat, do not proceed to our position!”

“What is your status?”

Barreling through the building until he emerged out the other side, Marty took off running. Behind him, the circumvented alien turned his head to find him. After a roar, his massive feet tromped ahead again.

“We got Hill and Albrecht down! Engaged with a heavily armed and heavily armored Ceratopian. The armor’s thick enough so that chaos rounds don’t penetrate!”

Pablo’s voice broke through. “Hill is in critical condition.”

“Copy. We are preparing a medevac. We are having difficulty sending units into the city—there is heavy Omega Fighter presence. All Superwolves in the area have been destroyed or forced to retreat.”

Marty ducked into the alley with the Ceratopian on his heels, until all of a sudden, the beast slid to a stop. As Marty looked back, he saw the behemoth huff a loud breath, step backward, then turn to fall back himself. Above, where they’d been patrolling the skies since the fracas began, Nightman Omega Fighters streaked past. Focus shifting to where his comrade, Dieter, had fallen, the Cajun charged back into the street. “Can anyone tell me how the Nightmen we supposedly annihilated managed to get hold of a squadron of Omegas?” Ahead of him, Dieter twisted on the ground. Marty knelt beside him; the fallen Austrian groaned. “Hey, bro,” Marty said, pressing his hands against the soldier’s chest to keep him still. “We got someone comin’, just keep tight.”

The comm crackled as Chiumbo answered, “We do not yet know.”

Coughing, Dieter said, “The neutron ray did not hit me. I am all right.”

“Like hell you all right—stop squirmin’.” His focus was averted to the soft whir of one of Pablo’s drones behind him. Turning around, he watched the small craft hovering in the air. An idea seemed to strike him. “Pablo, what you doin’ with the twins?”

A second passed before the Spaniard replied. “I have one shadowing each of us for situational awareness. For the medevac.”

Marty paused as Dieter settled down. He rose to his feet and turned to the drone. “You up for doin’ something a little different? I think I got a plan.”

* * *

THERE WERE TWO transports waiting for Natalie’s team at the landing zone—both Vultures. The Nightmen there waved Natalie’s team toward them.

“Everyone in!” Dostoevsky said, stepping to the side to allow Natalie’s team in first.

As soon as Natalie was inside, she got on the comm. “Javon, what’s your status? We just made it to the transports!” As she spoke, the occupants of the troop bay, which was crammed to the brim with Nightmen and necrilids, strapped into their harnesses. The creatures seemed to know the drill, settling back into hunched down positions in the corners. While Natalie waited for Javon to reply, Dostoevsky motioned for her to strap in herself.

Javon’s voice emerged. “We’re almost there!”

“I don’t think we’re waiting up,” Natalie said. “There’s another Vulture waiting to take you guys up right behind us.”

“No problem!”

She almost didn’t want to ask. “How are you guys looking?”

“We lost Paul—he was the only one.”

Natalie exhaled a breath. Losing one was a terrible thing, but it could have gone so much worse. She was about to let her shoulders relax when the sound of Youko’s yipping caught her ears. With the Ithini connection broken, there was no way for her to hear what the punk princess was saying. But she certainly seemed to be “telling it like it was” to some poor Nightman sap. Squinting, Natalie scrutinized the Nightman in question. He was a fulcrum, and with his helmet off she could clearly see a short mohawk on his head. Compared to the others, he looked massive. Powerful. Is that Saretok? At long last, after the back-and-forth reached a crescendo, the Nightman pressed something into Youko’s hand. Some kind of small box. What in the world is that?

As Youko left the scene—presumably never to be seen by Natalie and her comrades again—the fulcrum spared a glance in the troop bay’s direction. Very briefly, his callous eyes locked onto Natalie’s. Then he picked up a faceless, crimson-streaked helmet, slid it down over his head, and turned to walk away. In the following seconds, the troop bay door of Natalie’s Vulture rose. Allowing herself a sigh of relief—and a moment to take in the fact that they were actually leaving Japan—Natalie closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and waited to dust off.

* * *

“HURRY!” SHOUTED a fulcrum who was waiting for Javon and his comrades at the landing zone. After waving his arm to them, he lifted his own assault rifle to fire at some of the EDEN pursuers.

With their heads lowered, the escapees charged into the troop bay, Centurion romping in behind them.

“Strap in!” the fulcrum shouted as he and his brethren held the line. The escapees complied, jerking down their harnesses and clicking their restraints in place. Despite being in the safety of a troop bay bound for Northern Forge, it seemed as frantic now as it had when Vector was in hot pursuit. Bullets were dinging everywhere.

So attuned to the chaos was everyone that none of them—not the escapees, not the Nightmen, not Centurion—noticed the intruder. Tucking in its rotor wings in midflight, the small, spherical ball struck the ground mere meters in front of the troop bay. With an impressive hop against the concrete, it bounded up the ramp. Rolling across the troop bay floor, it became hidden in the equipment that was strewn about.

Waving his hand, Saretok motioned for his Nightmen to fall back. “Prepare for liftoff! All parties are onboard.” After he and his fulcrums were up the ramp, it began to whine shut.

Tugging on his harness, Javon blew out a breath and looked across the troop bay, where Feliks was seated. The two men locked eyes with each other, before a laugh that harkened to both joy and disbelief escaped them. No words were spoken—none needed to be. The two men were just glad to be alive.

As soon as the bay door was up, the Vulture lifted off the ground and swung its nose to the northwest. With a full Omega Fighter escort, it joined the other Vulture on the long flight home.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-two

Thursday, April 5th, 0012 NE

0617 hours

Norilsk, Russia

BREATHE. FOR THE first time in as long as Natalie could remember, she could just close her eyes, lean her head back, and breathe. There were no Ikeda-kai lording over her, no oyabun to oversee every little thing the survivors wanted to do. There was no EDEN or Vector presence sweeping the area for them—at least, not at that moment, while the Nightman fleet was over Russia on the way to Northern Forge. Sighing in the first true relief she’d felt in over a week, she ran her hand through her chestnut hair.

Opening her eyes, she surveyed the troop bay. Esther was sitting on the far side of the bay next to Dostoevsky, whose arm was around her as the scout leaned her head into him with eyes closed. Dostoevsky’s hand was stroking her shoulder, and he was saying something to her quietly, though it was far too low and distant to hear. Several seats away was Lisa, her wound being tended to by the woman Esther called Varya. While most of the crew remained strapped in, the blond-haired medic was up and about, stopping at one dinged-up soldier to the next to treat whatever injuries they had. As for Lisa herself, she looked more dejected than at any point Natalie had seen her. Whatever fight she had in her was long gone. After the poor girl had been mind-zapped by an Ithini and then hauled off in a Vulture, Natalie couldn’t say she blamed her.

Ju`bajai looked as wiped out as anyone and was asleep in her chair. It was the first time that Natalie had ever seen a live Ithini with its eyes closed. It almost made the alien look sweet and innocent, though after Natalie’s run-in with her Esther construct, she knew better. But whatever rest Ju`bajai was getting now, she deserved.

Logan, who was sitting nearby, hadn’t said a word to her all flight long. Natalie knew him well enough to know that he was worried she was mad at him. He had reason to be. This always happened with him—he flared his my-way-or-the-highway attitude, but after the dust settled, he went into this introverted little shell like a wounded kid. At some point, he would approach her and ask if they could talk things out. She’d say yes. They’d argue, walk away from each other, only to have him walk right back to her minutes later to try and barter for peace. It was what he always did. All she could do was wait for that knock on her door at Northern Forge once she was back in standard quarters. That was, assuming Logan would be given free rein in the place. She had to admit, there’d be something devilishly satisfying about seeing him locked in a cell like she’d originally been.

Gaze leaving Logan, she surveyed the troop bay at large. Nightmen and necrilids were everywhere. How in the world had the Nightmen tamed these monsters? Even knowing they were under Nightman control, it was impossible to feel at ease with the long-fanged creatures sitting mere feet away. Turning her head to the nearest one, she observed it for several moments as it sat statuesque like some taxidermy nightmare. But this thing was very much alive. She found herself entranced by the creature. By its muscles, its curves. By its design of pure lethality. They fit the Nightmen perfectly.

“Captain Rockwell?” The Russian voice, coming from the other side of her, made her jump a bit. When she turned her head, she saw Yuri Dostoevsky standing before her. Gesturing to the space next to her, he asked, “May I?”

She nodded. “Yes, please.” For the first time, she could really scrutinize him in detail. He had just about the thickest jet-black hair she’d ever seen, all of which was strewn about wildly post-combat. His eyes were so cold, so blue. Like ice or steel. But focused. Intense. As she looked at him, it felt a little bit like he was looking into her soul. This was no young man in battle. This was a man who’d seen things.

Lowering himself into the chair, Dostoevsky offered what seemed a sincere, if not slightly uncertain smile. “A better introduction, perhaps, than on a battlefield. I am Commander Yuri Dostoevsky of the Fourteenth.”

Narrowing her eyes a tad suspiciously, she asked, “Commander of the Fourteenth?”

“That is correct. I was placed in charge of the Fourteenth while Remington…” Pressing his lips together, he seemed to consider his words. “While Remington visited Cairo.”

Despite his likely good motives, she couldn’t help but laugh. “Visited. I suppose that sounds better than infiltrated, or busted out a Ceratopian, or ruined your career.”

His sad smile matched her own. “It does, yes.”

“Well, I appreciate the thought.”

Dostoevsky’s smile slowly deteriorated. “Our comrades who were on the mission…did you see any of them…?”

Natalie realized when the question hung what Dostoevsky was asking. He wanted to know if she’d seen any of them get killed. Closing her eyes, she sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “I didn’t see what happened to Scott, but I was there when Jayden and Becan were shot.”

The fulcrum seemed to hesitate. “Do you have any idea which one might have survived? I don’t know if you’ve been watching the news.”

“Yeah, we have. I have to be honest, I don’t know how either of them could’ve survived. When I say they were gunned down, it was rough.” Dostoevsky obviously had heard the same thing as the survivors—that one of the pair, either Becan or Jayden, was still alive and in EDEN custody. “I don’t want to sound not optimistic, but…”

He placed his hand on her knee. “It is all right. We are thankful that, for the moment, it seems we have only lost one of our comrades. Scott, Tiffany, and either Becan or Jayden are alive, and if they are alive, then we can be reunited. Plans are already being discussed for such a thing. If the opportunity presents itself to rescue them, we will take it.”

She hated to say it, but that sounded like wishful thinking. Atami might have been a cakewalk for the Nightmen, but this was EDEN Command they were talking about. Nobody even knew where it was. Still, she appreciated his sentiment, even if hearing it made her a little bit sad. “I know how close you guys are as a team. Even in the little bit that I got to know everyone, I could see it. I mean, I was there when Esther and Jayden got married.” That was really the first time she felt like she’d gotten the full scope of the Fourteenth. “I was part of the leadership of this operation in Japan. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“It is not your fault.”

A sad laugh escaped her. “I’m glad you feel that way.”

“No,” he said, his piercing eyes stern as they met hers. “I mean what I said. What happened in Japan was not your fault.” As he spoke, Natalie’s eyes narrowed a bit. “There is much you need to hear, and you will, once we are all safely back at Northern Forge and you have had a chance to recover.”

She was getting that sinking feeling. “No, wait a minute. Is there something going on that I don’t know about?” She’d gotten that same vibe from Esther—that there were more things going on than met the eye. Or at least, her eyes.

After seeming to deliberate on the question, Dostoevsky finally answered, “I don’t want to say yes, but it would be a lie to say no.”

She sat a little more upright.

“Please, everything will be explained to you when we are safely back at the base—at least, as it pertains to the train mission. I am sure there are other things you would like to know about.” Leaning forward and clasping his hands together, he said, “I am sure you must have many questions.”

She didn’t like this. Not one bit. In fact, she could even hear her heart beating a little louder in her chest at the mere thought that something nefarious was afoot. But out of respect for the man who claimed to be Scott’s XO, she would do as requested and wait until they were back on base. In her periphery, the sight of a necrilid scratching behind its earholes caught her attention. She found herself turning away from Dostoevsky to watch it.

Upon following her gaze, Dostoevsky drew a deep breath and then propped his leg over his knee. He nodded toward the creatures. “They are from Chernobyl. Some time ago, the Fourteenth was called to a report of necrilid activity by the old power plant. We expected to find a loose necrilid or two, but when we arrived on scene, we found a thriving hive.”

Well, at least he was proactive in offering that information. Or he just wanted to change the subject. For the time being, she’d bite. “You assaulted a whole hive?” Were she not looking at the necrilids all around her, she’d have never believed that from anyone.

“The eggs survived, and so General Thoor thought it…advantageous…”

Another careful selection of words. The poor guy was going to have to do that a lot.

“…to attempt to raise them as our own. Very few people knew that this was taking place. But as you can see, it had its advantages.” Looking at the necrilids again, even he, too, seemed lost in a small bit of wonderment. “Necrilids breed quickly, so multiple generations can develop in a short period of time. As you can see, they have become quite used to humans.”

“Quite used to eating them, too.” She’d seen what those beasts did to the poor Japanese police officers. She wouldn’t have wished a fate like that on her worst enemy.

He frowned. “They are still what they are. But that is being worked on.” He motioned to the large, one-eyed necrilid with the long, slivery fangs. “That is Psoglav. He is the alpha. When he does something, the others follow suit. We are trying to teach the concept of ‘selective aggression.’”

“Selective aggression, huh?”

“It is better than when they are in their natural state.”

With that, she couldn’t disagree.

He nodded to their collars. “The collars they wear are for communication purposes. There are small speakers that emit sounds far too low for human ears to perceive, but that the necrilids hear clearly. We can issue them orders that only they can hear.”

“And those flashing red lights?”

He laughed a bit to himself. “That is just so we can see them.” After a pause, he said, “The collars can also deliver a debilitating shock, should any of them…”

“…disagree?” she asked, beating him to it.

Chuckling again, he said, “A nice way to put it.”

“So all of that’s fascinating,” she said, sitting more erectly as she stared at him, “but it doesn’t answer the question I really want to know, which is, where in the world did all of you come from? All the world hears is that the Nightmen are destroyed, yet you show up in Japan like you’re ready for a war. Necrilids, soldiers, a squadron of…were those Omegas we saw?”

By the solemn expression on his face, these were questions he expected. “Halfway to Chernobyl, the decision was made to reroute to Northern Forge. There was speculation that EDEN might make an attack, but the thought process was that it was best to salvage whatever forces we still had…Nightman and necrilid alike. We were rerouted and Chernobyl was evacuated.” Sighing, he looked at one of the porthole windows. “As for the Omega Fighters, the NSU has had them stockpiled for some time.”

“Who the hell was flying them?”

“Gagarin Wing. They were Novosibirsk’s elite squadron—all Nightman pilots. Like many of the other Nightmen, they were en route to Chernobyl initially after Novosibirsk was destroyed, but they were rerouted to an airfield with Omega Fighters shortly after we were.”

Arching an eyebrow, she asked, “And all of these people are staying at Northern Forge? Must be some pretty tight living arrangements.”

Dostoevsky rolled his eyes. “You do not know the half of it.”

“So what’s the plan from here? We made it out of Japan, and that’s great, but what’s next? Our mission was a total failure.”

“Maybe not so much as you think—though that is not my conversation to have with you. That is better reserved for Antipov. He will meet with you when we arrive back on base.”

Antipov, again. She wasn’t sure whether she was looking forward to meeting this man or not. Briefly, her eyes drifted in Logan’s direction. She leaned closer to Dostoevsky, lowered her voice, and nodded subtly toward the Australian. “When Logan was getting us ready for the pickup, he mentioned a ‘trade’ taking place between the Ikeda-kai and the Nightmen. I think his saying that might have been a slip-up, but do you know of any kind of deal going down between them to get us back?”

“I am not aware of any,” he answered, “but it would not surprise me if there was. I am afraid that is a question only Antipov can answer.”

She wasn’t surprised. “Well, thanks anyway.” She offered him a smile. “For everything. Getting us out of there, making sure our people were taken care of. By the sound of it, we only lost one in the extraction. Which is certainly not a good thing, but it could’ve been much, much worse.”

“Of that, I am certain. But I thank you.”

Leaning back, an indication that she was starting to feel more comfortable around the man, she exhaled a long breath and said, “So, commander, how’d you end up being Scott Remington’s XO?”

Offering the faintest of smiles, he answered, “It was not always that way. There was a brief time when he called me ‘captain.’”

“Oh really?” she asked, eyebrow raising. “What’s the story?”

Glancing at the porthole, as if the act would provide a reference for how much time they had to talk, he smiled and relaxed his posture. “Well, if you must hear it.”

“Oh, I must,” she said. “I certainly must.”

For the next hour, Natalie listened as Dostoevsky retold the tale of the fall of Scott Remington. About how a promising young soldier from Richmond ended up on General Thoor’s doorstep, and how an act of heroism in the harsh winds of Siberia caught the late general’s eye. Where EDEN saw courage in a soldier deserving of a Golden Lion, Thoor saw brazenness and aggression—both attributes highly valued by The Machine. Scott was thoroughly scouted by Ignatius van Thoor, and a scheme was devised to draw the righteous warrior into the shadows of the Nightman sect.

Hearing that part of Scott’s story surprised Natalie the most—not because the story was true, but because Dostoevsky seemed eager to tell it. It was a story that did not paint the Russian fulcrum in a good light. Yet on he went, delving not only into the events as they unfolded, but into the psychology of The Machine from the eyes of someone who’d once been one of its most valued fulcrums. Natalie heard about Scott’s fiancée, Nicole, and the Silent Fever. She heard about the man named Alexander Nijinsky who’d been instructed to inject Nicole with the virus via a small pinprick from a ring with a hidden needle. She heard about Scott’s rage, and the battle of Khatanga, and the arrival of other Nightmen into the Fourteenth to usher in a new order. She heard about Sergei Steklov, the “mark” that Scott had been given—and whom he’d murdered. Names like Captain Clarke and Galina Lebesheva surfaced—names he discussed with wistful fondness. Almost longing.

Most interestingly, Dostoevsky discussed the events from the perspective of the villain, which is exactly what he’d become as Scott was in his downward spiral. He recanted a distinct moment when he hit rock bottom after visiting Clarke’s funeral, and how it and the events after it forever changed him. As much as Scott was presumably fallen, everything he’d experienced could be justified by human emotions. As for Dostoevsky? His was truly a redemption story. Though Natalie considered herself religious to the extent that she believed in God and believed that He was good, Dostoevsky discussed the topic with the fervor of an evangelist. By the time he got to his actual moment of redemption, she was almost more fascinated with his journey than with Scott’s.

But this wasn’t Dostoevsky’s story, and the fulcrum eventually came full circle to explain how he’d made it a mission to be a brother to the man whose fiancée he’d arranged to be murdered. At that point in the story they were joined by the blond-haired medic, whose full name she learned was Varvara Yudina. Though Varvara remained silent for the most part, she occasionally chimed in with a tidbit of information when relevant, namely about the other blonde in the unit.

The one, the only, Svetlana Voronova.

Natalie had heard Svetlana’s name pop up time and time again when it pertained to Scott, and if she was being honest with herself, it was getting just a little bit tiring. Every time Svetlana was mentioned, it was always in the context of what she meant to Scott and how she’d helped lift him from the ashes of his own self-destruction, et cetera, et cetera. Considering Natalie’s own little ride of emotional embarrassment as it pertained to Scott, hearing how special Svetlana was to him was…

…kind of deflating.

Not so much deflating because of how Natalie had felt—or perhaps was still feeling—but how she’d allowed those emotions to affect her so much. She’d suffered from white knight syndrome. She still was suffering from it, just a little bit. But regardless, she listened to the story of how Svetlana had returned to Novosibirsk for the specific purpose of helping Scott find his redemption, and for that, she could appreciate the woman—even if hearing her name was getting a little redundant.

But there was more to hear. She heard about Esther, and the failure in Khatanga that led to her downward spiral, which seemed a common theme in this luck-be-damned unit. She also learned, somewhat interestingly, that Varvara and Jayden had actually dated for a time. This was a part of the story that seemed to make the medic uncomfortable, though she soldiered on during its retelling.

It was while Varvara was talking about her own experiences that Natalie began to notice a certain chemistry between the considerably younger woman and her Russian, fulcrum counterpart. Though she didn’t know either of them well enough to pick apart subtleties, there definitely seemed a fondness between them that may have been more than just a friendship. When Varvara was sitting next to him, she almost seemed to cling to him. Natalie made no judgments—she’d certainly had her own share of drama in EDEN both with Logan and her infatuation with Scott. Still, she found the chemistry between Dostoevsky and Varvara noteworthy enough to file away in her mind as something to be aware of.

All in all, Natalie probably talked to Dostoevsky and Varvara longer in a single sitting than she’d talked to anyone in Nobu’s guest suite. Before she knew it, the Vultures and their Omega Fighter escorts were nearing the secluded city of Norilsk, where Northern Forge awaited, tucked into its mountain home. It was at this time when the Omegas broke off, soaring off to the northwest to who knew where. Thinking a little, “thank you, guys,” to them, she watched them disappear into the horizon. The next thing she knew, the Vulture pilots were requesting permission to dock, and the massive, rusty doors of Northern Forge ground open.

They were back. They were home. How funny it felt to think of a hidden Nightman base as that, now, but she couldn’t consider anyplace associated with EDEN her home any longer. These might not have been her people, but they’d shown her more patience and consideration than anyone wearing blue and silver lately. That was enough to make her feel okay about riding with them.

Whether that changed after she met Antipov remained to be seen.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-three

Thursday, April 5th, 0012 NE

1120 hours

Norilsk, Russia

THIS GUY NEEDS a haircut. The thought came to Natalie’s mind the moment Dostoevsky indicated that the scraggly, salt-and-pepper-haired man with the tiny ponytail was Iosif Antipov. Were it not for the Nightman uniform he donned, he could have passed for a homeless person. As Northern Forge’s rusty hangar doors slid shut, Natalie and the rest of the troop bay occupants made their way down the ramp.

To say that the hangar was bustling with Nightmen was an understatement. Massive guards, whom she’d heard described as “sentries,” were standing post at not only the base’s inner entrance, but at various points from one side of the hangar to the next. Men in oil-stained technician outfits hustled about, chatting fervently as they worked with their tools and equipment. Everywhere she looked, there was rampant activity. This certainly didn’t seem like a military sect on the verge of extermination. Quite the contrary, it looked like the Nightmen had never been busier.

Before Natalie could even reach the hangar floor, Antipov and a pair of sentries were on their way to meet them. Natalie didn’t wait for him to introduce himself. Extending her hand, she said simply, “You must be Antipov.”

He smiled with genuineness. “And you must be Captain Rockwell.” Shaking her hand with surprising firmness for a man who looked so rail-thin and unkempt, he said, “I am glad you and your friends made it here safely. We have much to discuss, and I am sure you are ready to discuss it.”

She liked him already.

Behind them, the pack of necrilids padded out of the Vultures, their massive claws silent as they tracked across the hangar. Indicating to them with a head nod, Antipov said, “I hope our patrol units did not frighten you too much.”

Patrol units. Never in her life had she imagined she’d hear necrilids described quite like that. Stomping down the ramp of the other Vulture and shaking the ground with every step was Centurion. The massive Ceratopian was decked out from head to toe in what looked like Nightman armor, black and shielding every part of his body, horns, frill, and all. Her gaze went to the top of his head and the bright red, horsehair-looking plume that stuck out. No restraint could stop the words, “Holy veck,” from escaping her lips.

Glancing Centurion’s way, Antipov smiled a bit. “Yes, that is the Ceratopian you remember. As you can see, he has recovered quite remarkably. We knew his was a caste bred for combat, but we did not anticipate his body would heal at such an accelerated rate.” He slid his hands into his pockets. “It is possible that he has been genetically modified by his species to have this advantage. We are still striving to understand him.”

As Centurion lumbered past a sentry, the Nightman extended a fist in the alien’s direction. The Ceratopian met it with a gigantic, interspecies fist bump that almost knocked the sentry over. “How in the hell did you get him to wear that?” Natalie asked.

Behind her, Esther gasped. “Centurion!” The scout flat-tracked across the hangar toward the beast, who turned in her direction. She slammed solidly into him with an embrace that barely reached halfway around his waist. In a rather touching scene, Centurion wrapped an arm around her, too.

“We realized quickly that such a warrior could be a tremendous asset on the battlefield,” said Antipov, unaffected by the display between Esther and the beast, “and so we put in a priority order for armor to be made specifically for him. Our forge master, Artur Pashkov, was quite proud of it.”

Natalie remembered Artur, the large, bearded man in charge of the forge itself.

“The armor is four times thicker than standard Nightman armor. A regular soldier could not shoulder such a burden, but for Centurion, he scarcely notices it. It is the first armor we have created that is capable of withstanding chaos rounds—the kind of weaponry used by elite squads such as Vector. As for the plume,” he gestured toward the bright red headpiece, “that was a personal touch of Artur’s. He goes by Centurion, why not play the part?”

Surely such a headpiece would draw attention to Centurion on the battlefield, Natalie thought, but perhaps that was a good thing. He certainly looked able to take it.

Antipov spoke on. “I imagine that chief among your questions is how we all survived the attack at Chernobyl.” He gestured for her to follow him out of the hangar and into the halls of the base. “Are you familiar with the game of chess, Captain Rockwell?” When he looked back, he saw she was watching her comrades. “Do not worry, your friends will be taken care of.”

Accepting the man at face value, she answered his question. “I’m more of a checkers girl, to be honest,” she said, having to sidestep a pair of Nightmen marching past them in the hall. There were Nightmen everywhere. The mess hall, located farther down that same hall, was packed with men standing shoulder to shoulder. The line for food wrapped around the whole room; there was nary an open seat to be seen. There were even soldiers eating with their backs to the wall on the floor of the hallway. “Good grief,” she said when she beheld it, “what’d you do, call up every Nightman on the planet?”

A slayer walking backward with a tray slammed into Antipov’s side. Natalie jumped as the young man’s tray of food went crashing to the floor. “Idiot!” Antipov shouted. “Smotret' kuda ty idesh'!”

The young man went pale. “Da, general!” He hurriedly knelt to scoop up the spilled food as Antipov walked on, glancing behind to ensure that Natalie was following. After allowing herself to pity the boy, she followed behind him again. They’re calling him general, now. This guy really has replaced Thoor.

“To answer your question,” Antipov said, “yes, I did. There are other forges tucked away in Siberia, of course, but there was no need to divert anyone to them. Northern Forge is fully capable of housing everyone—for now.”

She wasn’t sure what stood out more about that statement, the idea that the scene around her was actually considered “capable housing” or that he’d tacked on a “for now” to the end of it. “No better time to hold open recruitment, what with how much the world loves you and all.”

Chuckling a bit, he lowered his head. “I love American sarcasm. It comes so natural to you.” Looking up again as he walked on, he said, “Much like you, the rest of the world plays checkers, too. You see a threat, you attack it. You see a weakness, you exploit it. You see a weakness in yourself, you try to fix it.”

Was he suggesting there was any other way?

“I wonder, have you ever attacked your enemy’s strength knowing full well they would defeat you? Have you ever revealed your weakness to them and then allowed them to take advantage of it?”

Shaking her head, she said, “Sounds pretty counter-intuitive, to be honest.”

“As I’m sure it would, to someone who plays checkers.” Turning down the short hallway that led to the briefing room, he said, “In chess, there are many pieces. You have the pawns, very limited in both direction and range but great in number. You have knights, who move and attack with misdirection. You have bishops and rooks, both able to cross the entire board to kill opposing pieces, though each in their own way. Then of course, you have the queen, who can attack in any direction she wants, unlimited in range and unrivaled in power. And the sole purpose of all of these pieces is to protect the vulnerable king, who can scarcely do a thing on his own.”

She smirked. “Sounds like a typical man.”

“So when you think of chess,” he said, unfazed by her commentary, “you must take all of these pieces into account. You must be aware of all of the pieces and what they can do. Of how many of each your opponent has left and whether or not he knows how to properly use them. You must make him believe that he is in control.” He paused at the briefing room door. “So tell me, from the perspective of a ‘checkers girl,’ what piece do you think plays the biggest role on the chess board?”

What she was supposed to say was obvious: the queen, with what sounded like the power to do whatever she wanted. But she knew a trick question when she heard one. “The misdirection one.”

“The knight.”

“Yeah, that one.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“The pawn,” she answered quickly. “The ones you can just throw at the enemy without concern.” That certainly sounded like something the Nightmen would do. When his expression remained unchanged, though, she doubted herself. “The queen.”

Holding up his hand, he wiggled his fingers in front of her. “The piece that plays the biggest role is the hand that moves them.”

As she looked into his eyes—dark eyes that bored right through her as if looking at her soul—she felt the faintest bit of a chill drip down her spine. Her eyebrows lowered in uncertainty. He had her attention.

“The hand does not take a piece on its own, yet its presence is felt in everything that takes place on the board. Unlike the pieces themselves, who see only what is around them, the hand sees all. It knows what the pieces are capable of—what pieces of its opponent it can take and what pieces of its own must be sacrificed. Sometimes, it must sacrifice its greatest pieces in order to reach the endgame. Sometimes this must be done heartlessly, ruthlessly, but it is always done with purpose. Always done while striving for the ultimate goal: to checkmate the king.” He paused. “To defeat the hand across from him.”

A very bad feeling was brewing inside her.

“If I were to show you, with undeniable proof, that EDEN was conspiring with extraterrestrials to the detriment of humanity, would you stop at nothing to defeat them?”

Natalie’s heart beat faster. That very bad feeling was getting worse. “I would.”

“Would you sacrifice your greatest pieces?” All the while he spoke, his expression never changed. Those dark eyes bored deeper. “Would you be the hand that seeks, at all costs, to checkmate the king?”

When Natalie swallowed, it felt like her throat had closed up. “If it was…” If it was all that could be done. If victory was the only thing that mattered. If the fate of the human species was at stake. “Yes. If I had to, then yes. I would.”

She hoped.

His gaze held fast to hers—as if determining whether or not she was telling the truth. When he appeared satisfied, his eyes almost seemed to gleam. “You were ambushed in Japan because I told EDEN you would be there.”

The air went out from her. That chill on her spine rendered her all but stiff. She stared wide-eyed.

“Please, Miss Rockwell, come with me.” Gesturing to the briefing room, he turned to step inside.

Ambushed in Japan because of him. Even as he stepped through the door, Natalie continued to stare at the place he’d just been, as if the world around her had just ground to a halt. We were ambushed in Japan because of him. Lilan was dead because of him. Scott and Tiffany were captured because of him. Esther might well be a widow…because of him. The hand that moves the pieces. That thought, that mental image of some five-fingered controller hovering over every piece on a chess board, stood forefront in her mind. Sacrificing the pieces he cherished the most, if he cherished anything at all.

She felt as if she might buckle over in a mixture of disbelief and astonishment. Why would he do that? Why would this man betray us like that? And why would he admit to it? It was that last part—the fact that he’d just looked her in the eye and told her what he’d done with not a shred of remorse or hesitation—that she found so disgusting. So abhorrent.

So incredibly, incredibly fascinating. Fascinating enough that her reactionary anger found itself quickly reducing from a rolling boil to a simmer, simply for the desire to understand why. It wasn’t even the how that mattered. The motivation of the “hand” completely enthralled her. She found herself willing to follow him into the room without so much as a word. She’d punch him in the nose later. Right now, she just wanted to see what he intended to show her.

The room was the same one that she, Scott, and the others had used for the pre-train-op-briefing—a mini auditorium with a projector screen. Though the projector was already on, there was no image displayed from it. Antipov was walking toward the projector stand, where he paused to look back at her. “Have a seat if you wish.”

She preferred to stand, though she found herself listening to him and sitting, anyway. Slipping into the center chair in the first row, she stared up at the screen. She wanted to ask, “What is it I’m about to see?” but was still quite unable to speak, that cocktail of anger, captivation, and numbness still swirling inside her.

Antipov pressed a button atop the projector, causing the screen to come to life. The image appeared to be nothing more than a gray graphic of random lines running horizontally and vertically. A standard techy background wallpaper. Picking up a remote control, Antipov stepped back from the projector, pointed the control at it, and pressed play.

Background static emerged—the only indication that audio was playing. There was shuffling, but it was muffled and up close. As Natalie narrowed her eyes and attuned her ears harder, the guttural voice of a Ceratopian broke the silence. Its words were deep and harsh, though that was typical of all Ceratopian speech. Though the alien tongue was indecipherable to her ears, text appeared on the screen in sync with the voices, like closed captioning. “You have a proposal for us,” it read.

There was a pause and more shuffling. The next voice that emerged, though, was unmistakable—even though Natalie had never heard it in person before. “Yes, we do,” a British-accented man replied. “One we believe may pique your interest.”

Archer. Benjamin Archer. Her conflicted anger toward Antipov subsided, and she sat erect.

The Ceratopian replied, the translation appearing at the bottom of the screen, “We will hear it.”

“Is the human he’s talking to…” Natalie asked, eyes flickering in Antipov’s direction as he looked at her, even as the name Archer caught in her throat. He nodded a single time. The recording played on.

“We spoke to you before about the Khuladi threat,” Archer said. “That we understand the dilemma your species is faced with. We know that your intent to destroy this world is for the benefit of not only your species, but for all species in your quadrant of the galaxy. We realize that our extinction is but a small price to pay for the salvation of many others.”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this.

“We would like to offer a solution that would satisfy both our species: your right to protect your worlds and our right to exist at all.” Archer paused. “Let us weaken the human force that has held you at bay for so long. This would allow you to set up the devices necessary to ensure this planet’s destruction. In return, we request that you take a portion of us with you, to serve if we must, but to ensure that our species has a chance to survive.”

To serve if we must? With every word Archer spoke, Natalie’s heart beat faster.

The Ceratopian spoke. “How would you accomplish this?”

“It would be a slow but steady process. We could not outright sabotage our defense force. That would only provide you with a single surface wound to exploit, and it would quickly be repaired.” As he paused again, the muffled shuffling reemerged. Whoever was listening in on this was moving around. Whatever the cause, it caused the first few words of what Archer said next to be lost. “—in bureaucracy, then we will have hindered the very core of Earth’s defenses. This is but one of many possible ways we can weaken the front line for you.”

There was a delay before the Ceratopian spoke again. Natalie could imagine the beast weighing Archer’s words—determining whether or not they were trustworthy. “What portion from your planet would you have us take?”

“Those of us lending our assistance, obviously.”

Natalie’s face flushed. She didn’t need to know the full context to understand that part. Archer was selling out the planet to take care of himself.

“Though there are certain subgroups within our species that are more apt to comply willingly.”

The shuffling appeared again—this time fast, more intense. Like something was suddenly wrong. Seconds later, the audio ended. The static disappeared, and the briefing room was left in silence.

Eyes widening, Natalie stared at the projector screen as the wallpaper vanished, replaced by blackness. Her mind was swirling. This is everything we need—everything we were looking for. This is the evidence Scott went to Japan to find. It was true. It was all true. What Scott said, what he’d claimed. What he’d gone to Cairo to locate and extract. What he’d been willing to sacrifice Natalie’s career and the lives of Cairo’s security forces to secure.

There was a conspiracy.

In that instant, everything that’d happened to her since Scott’s betrayal became justified. He couldn’t have taken any chances—especially not in telling her the truth while serving as her commander. No matter how much it killed him inside, no matter how much it must have conflicted him every night he lay down in bed. How many men would have—could have—been willing to undertake such a burden? She couldn’t think of one.

“We retrieved this recording shortly before you were assigned the operation,” said Antipov, his voice snapping her back to the present.

She blinked. Shortly before?

He elaborated without prompt. “We could not risk such a dangerous retrieval with such a critical device at stake. I have eidola—my spies, to use a more familiar term—inside every major EDEN facility on Earth. My agent in Nagoya, once he knew what to look for, was able to find it quickly.”

“There are Nightmen in every EDEN base?”

Chuckling a bit, Antipov looked down briefly. Looking up again, he held up a finger. “Every base but one.”

Every base but one. Eyes squinting in thought, she began running through a list of all the major EDEN bases on Earth…though it didn’t take long for the answer to surface. It was the only base that was totally different from all the rest. The only one whose location was a mystery. “EDEN Command.”

“EDEN Command,” he said, nodding slowly. “For years—almost a decade—its location eluded me. But thanks to you, and thanks to the sacrifices of those who lost their lives in Japan, it eludes me no further. I know where it is.”

EDEN Command was the most secretive place on the planet—a place where even those who worked in its halls didn’t know where they were. Rumors of blind flights, purposely vague and sporadic flight patterns, even the manipulation of circadian rhythm for those on base by use of artificial day and night cycles, rose to the forefront of her mind. Was it under the ocean? In the South Pole? No one knew. No one but a handful of top-level officials and the pilots who had to fly there.

And Iosif Antipov.

She didn’t even have to ask where. He offered the answer willfully. “It is called the Likouala Swamp. It is a region of the Congo.”

The Congo. Eyes growing distant, Natalie leaned back in her chair and stared ahead. Her mind was filled with thoughts of wild animals, dense foliage, and mud. Of winding rivers and savage tribes. Of all the stereotypes, be they real or imagined, of travel into the darkest regions of unexplored Africa. Her gaze refocused on Antipov, and she asked, “How did you do this?”

“It was not simple,” he answered, “but once the foundation was laid, it was only a matter of time. Are you familiar with the name Todd Kenner?”

Of course, she was. “He was a former member of Vector. Kicked out for allegedly raping a woman during a mission.”

“There was nothing ‘alleged’ about it,” Antipov said, nodding a single time. “But his sins were of no concern to me when I reached out to him. What I was after was pure skill and the mindset of a predator. One cannot argue he does not possess both.”

Staving off moral judgment, she only listened.

“I told him if he wanted to be of use, we would find a way to use him. He was never going back to EDEN, that much was certain. He was eager to find an organization willing to work with a man such as himself.” He briefly shook his head. “There were no papers signed, no formal handshake. Just one villain’s word to another’s.” There was no emphasis on the word villain as he spoke it. He seemed willing to accept his perceived role. “When everything began to unfold with Archer and the revelation that there was a recording of him and Ceratopians conspiring, I saw an opportunity to involve him. Of course, I did not expect that opportunity to come in the form of EDEN attacking Novosibirsk and killing General Thoor, but one must work with what one is given. As soon as I found out that the device was located in Nagoya, I told Kenner to make arrangements to fly to Japan—that I would have everything sorted out soon.

“I contacted my eidolon in Nagoya to have him secure the device once I was given a description of it. Once it was secured and was on its way here, I set the trap.” Lifting his chin a bit, Antipov said, “I instructed Keeper Lukin to accompany Remington and his comrades to Hami Station and to ensure that a helmet was left behind. I knew it would be found and that EDEN would attempt to use it to intercept our transmissions. After giving them some time to do this, I contacted Remington to relay to him the details of the train operation, making sure I specified the exact time and location of the attempt. I also used this transmission to affirm the Nightman exodus to Chernobyl. I wanted to give them every opportunity to truly believe that we were on the verge of eradication.”

The number of simultaneously moving parts to this scheme was incredible.

Antipov continued. “Now, the purpose of our attack on Hami Station was not solely to leave behind a helmet. Like many organizations, EDEN has a dedicated backup communications system in the event that parts of its satellite system go down—as Hami Station went down that day. In this backup system, I hid an executable file that would upload itself into EDEN Command’s main systems in the event of a network-wide transfer. EDEN thought we aimed to damage their ability to detect us. But Hami Station was simply a means to an end. Once the file had been uploaded to EDEN Command, all I needed to do was get someone there to access it.”

She didn’t even need him to finish. Natalie knew exactly who he was talking about. “Kenner.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

All of this was starting to come together, like the workings of a maestro in front of an orchestra. Antipov was conducting every instrument.

“On his own, Todd Kenner was never going to be invited into EDEN Command. It would take only an amazing feat—an impossible feat—to grant him such access to the organization that had thrown him out. Apprehending Scott Remington was such a feat.” Holding up a finger as to indicate a point, he said, “Now despite the animosity between Kenner and EDEN at large, he has remained close friends with Klaus Faerber throughout all these years. I knew that, for an operation as personal as this was to Captain Faerber, he would reach out to his friend for assistance. I gambled that Faerber would do this. It was one of the few uncertainties of this operation.”

One of the few? That statement alone said volumes. To Natalie, no part of this sounded certain.

“As I had hoped, he did reach out to Kenner, unbeknownst to Vector or anyone else, to help capture Remington in Japan. While this was not a necessary step for this plan to succeed, it gave Kenner a justification for being in Japan in the first place. He could therefore say, ‘Faerber asked me to come,’ and it would be true. Kenner then knew his mission: capture Remington before Archer and his conspirators had a chance to kill him. Ensure Remington’s safe transfer to EDEN Command, with Kenner as his custodian. That is precisely what happened. Due to the fact that it was he who personally took Remington into custody, Kenner was asked to deliver him to EDEN Command with his former Vector comrades.”

“And you had your man in EDEN Command,” she said. “All he had to do was activate the Trojan.”

The corner of Antipov’s lip curved upward. “A ping was sent out, and the location of EDEN Command—the head of the snake that had begun to eat its own tail—was revealed.”

As Natalie heard word after word of this, it struck her that she wasn’t feeling nearly as much anger as she thought she should have felt. She was talking to a man—practically a snake himself—who had purposefully led them into the clutches of their enemies. Friends had been captured and killed because of him. Yet she clung to every word he said, like he was the pied piper and she was a child, skipping merrily behind him into the woods. “What’s your plan?” she asked. She knew he must have one.

“I am glad that you asked,” he said, his one-sided smile stretching wider. “It means you wish to be a part of it.”

She did. More than anything else in the world, she did.

Turning off the projector, Antipov leaned his elbow against the side of the stand. Once more, his gaze peered into her. “In the week that you were gone, I left here briefly to pay a visit to President Belikov.”

The president of the NSU.

“I played for him the very recording I played for you. Needless to say, he was quite displeased. The two of us stuck a deal. The Nightmen have always been a…quandary, if you may, to Russian law enforcement. We have not always operated within the confines of the law.”

That was putting it mildly.

“I informed him of our stance in all of this—of our position against EDEN and our desire to see this conspiracy brought to an end. In swearing to him that with General Thoor dead, the Nightmen would change their ways, he swore to me that we would receive assistance from the NSU itself.”

At that, Natalie arched an eyebrow. “What kind of assistance?”

“Think of it as a…merger of resources. Our resource is our weaponry and our armor. The intelligence and ferocity that makes the Nightmen a feared adversary. Theirs, quite simply, is manpower. We will give them access to our goods, knowledge, and training, and in return, they will provide us with troops.”

Eyes narrowing, she said, “You’re mustering an army.”

“Yes. Empowered and endorsed by the NSU, we will replenish quickly the forces we lost in the attack. With soldiers coming to us directly from the National Soviet Military, we will soon grow to a size larger than Thoor ever imagined possible.”

“Won’t you be breaking tradition? I thought it was customary for Nightman recruits to murder someone before joining the ranks.”

Antipov nodded. “It was a rite of passage. Was is the operative word. The Murder Rule was an antiquated rule with no place in a civilized society. It was put into place to produce loyalty. We can achieve the same result without such needless death. A positive change, don’t you think?”

“Would you like to know what I think, general?”

“Of course.”

“I think you were desperate to bolster the ranks and you had to make concessions.”

His grin slowly stretched wider. Looking down slightly, Antipov chuckled before regarding her again. “Thoor and I disagreed on many things. The Murder Rule was chief among them. He believed that it was a filtering process. That there needed to be a certain level of savagery inherent in every Nightman. What he got, while indeed savage, was an army of broken souls.” Gesturing toward the door, he said, “Take Yuri Dostoevsky. He preaches now, to his very own kinsmen, and more and more are beginning to listen to him. While I do not share his beliefs, I recognize that his message of redemption resonates. Men who believe in a cause for the right reason are just as dangerous as those who lust for blood—and much, much more manageable.”

Natalie was following. “So you’re getting rid of the controversial rules and getting help from the NSU. And you’re going to use that to…?”

He stepped in her direction. “EDEN Command must be purged of conspirators. With a large enough force, we can fight our way in and bring those involved to justice.”

“Justice.” Natalie repeated the word almost as soon as he said it. Pressing her lips together, she shook her head. “When you say ‘justice,’ boy, I worry about what that means.”

Once more, he chuckled. “Some people cannot be reasoned with or brought to the light. The only way to protect the innocent from them is to remove them.”

“You mean kill them.”

There was no hesitation. “I do.”

From the beginning of her work with the outlaws, Natalie had been staunchly opposed to the taking of human life. This was about getting the truth out, not killing the conspirators. But now? Now, with so much at stake, was murder on the table? There was no argument in Natalie’s mind that innocents would die if EDEN Command was assaulted by the Nightmen. Sure, the conspirators might fall, but so would an innocent security guard, just there to do his or her job. So would a scientist, caught by a stray bullet while running for cover. So would a chef. So would a civilian contractor. Bullets knew nothing of guilt or innocence. They would tear through one’s flesh like they would another’s. In going along with Antipov’s proposal, Natalie was essentially saying that this was okay. That these losses were acceptable. The forest at large was more important than the individual trees. Was she ready to say that? Was she, really?

Closing her eyes, Natalie lowered her head. All the while she sat—all the while she considered—Antipov remained silent, as if he knew what she was going through. Natalie’s stomach turned when clarity finally came. When she knew the answer she would select. The answer she must select. The entire species was at risk.

What else could she do?

“Okay,” she said, opening her eyes and lifting them to meet his. “I’m in.” The pain. It ached in her so badly. It almost made her double over.

Matching her nod with a slow one of his own, he said plainly, “We do what must be done.”

She hated that she agreed. “We do what must be done.”

Silence came between them as Antipov stood before her, until at long last he lowered himself into the seat by her side. She glanced at him briefly—only until it became apparent that his purpose was merely to sit by her. To join her, as she was joining him. Sucking in a deep breath, he said placidly, “When I was young, I used to work construction jobs with my father. I must have been nine, ten years old. Simple jobs, you know, pick up the nails, carry some bricks. What a child can do.”

Ears perked, Natalie turned to him as she listened.

“For three summers, I did this work. Sweating, a mess by the end of the day, and not particularly cut out for that kind of work at that age. But I would always remember, at the end of every day, when all of the other workers had gone home, my father and I would sit on the tailgate of his truck, watch the sun set, and drink ice cold bottles of Popov soda.” The slightest of smiles, uncharacteristically warm, emerged on his lips. “It was miserable work. I hated it. But those memories at the end of each day, drinking that soda next to my father, not even saying a word…” He reached out with his hand, as if to grab at something—a thought, or some tangible image floating just out of his grasp. After holding his hand out for a moment, he lowered it again. “Those were good days. Those were the best days of my life. Before Hong Kong or Ignatius van Thoor. Days of innocence that every boy should have.” Propping one leg across the other, he wrapped his hands around them. “That is what we are fighting to preserve. Those experiences, those human moments. Those stories of our species.” Gesturing with his hands, he said, “If we lose that, if we lose…us…then it will be a sad day for the universe. We will not be so easily replaced.”

What poignant words. They were unexpected. But she understood them.

“Natalie,” he said, “if I may call you that.” She didn’t stop him. “I need you to understand that we are fighting a great evil. I admire your purity, I admire your ideals—I know them. But what you must understand, what is unique to this situation, is that in this war—in this particular war—ideals can not only kill you, they can destroy our species.” Leaning back a bit, he said, “I know that you requested rubber bullets on the operation in Japan. Your intentions were good. They represented everything that EDEN purports to be about.”

Already knowing where this was heading, she lowered her head.

“If you fight with us, you will need to be prepared to take innocent life. Not on purpose, never on purpose. But you must understand that in those split-second decisions, in those fights to the death, you will face people in EDEN uniforms who are just like you. They will try to kill you, because they believe you are evil. You will not have time to explain the truth to them.”

She knew this. She knew all of this. It didn’t mean she had to like it.

“If there is one thing I learned from General Thoor,” Antipov said, “it is that everyone has a primal function. Something that, once unlocked, once unleashed, makes them superior. Remington had aggression. Thoor saw that in him. He does not want to slide stealthily about the battlefield or sneak around undetected—despite how he came to you in Cairo. If the choice is his, he will come straight at you.” He made a fist. “Like a punch in the face.” Silence briefly came over them as he turned Natalie’s way. “What you have that makes you superior is meticulousness. You will do things the right way. You are technical in your execution. You believe that preparation and repetition are the keys to victory.” Nodding, he said, “That makes you extremely appealing as a commanding officer.”

He was going somewhere with this.

“I have a vision for you here, among the Nightmen. A role that I feel is perfect for you.” Drawing another breath, he said, “I call this position a valkyrie.”

Natalie raised an eyebrow.

“Full disclosure, you would not be the first person to receive that title,” Antipov said. “That honor goes to Mrs. Timmons.”

Now that garnered a reaction. “Esther?” she asked incredulously. “Are you telling me Esther is a Nightman?”

“The first woman to call herself that, yes.”

“I knew it.” All those times when it felt like Esther had privileged information. Come to find out, she did. “I mean, I didn’t know it, but…I knew it.”

Antipov said, “She has proven herself to be quite valuable in the short time she’s been with us.”

“So what is a valkyrie? Is it just a woman in a Nightman uniform?”

A look of slight disappointment crossed his face. “A valkyrie is the hand that hovers over the pieces. Choosing who to put where. Choosing what they are to do. Making the difficult decisions that no one else can make. That valkyrie also happens to be a feminine name, well…what can I say? We have our style. I have always felt that women are underutilized in command roles. I consider myself an extender of opportunity.”

Shaking her head and smirking, she said, “Boy, you could sell water to a whale.”

“It is only the truth.”

She was sure that it wasn’t. “And so you want to make people like me and Esther the hand. To teach us how to be like you.”

At that, he hummed uncomfortably. “I would never wish you to be like me. That is a fate no good person deserves. But I do believe your meticulousness makes you valuable. Dangerous, even. You want to be both of those things, correct?”

Who didn’t? Just the same, the thought of becoming some dark puppet master just didn’t sound appealing. “With all due respect?” she asked before he could continue.

Already, his look of disappointment was evident. “Of course.”

“I’m not interested in being a valkyrie. That’s just…not my style. Being that ‘hand’ you keep talking about.” Sighing in disappointment, Antipov opened his mouth to speak, but her words cut him off. “I’d rather be a fulcrum.”

His eyes squinted, and he angled his head. The master of the eidola looked genuinely surprised. After a hesitation, he asked, “You wish to be a fulcrum?”

“Yeah, if…that’s what you call it, right?”

Leaning back in his chair, Antipov’s gaze swept over her, as if considering a thought he’d never explored before. As if, perhaps a little bit, he was even intrigued by it. “Are you sure that is what you want?”

“Let Esther play valkyrie. I’m a bit of a different breed.” Only weeks ago, the thought of being one with the Nightmen—being an actual fulcrum—would have been offensive. But now, in light of all of this? She’d have been lying to herself if she said she didn’t outright want it.

“You would be the first female fulcrum. And the first Nightman to have not committed murder.”

I can live with that. Whoa, wait a minute! Does that mean Esther murdered someone?

A thin smile stretched on his lips. “Fulcrum Rockwell,” he said, as if sounding it out and being satisfied with what he heard. “Welcome to the Nightmen. I will speak with Artur at once. I am sure that soon afterward, he will contact you for measurements.”

What Esther did is Esther’s business—and whatever’s done is done. Scott “murdered” someone, too, and we all know how that actually went down. “Nothing like a custom suit—especially if it’s a suit of armor.”

“Would you like to accompany me there now?”

At that, she paused. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to check on my comrades first. Make sure everyone is okay.”

“As you wish, then. I will relay my request to Artur, then get back to my own business. Here is my private comm frequency,” he said, extending his comm toward Natalie’s and linking the two. “If there is anything you require—anything at all—you will know where to reach me.”

“Thank you, general.”

At the mention of his title, he smiled and dipped his head. “Thank you, captain. Let us do good work.”

That was always the plan.

Without a parting word, Antipov walked out of the briefing room and disappeared into the halls.

There were so many thoughts spinning through Natalie’s head as she stepped into the hall. Forced to step aside as a pair of leash-led necrilids click-clacked past her, she gazed upon the world in which she now lived. Nightmen, necrilids, conspiracies. What in the world would be next?

“Captain Rockwell.”

Turning her head toward the new voice, Natalie saw Valentin Lukin standing in the hall. The pit-faced keeper beckoned her to approach. “I wish to speak with you,” he said, his dark brown eyes surveying her. “If you will follow me.” Immediately, he turned to lead her away.

“Hang on a minute,” she said. “I need to go back and check on my comrades first.”

There wasn’t even an attempt by Valentin to sound placating. “A task for a different time. Please, come with me now.”

A real winner, this one. “Look, pal, I have a crew that’s banged up and exhausted. I am going back to the medical bay to make sure they’ve been tended to, and if you don’t like that, we can take it up together with Antipov.” Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Behind her, Valentin snarled. “What is it with you Americans?”

“Yeah, we’re getting quite the reputation lately.”

“If you must see your crew, then please, take the elevator and see your godforsaken crew. I will follow right behind you. Then, we will have a word.”

Throwing up a hand, she said, “I will gladly submit to your queries once I’m done in the med bay.” Not attempting to hide her disgust, she marched toward the elevator.

The medical bay was packed; there were injured Nightmen everywhere, each being frantically triaged and attended to by what looked like every nurse Northern Forge had on staff. Gavriil Shubin was there, looking at a collage of X-ray images pulled straight from battlefield medical analyzers. Six other nurses were present, all of whom she recognized, though she only knew the names of Inna, the oldest nurse in the rotation, and Marina Antipova, who was Antipov’s daughter. It was the first time Natalie could remember the pixie-haired nurse without a scowl on her face, though considering the situation, it was understandable. The scene seemed too chaotic for anyone to have time to stop and smell the misery.

Almost as soon as she set foot into the room, Natalie found herself pushed against the back wall with Valentin, having to quickly step out of the way to allow some of the other nurses to pass. There were far too few beds to accommodate everyone who needed one, so many of the injured were sitting or leaning against the walls.

Next to her, Valentin lowered his chin. “It is as I told you. Everyone is being tended to.”

While the state of everyone “being tended to” was up for debate, what wasn’t was that Northern Forge, and particularly Gavriil Shubin, seemed to be doing the absolute best that they could in a situation they were ill-equipped to handle. Natalie looked for anyone she might find familiar. As it turned out, the only person who fit that bill was Lisa Tiffin. The Vector was lying on a table at the back of the room, her dark brown ponytail hanging as a pair of nurses worked over her.

Valentin must have noticed her, too. “Never in my darkest of dreams would I have expected to find a Vector in this place.”

I’m sure she never expected to find herself here, either, Natalie thought. “Where is everyone else? From my team?”

The keeper seemed to be looking for them, too. He shook his head. “I do not know. They must have been moved out. Were any of them seriously injured?”

“No. We lost a Nightman—Paul Kaverin—but that was it. The only other one who got injured was the Vector.” Inside, she chastised herself for relegating Lisa to just a title. I got into it with Logan for that very same thing with Ju`bajai. Speaking of Logan... Where was he in all this confusion? She found it unlikely that he’d have just slipped into the fold with everyone else. The survivors of the train hijack team all had friends and comrades here. The only person that Logan had was Natalie.

Seeming to mull over Natalie’s prior words, Valentin said, “I knew Kaverin.”

I know you did. He was one of the slayers you gave to us. With a base so small, it seemed that everyone would know everyone to some extent. How did it feel for Bedrich to be the sole survivor? Probably the same way that Feliks felt after Cairo, or Pyotr felt after Krasnoyarsk, or me after…everything. The Fourteenth seemed to have a way of picking up lost souls. Maybe Bedrich would end up becoming one of them, as Feliks and Pyotr practically had.

It was then that Natalie noticed a striking absence from the medical bay. Squinting her eyes with curiosity, she looked over at the bed where Max Axen had once been restrained. “Where is Max?”

Based on the dour expression that crossed Valentin’s face, the topic of Max was one of irritation. “He was not…conducive to the atmosphere here. He has been moved to his own room and is staying in a regular bed.”

Though she didn’t know Max terribly well, she could definitely see how the phrase “not conducive” might accurately describe him.

Raising a finger, Valentin left Natalie’s side to weave through the crowd toward Doctor Shubin. After a short exchange with the man, he returned to Natalie. “Your friends have been placed in rooms in the living quarters where they may shower and rest.”

Shower and rest. That sounded nice.

The keeper continued. “A debriefing has been set for 1600 hours in the conference room. You may, of course, get cleaned up and rested yourself.”

Nice-sounding or not, she scarcely felt she had time. She’d tough things out for the rest of the day and then collapse that night. “Is she going to be okay?” she asked, nodding her head in Lisa’s direction.

“I am sure,” answered the keeper. “Her situation does not seem to be dire. They will take care of her.”

Angling her head with a touch of suspicion, she asked, “And then what?”

“She will be placed in the containment cell until we…until the general figures out what to do with her.” He paused. “Have you seen enough to be content?”

Yes. No. She didn’t know. “Yeah,” she answered with a sigh. “If you want to talk, let’s go talk.” She’d track down everyone else afterward—if they weren’t all sacked out. “Thanks for taking me here.” Though it hadn’t done much good in the tangible sense outside of showing her the chaos of it all, it’d at least shown her that Valentine could be bargained with.

“Thank you,” he said with a sigh of his own. “Please, come with me.”

The trek to the keeper’s suite was as quiet and awkward as she imagined it’d be. It was Natalie’s first time visiting the place, though she’d known that it existed. After Nobu’s suite, it was hard to fathom being impressed with whatever the keeper had to offer. When Valentin opened the door, she realized she was wrong. Emerald eyes widening, she stared at the suite he called his own. It wasn’t that it was fancy—it wasn’t—it was just that it was…cozy. Warm. It looked like she’d stepped into an actual home that she could have found anywhere in rural America. The only thing missing was a crackling fireplace. “Nice pad,” she said, the understatement intentional.

“Have a seat.” He motioned to the loveseat as he walked to the sofa.

After padding her way to the loveseat, she turned to the wall nearest them. When she laid eyes on said wall, all warmth and comfort was sucked from her. Camera feeds. From one end of a massive, wall-mounted monitor to the next, there were camera feeds. The hangar. The mess hall. The infirmary. Holy smokes, he has cameras in our rooms! General surveillance was one thing, but this was outright voyeurism. “Oh, you’re kidding me.”

Immediately, he scoffed. “Why do you all act so surprised to see this? I am in charge of this facility. I need to know what takes place in it. I cannot physically be everywhere at once, so this is what must be done. Why is that so strange?”

“That you even have to ask why cameras in our rooms is strange is…” She didn’t have the words.

“Please, let us talk.”

Though the fully attuned way he was staring at her reminded her of Antipov, the impression it gave off couldn’t have been more contrasting. Antipov was completely relaxed and confident, with an expression that at times looked more bored than anything else. Valentin, on the other hand, looked like he might leap off the couch if so much as a cricket chirped. He looked totally strung out.

“Firstly,” he said, eyes averting from her briefly, “I need you to understand that despite whatever privilege Antipov may have insinuated you have at this facility, it is my word that is law here. While you are here, you will do as I say.”

Oh, you sad, sad man.

When she didn’t answer right away, his breathing intensified a bit. She could see it in the subtly increasing way that his chest moved up and down. After the most awkward eight-second pause she’d ever experienced, he raised his eyebrows. “Do you understand?”

She, too, drew in a breath—though it was far more relaxed and drawn out than the keeper’s. At long last and with a sigh, she answered, “Sure.”

He nodded right away. “Good. Because I don’t want you to think you can test me here.”

“You’re the man,” she said, a tad flippantly. “Message received.”

“Good.” Another nod, then he leaned back a bit. In the tiniest measure, he seemed to relax. “I am glad we are clear.”

If that was all this chat was about, she was going to be sorely disappointed.

“I have been instructed to give you the full report of what has taken place at the forge in the time you have been gone.”

Natalie narrowed her eyes peculiarly.

“We have brought in more workers from Norilsk. The forge is to be in full operation twenty-four hours a day.” He paused. “If any of you feel the need to resupply, please speak with Artur. I will ensure that he gives you and your new squad whatever is needed.”

“That’s very generous.”

“You have an extraterrestrial with you. The Ithini. She will be allowed the same freedom as the Ceratopian and necrilids, as she was given prior to the mission in Atami. I am sure she will be no trouble.”

Natalie shook her head. “She won’t be.”

“Good.” After a pause that looked like hesitation, he said, “I am concerned with the Vector and Logan Marshall. I do not wish either of them to be here, I will be honest.”

“Lisa won’t bother you. Kind of hard for her to when she’s locked up in a cell.”

Mouth twisting downward a bit, Valentin said, “Marshall troubles me more than she does.”

Figured. “Look, I get that in Japan, he’s kind of a big deal. But I assure you, the only thing he’ll want to do here is sulk off in some corner. He won’t create trouble.”

Valentin narrowed his eyes warily. When her expression remained clueless, he asked, “Are you aware of who Logan Marshall is to us?”

To them? Now that prompted an arched eyebrow and an odd look. “I am not aware. But I’m starting to get a feeling now that I should be.”

“Mm.”

What in the world is mm?

Stoic expression unchanged, Valentin sat a little more upright. Perhaps a bit of pride, knowing more about the man she’d spent time in Atlanta with than she did. “Then that will be something you will have to take up with Antipov, I’m afraid.” He paused. “Or Marshall himself.”

“Okay, time out.” She made the gesture with her hands. “If there’s something I don’t know about Logan that I need to, please tell me.”

“It is not my place to—”

“I’m making it your place,” she interrupted. “I demand to know what his relationship is with the Nightmen.”

A small curl emerged at the corner of his lips, and he chuckled. “Cute.”

She held up a fist. “I’ll cute these five knuckles square across your lower jaw.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“You’d better believe it is.”

He shook his head. “If I believed that you were serious—or that you could actually pose any threat to me whatsoever—I would probably be less inclined to answer you than I am. But because I believe neither of those things…”

Oh, you’re asking for it, mister.

“…when you speak to your friend, Marshall, ask him what the Ikeda-kai received in exchange for your delivery to us.”

So there was something to all that.

“More surprising than what it was is that Antipov was willing to barter with it at all.”

“I will most certainly ask him.”

His face remained deadpanned. “I hope that you do.”

“Okay, so. Yeah. I got a lot on my plate. Is there anything else you need from me? To ask of me? To yell at me about?” She pointed to the monitors. “You better not be watching me shower.”

Frankly, he stated, “If you knew me, you would know that I would never do that.”

“Why, are you gay?”

The expressionless look on his face hardened. He looked utterly unamused. “No.”

“Yeah, well.” She sighed. “You live in a sausage factory, so I wouldn’t have blamed you if you were.”

“May I speak candidly?”

She threw up her hands haphazardly. “Absolutely.”

“You are a very irritating woman.”

Had she not been in an increasingly foul mood, she might have appreciated the dryness with which he hurled the remark. Unfortunately, though, she had better things to do than marvel at Valentin’s wit. Rising to a stand, she said, “On that note, I’m going to leave.”

After nodding his head slowly, he gestured to the door. “Please do.”

It came to her as she was headed for the door that she’d watched Valentin officiate Jayden and Esther’s wedding, which meant he must’ve been part of a priesthood. Perhaps that’s what he’d meant by “had she known him at all.” Nonetheless, it was neither here nor there. She was ready to leave this room—as well as his most holy presence.

“Miss Rockwell.”

Stopping to face him, she said, “It’s captain, actually.”

“I sincerely hope we do not speak again.”

At that remark, she smirked. “Well, look at that, Lukin. I knew we could find common ground.” Taking a step backward, she pivoted and made her way out.

The elevator chimed as it reached Level-3, Natalie having bypassed the living quarters entirely in her quest to find Logan. There was zero chance he’d be spending time in tight quarters with the survivors of Falcon Platoon. It was more likely he was at a table by himself in the mess hall, filling his bottomless pit of a stomach. She’d begin her quest for him there. And even if she didn’t find him there, well…her stomach was rumbling a tad, anyway. Maybe she’d grab a snack. After ingesting the saltiness that was Valentin, she could go for something a little sweet. She felt like she’d earned it.

As it turned out, Logan was nowhere to be found in the cafeteria, which was as cramped as she’d ever seen it. It indeed seemed like this place was pulsing around the clock. As inconvenient as it was to dodge Russians with every step, there was something about the frenetic pace of it all that she kind of liked. It gave the whole environment a sense of urgency. Some might have shied away from that kind of nervous energy in a place, but she didn’t mind it. It made her feel like things needed to get done quickly.

Natalie found some processed cereal bars off to the side of the cafeteria atop a snack table, just as she’d hoped. But as she took one in hand, the alluring aroma of freshly grilled chicken wafted from the cafeteria and up her nostrils. It reminded her that despite the speed she felt she needed to maintain, eating real food was important. And so, despite the list of things she had to do, Natalie afforded herself the luxury of standing in line, receiving an actual meal, and sitting down to eat it. She didn’t even mind sitting on the floor. After all she’d been through, she was learning to appreciate minor inconveniences in ways she never had. That was a good thing, she thought. But not quite so good as a grilled chicken breast. If she could smuggle in a bottle of barbeque sauce, she’d be set. As soon as she finished eating, the hunt for Logan Marshall would resume.

She would see to it that proper answers would follow.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-four

Thursday, April 5th, 0012 NE

1229 hours

Norilsk, Russia

“AND THAT’S WHAT happened.”

David’s words hung in the air like an unfinished sentence, despite the drop in his tone that indicated otherwise. Esther listened to it as she stood in David and Max’s room, one arm hanging downward as the other held it in place.

The instant the scout had set foot back in Northern Forge, she made it her mission to reunite with her comrades of old. While it’d been made clear to her and everyone else from the rescue that they could seek rest, Esther couldn’t bring herself to return to the room she had shared with Jayden. The last time she’d seen it, she’d been with him, the pair cradling each other like they were facing the end of the world together. How strange it all felt in retrospect now. Returning to that room was an obstacle she wasn’t quite ready for. Instead, she sought out the only two people at Northern Forge she knew would make her feel at home: David and Max—and of course, a merry little canine who knew nothing of conspiracies or grief, but who’d leapt on Esther when she’d entered the room like she was his favorite human on Earth. It was good to see Flopper, too.

It was also good to see David and Max out of the medical bay. David’s thigh, where he’d been shot at Hami Station, was on the mend. Though there was a pair of crutches leaning against the corner, he’d apparently been getting around fine without them. He jokingly called it, “the metabolism of youth.” Esther knew it was determination.

She was more surprised to see Max up and about. Against all odds, the lieutenant was on his way to what could actually be called a full recovery. It’d been three weeks since he’d been shot in the throat during EDEN’s attack on Novosibirsk. In that time, he’d battled both a tracheostomy and a collapsed lung. The tracheostomy tube had only just been removed several days prior, which was evident by the large, white bandage taped to the middle of his neck. In order for his throat to heal properly, Gavriil Shubin had placed him on a “words per day” limit, which even in Esther’s melancholy state she found hilarious. David assured her that while Max’s ability to complain was hindered, he was no less of a sourball, reserving most of his words for snippy remarks and profanity. It meant all that much more to Esther, then, when he offered part of his word allowance to her in the form of a simple, yet painfully sincere, “It’s good to see ya, kid.”

It'd taken almost an hour for Esther to get caught up on everything that’d taken place in the time she’d been away. David told her that they’d been informed of the true nature of the train hijack mission by Antipov, who seemed to have made it a priority to reach out to the beleaguered unit upon his arrival at Northern Forge. That saved her from the agony of having to tell them about it herself. As expected, the surviving members of the Fourteenth were furious upon learning of the news—though Antipov, as he had a way of doing, still managed to explain his actions in a way that almost made them seem noble. He spoke of a greater mission and a greater good, and he explained to them that in the operation to come against EDEN Command, he would make the retrieval of Scott, Tiffany, and the unknown survivor a priority.

Of all the revelations Esther heard from David, nothing was as shocking as hearing that Antipov possessed the very audio recording that they’d hijacked the train to steal. And it was that recording—at least for David, Max, and everyone else from the Fourteenth—that put Antipov’s otherwise nefarious actions into perspective. He was not a good guy. Not by any stretch. But when his acts were contrasted to the fate of the entire human species, how could he not be seen in a better light? That was enough, at least, to prevent Max from violating his six-week restraint on physical activity by punching the new general in the face.

And all of that—in David’s own words—was what had happened. His unfinished sentence now hung in the air, waiting for Esther to pick up whenever she felt ready. When her silence lingered, David took the reins again. “How are you doing?”

Esther’s emotions were as in check as they could possibly be—which was to say, barely in check at all. Yet, answer she did, as best as she was able. “I have to choose in my heart,” she said quietly, “whether I want Jayden or Becan to be dead.” Both men closed their eyes. “I am in the process of burying my husband in my heart.”

“Ess…” said David.

She shook her head. “It’s more complicated than it seems. More complicated than how it just affects me.” To the best of her knowledge, none of them knew about Becan’s little secret. None of them knew that he had a son.

“Listen,” David said. “It’s not wrong to want Jayden back. You’re his wife, he’s your husband.”

Max nodded, putting his few words to good use. “Don’t feel bad,” he said hoarsely.

“Like I said,” she said, fidgeting, “it’s more complicated than that.” Her eyes lifted to look at them, then they zeroed in on David. “Do you remember a girl named Natasha?”

Blinking, David canted his head. “Natasha?” He seemed to think on it.

“Back at Richmond.”

“Oh wait, her? Wow, I mean. Yeah, I remember a Natasha.” Shaking his head confusedly, he asked, “What’s she got to do with you and Jayden? How do you even know about her?”

Here it came. “Actually…she has more to do with Becan.”

“With Becan?”

“Who is Natasha?” asked Max.

Turning to him, David answered, “She was in our first unit. Before we got shipped here.”

Max nodded his head. “Ah.”

“Yeah, well,” Esther said, “she also just bore Becan’s child.”

The two men turned their heads to her, staring strangely, as if they didn’t comprehend what she’d just said. At long last, blinking unceremoniously as if he was snapping out of some daze, David asked, “What?”

“Becan got a girl named Natasha pregnant while he was at Richmond. So, as you can see—”

“Wait, what?” David asked, voice rising.

She rolled her eyes. “God, please don’t make me say it again.”

“Becan has a freakin’ kid?”

Next to David, Max threw his hands up. “Seriously?” he asked, prompting David to place a hand against his chest to calm him down. Max looked utterly perplexed. “You’re Jayden’s wife, Becan’s some kid’s dad…I mean what the hell’s going on, here?”

“Ease back, I got this,” David said.

“Becan made a mistake,” Esther said, “if you even want to call it that. He has a child, and I think that’s beautiful.” While she spoke, David pressed his palms against his face.

“You know what I think?” Max asked.

“Dude, watch your words,” said David.

“I think Becan’s a moron.”

Typical men, inserting their unrequested opinions. “Whatever you want to say about it, the fact remains that Becan has a child. A beautiful baby boy, who doesn’t know his father. But his father wants to know him, desperately.” She pointed at herself. “I grew up without a father. I know that pain, that hole that nobody else can fill. I wouldn’t wish that on any soul, let alone a baby’s. He deserves to have a daddy’s finger to wrap his little hand around.” She’d initially thought this would be the hard part, though her irritation with the two men, ironically, made it easier to get out. “So that’s what I’m faced with, thank you for asking. Do I want to lose my husband, or do I want a boy to lose his father?”

Yet again, a span of silence fell between them, until at long last, Max set his hands on his hips and said, “Well, veck.”

“Yeah, veck,” said Esther, nodding at him. “Bloody, sodding, veck.” Face still flushed, she exhaled and looked at them both. “So that’s how I’m doing.”

Running his hand through his hair, David said, “All right.” His eyes distanced, as if rationalizing with himself. Finally, he nodded. “All right. I get it.”

“I’m glad that you get it. Now promise me that you’re going to stop saying nasty things about Becan. He’s our friend.” When neither man spoke, her eyes narrowed. “Promise me…”

“I promise,” said David.

When Max stayed silent, she looked pointedly at him. “Word count,” he said.

“Oh enough with your sodding word count,” she said. “You really cared about that when you were calling Becan a moron.”

“Okay, okay. I promise, too.” When her stare held steadfastly, he said again, “I promise, all right?”

She nodded firmly. “You’d both better keep it.” The room fell quiet, the looks of frustration on David and Max transitioning into something more sympathetic. Leaning back against the wall, Esther asked, “So what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to feel? I have to decide in my heart whether or not I want to lose my husband.” As they half-frowned, she said, “How fitting for me that the right answer must be yes.”

David inhaled as if to gather his thoughts. “Esther,” he said, “there is no right answer. Not for the question as to how you should feel. I know we certainly aren’t qualified to answer it.”

“I would still pull for Jayden,” said Max. “If I were you.”

“And wish someone an upbringing like the one I had? Utterly fatherless? Despising the man who brought me into the world?”

Offering what seemed as good a smile as he could manage, Max said, “You turned out okay.”

“I think the key difference is,” David added, “is that it sounds like your father had a choice. I don’t know your whole situation, but to despise the man like you say you do…that indicates something. It wouldn’t be the same for Becan’s kid.” Seeming to refute his own train of thought, the New Yorker quickly shook his head. “I mean, what the hell, this ain’t even something we should be talking about. Who do we want dead, Becan or Jayden? I’m gonna borrow a British term and call that poppycock.”

Faintly, Esther smirked.

“I started this ride with those two boys. And Scott, too. Hell, that out of all three of them I seem to be in the best shape right now is just freakin’ dreadful. But I don’t want any of them to die. Not a one. If there’s a way for both of them—Becan and Jayden—to still be alive, then that’s what I’m gonna pull for.”

She knew better. “You know that’s not the case.”

“Yeah, well it might not be likely, but it’s what I’m hoping for. Some big mistake on the part of the recovery team. Maybe one of them’s still in Japan in some hospital—a John Doe, waiting to be identified but still hangin’ on.”

It was a wonderful fantasy, but it was a fantasy. Pressing her hand to her forehead, she winced. “So now that we’ve addressed what had to be addressed, can we please talk about something else? Anything else? I have literally been consumed by this.”

After a pause, David quickly nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, absolutely—of course.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound—”

“You don’t sound nothing but tired,” he interrupted gently. “As you ought to be after all you’ve been through.”

Tired. She did feel tired. Perhaps more than she felt anything else, at this stage. Sighing distantly, she ran her fingers through her hair and lifted her eyes to her male counterparts. “You know, I am quite knackered. If you guys don’t mind, I might just try to rest.”

“Whatever you want to do.”

“Would it, umm…be okay if I slept in here? Just this once. I don’t think I’m ready to go back to that room, yet. Not without Jay.”

Both men nodded. “Absolutely. You can use my bed,” David said, as he turned to the closet. “I’ve got some fresh sheets in there, let me change them for you.”

At that, she smiled. “It’s okay. I’m more of a mess than you are.” She was yet to bathe after the battle. She stunk like sweat and humidity. “I can just change the sheets when I wake up, if it’s all the same to you.”

Raising his finger, David said, “How’s about a better idea? You’re sitting in one of the only two rooms in Northern Forge with a bathroom built in. It’s one of the perks of being next to the medical bay. Clean yourself off, Max’ll make a run to your room to get you some clothes, and I’ll change the sheets for you. You hop out the shower, throw on some pj’s, then sack out under some fresh, clean sheets. How’s that work for ya?”

Words couldn’t express how much that worked for her. Nor how much it meant. It was just like David. “That sounds wonderful,” she said quietly, with a smile.

“Off you go, then.” David nodded his head toward the bathroom door. “Don’t make Max make it an order.”

Walking to the bathroom, Esther stopped at its precipice to turn back around. Regarding the two men, a conflicted smile emerged—one that while draped in genuine gratitude was also quite haunted. Echoes of Room-14 reverberated in her head. What a better time in everyone’s lives that had been. “Thank you, both,” she whispered to them. “I missed you so much.” Neither man spoke in response. They only smiled sadly—no doubt considerate of the mixed expression on her face—and dipped their heads in acknowledgment. Turning around, Esther slipped through the bathroom door and then closed it behind her.

The scout’s shower in Max and David’s room could not have contrasted more to that first miserable one she’d experienced in Nobu’s suite—a place that while barely a day removed already felt like a distant memory. Perhaps it was that the past week had given her a chance to attune to her own emotions. To reason out her situation and her feelings. To prepare herself to accept whatever reality she was about to be handed. Or perhaps it was simply because there were no armed Yakuza waiting for her on the other side of the door, rather the warmth of the best friends in life she’d ever had. She’d told them how much she’d missed them, but what she couldn’t express was how much she’d needed them. How much she loved them. Perhaps someday, she would find a way to repay the love they had for her. It was a love she didn’t deserve.

The shower was wonderful, and as Esther poked her towel-dried head out of the bathroom door, she indeed saw that a small stack of clothes from her room had been left on the floor outside it. But that was not all she noticed, for there was an aroma that found her nostrils the moment she’d peeked her head out—the unmistakably rich and layered texture of a steaming cup of borsch. Though not exactly a staple in Britain, Russians loved the stuff. She couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t an option in Novosibirsk’s cafeteria. Though she’d never been its most ardent fan, something about the smell of that rich, beety stew warmed her heart. Sure enough, there was a tray from the cafeteria sitting atop the dresser, out of reach of Flopper—though that didn’t stop the pooch from staring up at it as if at any moment, it might leap off the dresser top to the floor for him. After wrapping her towel tightly around herself, she walked across the room to inspect the tray. Parked next to the borsch was a small slice of pie with a note. She unfolded it in her fingers to read.

For your mouth, not your face!

Esther laughed—the faintest, hushed giggle. Just one. “Dave,” she said quietly. Sitting anxiously by her feet, Flopper stared up at her, his tail wagging as his brown eyes begged for a bite. That made her smile, too. “I bet you’d like to stick your face in this.” Stepping back and turning around, Esther made her way back into the bathroom to put on her clothes.

Five minutes later, she was sitting on David’s bed wearing a plain white T-shirt and pajama bottoms and eating her first spoonful of borsch. Closing her eyes with satisfaction, she allowed the sweet flavors to linger before taking another bite. It wasn’t long before she was completely devouring the dish, offering Flopper occasional sad smiles of sympathy as he sat loyally at the bedside, posture upright like a soldier. In the end, the canine’s patience was rewarded, as she left a good quarter-inch of the stew in the bowl for him to lap up.

The pie, however, was all hers.

It wasn’t much longer before Esther was tucked under the covers of David’s bed, the crisp freshness of clean sheets enveloping her as she snuggled up warmly beneath them. Her feet were further warmed by Flopper’s lying down over them atop the covers. It took virtually no effort for the scout to lull herself to sleep. Rest came to her quickly. The best she’d had in a week.

She’d take it while she could.

* * *

IT FIGURED. AS Natalie stood in the weight room doorway, watching Logan pump iron on the other side of the room, all she could think was, It figured. The Australian was oblivious to her, his back to her as he worked out alongside several other Nightmen, none of whom were talking to one another. We return from a battle, everyone else is resting, but here’s Logan, lifting weights and sweating raindrops. I don’t know if that’s impressive or psychopathic. She guessed it was a little bit of both. Eyes focused on him, she left the doorway to weave through the weight machines toward him. When she crossed in front of him, he set his weights down. Blowing out an exhausted breath, the mercenary wiped his brow and set his hands on his hips. “What’s up?”

She wasted no time. “What was the trade?”

Raising an eyebrow, he asked her, “What?”

“What was the trade? What was traded to the Ikeda-kai for our freedom?” When he sighed and shook his head, she said, “Don’t play stupid. I know there was one. You used the word, and I saw Youko and Saretok exchange something. We were a part of it, so I want to know what it was.”

Logan walked past her, reaching down to grab a towel from the floor. After wiping it on his face, he walked exhaustedly away from her, gesturing with a lazy wave for her to follow. Stepping to catch up with him, she followed him all the way into the halls. Only after no one else was around did he face her. “A bioweapon,” he said begrudgingly.

A bioweapon? The perplexed look on Natalie’s face prompted him to continue.

“A long time ago, I was charged with the delivery of a package. Apparently, some Russians paid a hefty price for someone in Japan to develop a biological weapon. Some sort of virus.” Natalie angled her head to listen. “The selling point about this thing was that it operated at an accelerated pace. You’re not looking at a week or two in the hospital—you’re literally dead in a couple of hours, provided it gets inserted into the bloodstream, which was the only way to spread it.” Another morbid laugh escaped. “Once it got in, though, the thing was unstoppable. A headache, then a fever, then you’re done. A great killing tool if you’re looking to not leave a trail. When word of this thing got out, every clan in Japan wanted to get their hands on it. It was my job to make sure it got to the Russians safely. And yeah, by Russians, I mean Nightmen.”

A fever? Cocking her head, Natalie asked, “How long ago was this?”

“Years. Many, many years. Before EDEN was even a thought in my head.”

Before Natalie was a thought in it, either. “What’s the name of this thing?”

The Australian chuckled. “N, H, something, a bunch of numbers. You know how they name these things. The Nightmen called it the Silent Fever.”

Natalie’s eyes widened, and she stared ahead, right through him. The synapses fired in her brain as the connection was made. Dostoevsky. Yuri Dostoevsky. During the flight back from Japan, when he was telling her the history of the Fourteenth, he told her about the Silent Fever. The Nightman plague of Novosibirsk.

The virus that killed Scott’s fiancée.

Gasping, Natalie covered her mouth. The sudden gesture prompted Logan to blink, and he cocked his head strangely. “You all right?”

Dostoevsky had explained the whole setup to her. It’d been his own suggestion. His “worst moment as a human being,” he’d said. He knew Nicole’s murder would prompt Scott to take the life of her killer. To pass the basic qualification for joining the Nightman ranks. And it had worked. Because Nicole was dead. Because of the Silent Fever. Slowly, her eyes shifted to him. “You brought the Silent Fever to the Nightmen?”

Scanning the area as if to look for a hidden camera, he looked at her again and said, “Yeah.”

It was all because of him. Her eyes trailed away. “Oh my God,” she whispered.

“Okay, what in the world is—”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Her eyes were still distant, her voice cold.

Shaking his head, he said, “I’m gonna be honest, I’m completely mystified as to what any of this has to do with you. When has the Silent Fever ever impacted your life?”

When? What a stupid, stupid question for Logan to ask. If only he knew. He was about to. “When Scott Remington was assigned to infiltrate the Caracals.” Her stare returned to him. “When we got used.”

He leaned away and shook his head. “You’re gonna have to explain that one a little better than—”

“Scott became a Nightman because a Nightman murdered his fiancée.” She paused. “With a virus.”

The chastising look on his face faded. His skin seemed to pale.

“That you delivered.”

Logan’s mouth opened. No words came out. For the first time in as long as Natalie could ever remember, the Australian was speechless. At long last, he found something to utter. “Now hold on a minute.”

“You dregg.”

Holding out his palm, he said, “That was a long time ago. How in the hell was I supposed to know that—”

“That a biological weapon in the hands of the Nightmen might hurt someone? Oh, I don’t know.” Her sarcasm was razor sharp. Slicing. “I thought it might have just crossed your mind.” He was responsible. For all of this—this whole mess they were in. He was responsible. Had it not been for Logan, Scott would still be EDEN’s Golden Lion. “You’re the reason Scott’s fiancée is dead.”

“Now that’s enough.” This time, it was Logan’s voice that hardened. “I’m not responsible for what anybody does other than me. You know what would have happened had I not delivered that package?” He pointed behind him, as if some visual aid was there. “Someone else would’ve. Don’t make me the scapegoat for a man’s poor fortune and choices.”

Her expression remained stoic. “You said it was no easy task—delivering it. Could anyone else have done it? Other than you?”

He hesitated.

She knew the answer. Looking away from him, she said, “I cannot believe this.”

“You know, you never had one problem with me until this braindead bloke came strolling along.”

“Don’t you even—”

“Don’t I even, what? Tell you the truth? This psychopath has had you running around on some fool’s errand, chasing insane sodding conspiracies—”

And that was all she could take. Voice erupting in the hallways, she shouted, “It was all true!” Flinching back, Logan’s own eyes widened at her volume. “Every bit of what Scott said was true. I just heard it myself! I heard the audio, I heard Benjamin Archer. I heard what he sacrificed himself to try and secure!” Heat emanated from her face. “This man lost everything he ever cared for. His parents, his fiancée, his faith—his reputation, his soul! And every time he loses, he crawls back through the mud to try and get right.”

“Yeah, and you know this from your lifelong experience with him, right?”

“I don’t need lifelong experience with Scott to know it. I know it when I talk to his teammates! I know it when they tell me who he is—I can see it in their faces.”

His jaw set, Logan shook his head. “You should have listened to me, Nattie. You should have listened when I told you to tuck tail and run. That’s not always cowardice. Sometimes it’s common bloody sense.” He threw his arms out. “And now look where we are. Look around. Look!” The redness on his face matched hers. “We’re bloody sunk, Nattie. You know what this is for us? It’s the end of the road.”

“You,” she said. “You, you, you, you, you—”

“What in the hell are you—”

“—you, you, you you, you, you, you—”

He slammed his fist sideways into the wall. “What the hell is your bloody problem?”

“That’s all I hear!” she shouted. “That’s all I hear when I talk to you! You, you, you, you, you, you, you—it’s all how everything affects you! Never a thought for the greater good, never a thought for the well-being of anyone other than you!” She jammed a finger into his chest. “Now that’s cowardice!”

Teeth grinding, he growled and drew in a breath. When he turned to look away, she stepped in front of his glare.

“You want to walk away? You want to tuck tail and run from me? I’m on this ride because I choose to be. And I am so sick—I am so sick—of trying to pull you in, physically, emotionally, in every possible way.”

“This is Remington’s bloody war!” the Australian erupted, sticking his face right into hers. “It never was ours! I want to survive,” he screamed, pointing at himself. “What do you want?”

That, she could answer. “I want to die having had a point.”

Logan inhaled and exhaled through his flared nostrils. “Well, you’re well on your way to that.”

I’m done. I’m done with him. I can’t deal with this anymore. She’d tried so hard to get Logan on board with what was happening. On board with what mattered. She realized now that would never happen. Taking a step back, she shook her head, turned around, and walked away from him up the hall. Predictably, he called out to her.

“Just come back and listen to what I have to say! That’s all I need, just one minute!”

His time was up.

“I’ve been with you since day-one in EDEN!” he said. “This guy kidnapped you. Why are you choosing him over me?”

Scott over him. He really thought that was it. But if that was the way he wanted to think about it—if that was the way his simple mind functioned—she’d be glad to stoop down to that level. Stopping her stride up the hall, Natalie allowed herself one final word. A nail in the coffin that Logan would understand. Emerald glare sizzling, she said, “Every single thing Scott told me turned out to be true. Everything from you was a lie.” Turning around, Natalie marched up the hall.

Logan watched until she was out of view. Face flushing bright red, the Australian curled his fists, swung one through the air as hard as he could, and shouted at the top of his lungs.

Natalie heard him, even from far down the hall. But this time, his disappointment was his to deal with. He’d accepted that responsibility when he’d accepted the job to deliver the Silent Fever to the Nightmen. He loved to say that actions bred consequences. He was reaping the consequences of his actions now. Whatever he chose to do, she wouldn’t stand in his way. Her hands were washed.

In the hours that passed between then and 1600, Natalie retired to the rooms where the rest of the escapees had been assigned. Predictably, they were all asleep—some in beds, others scattered on the floor. Though the temptation was strong to join them, she knew there were more important matters at hand. Slipping quietly into the bathroom and locking the door, Natalie enjoyed the steaming privacy of a nice, hot shower. A final cleansing of Atami from her skin. When she finished, she found a black, Nightman uniform in the closet waiting for her. There was something strangely appropriate about that—at least, in the immediate aftermath of her confrontation with Logan. The putting on of a new uniform was as symbolic as it was practical for where she was. She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about the fact that she didn’t mind it.

Eventually, 1600 hours rolled around, and as requested, she made the short trek to the Level-3 conference room for a debriefing. None of her comrades accompanied her, which indicated they were probably all still sleeping. She didn’t mind. After all they’d been through, they deserved it. She was more than confident she could handle things on her own.

The meeting, as it turned out, was only between Natalie, Antipov, Saretok, and Valentin. All in all, it consisted of little more than what she’d told Antipov already. She explained the original operation, what took place on a ground level, and how they’d spent their last week in Atami with the Ikeda-kai. It didn’t take long for her to realize that she was sick of talking about all of those things, and she quickly found herself struggling to make the recap sound remotely interesting. For what it was worth, it seemed to matter little to Saretok and Valentin. They both looked equally bored from the start. Barely ten minutes after she’d begun, the two Nightmen looked eager to wrap things up. She was happy to oblige.

At that point, with nothing else on the agenda, Natalie decided to finally turn in for some rest. It was early—scarcely evening at all—but she had a feeling that sleep would hit her hard. Even if it didn’t, there was nothing wrong with getting an early start to the next day.

After making her way out of the conference room, Natalie sought out the Falcons’ shared accommodations. Though they had all awoken by that point, they were more than happy to leave the room so she could find sleep. Turning off the lights and tucking herself into the covers, she closed her eyes and lost herself in a labyrinth of possibilities. Even with the hustle and bustle of Nightmen outside—a constant barrage of boot steps that never seemed to fade—she fell asleep within minutes.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-five

Date unknown

Time unknown

Ban-Hezikal, Kalar

SVETLANA WAS EJECTED from her slumber, her eyes popping open amid a sudden, jostling commotion from the chamber just beyond the archway of her suite. As she and her alien comrades sat upright, they beheld Yigôzien as she ran into the chamber. There was no blue in her eyes. On the contrary, they were the darkest yellow Svetlana had ever seen.

She addressed Akàziendi and Toro-shun, both of whom had also been sleeping, in words that were tumbling out and running together. Seconds after she finished speaking, the two darishu leapt to their feet and rushed to the window.

Svetlana scanned the room for Ed. As soon as she set her eyes on the groggy Ithini, she snapped her fingers and pointed to Yigôzien. Seconds later, the connection was established.

There was no delay from Yigôzien. She spoke to Svetlana the moment the connection was felt. Beyond the translated words, her voice quivered. “Ophareim has come for you!”

Ophareim…? It was too early—too rushed an awakening—to think straight. “What?” she asked, blinking.

“The Kalareim are here!”

And that got Svetlana stirring. Throwing off her covers, she leapt from the floating bed and onto the floor. “The Kalareim?” With sunrise barely peeking over the horizon, she rushed to the window to survey the grounds of Ban-Hezikal. What she saw floored her.

It was a platform. A large, floating platform, hovering mere inches over the runa legras. Atop it sat what looked like a tent, its thick, fabric walls swaying in the wind. Standing before it, wrapped from head to toe in loose garments, was a row of figures. Not a single part of them could be seen. They were completely covered like desert wanderers.

“He has come for you,” Yigôzien said, her porcelain skin taking on a new shade of pale. “How he found us, I do not know!”

It looked like some nomadic tribe had moved in by the landing site, right there where Svetlana had taken her first steps on the surface. Finally registering Yigôzien’s words, she looked at her and asked, “Who has come for me?”

“The banner that waves over the tent. It is the sign of Tributurian!”

Tributurian? Why did that name sound familiar?

“He is the leader of the Kalareim!”

And that explained it. Svetlana wasted no time. After grabbing her steel blue mask and wardrobe, she began getting dressed.

“What are you doing?”

“I am going down to meet them.”

Yigôzien gasped. “You cannot!”

“I am the vecking Incarnate,” Svetlana answered with narrowed eyes. “I can do whatever I want.”

Her tenacity did nothing to quell Yigôzien’s emotions. “But they are here for you! There is no other reason why they would have come.”

All the more reason to meet them. “Then you must hurry, as must I. I do not wish to keep them waiting.” With her outfit on, she strode for the door.

Yigôzien moved to block her, but Akàziendi reached out with her hand to stop her. Svetlana registered her protector in the connection.

It was the very first time that Svetlana had felt Akàziendi’s presence in her head, despite the time they had spent together. Ed was never present for their sparring sessions, and the one time that Svetlana had ever heard Akàziendi’s translated words, they’d been in the voice of Yigôzien at Sélestere. For all practical purposes, Akàziendi had been an unknown until now.

Akàziendi spoke, her somewhat raspy voice speaking to Yigôzien in what was clearly admonishment. But for some reason, her words were untranslated.

It did not take long for Ed to chime in. Apologies, master. I am having a measure of difficulty relaying Akàziendi’s thoughts and words. They are not as easily discernable.

What do you mean? Svetlana asked.

Ed answered, There is a level of resistance that is not present in the other Kalarael that I have connected with. This is my first experience connecting with a darishu. I can only surmise that their thoughts and motivations are not as openly displayed as their brethren.

That made sense. Svetlana recalled the conversation she’d had long ago regarding the darishu and their helmets hiding their eye color. That Akàziendi no longer wore her helmet—or counted herself among the darishu, for that matter—likely mattered little. Old habits were probably as hard to break for the Kalarael as for Earthae.

I am making progress. You will now hear her in the connection.

Indeed, Akàziendi’s translated words emerged in Svetlana’s mind. She sounded American. “You know they will not depart until they have seen her,” she said scathingly to Yigôzien. “To sequester her here is to put all of us in danger.”

“How, sister?” Yigôzien asked. A new title between the two Servants of the Incarnate. It sounded strange to hear.

Akàziendi answered firmly. “If we do not go out to meet them, they will force their way in. The Incarnate has longed to see the Kalareim since we first made mention of them. Let her see them, and them her. I will go with her and keep her safe.”

Svetlana liked the sound of that, and she said as much. “Yes!” Both Kalarael looked at her. “Yes, Akàziendi is right. I have longed to see them. I must, if I am to properly understand the dynamics of this planet’s politics. I know how formidable a warrior Akàziendi is. She must be, to be deemed my protector. I trust her to keep me safe.” Whatever it took to see the Kalareim.

“I do not trust them,” Yigôzien said, the former invoker growing red-eyed as she bared her teeth. “The Kalareim are vile monsters.”

“It is not a matter of trust,” said Akàziendi. “They are clearly here to speak with her, and they are apparently willing to do so without bloodshed, else they would have stormed this facility. But you must know that if we do not respond, they will indeed storm it. Trusting them is not necessary. But responding is. So trust me.”

“Trust her,” Svetlana said, putting in her two cents. “I do, with my life. Now please, let me go and meet them. It is my desire, as Shanras Incarnate.” She’d play that card for as long as she could. Yigôzien’s eyes burned red. She was angry. But that constant reminder that emotions weren’t to be taken personally was finally beginning to sink in. Svetlana found herself not caring so much. Focusing her gaze on Akàziendi, Svetlana said, “Come. If the Kalareim wish to see me, they will see me. I am not afraid.”

“I remind you, Akàziendi,” Yigôzien said, “that you are the protector of Kukira’s chosen vessel.”

“There is nothing you need to tell me,” said Akàziendi back to her. “I will not allow her to be harmed.”

Red eyes simmering, the invoker stepped aside. “Then if you must go, go. Shanras protect you.”

“I am Shanras,” Svetlana said pointedly. “And I will be fine.” With no further words, she marched toward the elevator with Akàziendi in tow.

The Kalareim. The other species on Kalar. From the moment she’d learned of them from the Kalarael, she’d seen them portrayed as the villains—the sentient scourge—of the planet. But the same beings who had vilified the Kalareim had also deified her, some for the distinct purpose of using her. It was for that reason and that reason alone that Svetlana was unafraid.

The same could not be said, however, for the Kalarael themselves. The lobby was packed with the fox-eared beings, all of whom stared out of the windows in yellow-eyed fright. Whatever beings awaited Svetlana outside, the Kalarael were terrified of them.

The Daystar was bright in the sky, prompting Svetlana to shield her eyes with her hands. Akàziendi, who was walking just in front of her, did the same.

A row of Kalareim stood ahead. Roughly the same height as Svetlana, they were covered from head to toe in various wraps. It felt as if she was meeting with some traveling band of gypsies or Arabian warriors. In their hands were staffs. Lest she think that was their only form of weaponry, she took note also of what appeared to be sidearms holstered to their leathery sashes. Behind the row of guards, the massive tent flap blew in the wind and a single, hovering stepping disc led inside.

And now, as she drew within meters of the guardians, the nerves finally kicked in. She prayed this wasn’t a mistake.

Lagging behind Svetlana and Akàziendi was Ei`dorinthal. The Ithini’s voice emerged in her mind. I am detecting fear in you.

I am not afraid, she thought back, lying—and quickly knowing better than to have even tried it. I am doing what must be done. The Kalareim did not come all this way to not see me.

To her surprise, the Ithini agreed. We are of the same mind.

Is Akàziendi afraid?

Ed answered, I am continuing to have difficulty determining her thoughts. I am still encountering a resistance that I have not experienced before. Would you like me to try to dive deeper?

The training of the darishu. Svetlana shouldn’t have been surprised. No, it is okay. Leave her be; I only need you for translation.

I will try once more. It will be of no inconvenience.

Turning her head, Svetlana watched the Kalareim guardians as she followed Akàziendi past them, breaking through their line without so much as a glance from them. They held their posts firmly. Setting her eyes forward, she drew in a deep breath as she approached the tent flap.

She was mere moments away from seeing the Kalareim. From seeing the other mysterious species with which the Kalarael shared their planet. There was no denying it, now. Her breaths were shortening. Her heart rate was increasing. She was becoming afraid.

Suddenly, just as Akàziendi stepped aside to hold open the flap for Svetlana, panic materialized in the connection. It was from Ed.

Master, you are in grave danger!

Grave danger? Svetlana’s pulse skyrocketed. What do you mean?

Turn away now!

But I have Akàziendi—

Ed interrupted her—one of the few times the Ithini had been so bold. The danger is from Akàziendi. What he said next turned Svetlana’s skin cold. She is not Kalarael!

She was not…what? Svetlana whipped her head toward Akàziendi, but Akàziendi’s hand was already against her back. With a firm, but careful push, Svetlana was forced inside.

The inside of the tent was illuminated by lampstands from one side to the other. Aside from that, it was completely barren. Kalareim were standing along the entire perimeter of the tent’s interior, but her eyes didn’t go to them. They were fixated on the figure standing in the center of the tent, his head wrapped, his back turned. A tattered cape hung from his back—he looked like a veteran warrior. He looked in control.

Tributurian.

A new, unexpected sensation swelled from the connection. New connections were being made, all around them. She could sense they were from Ed, as if his frightened mind was reaching out to snag anything it could in an attempt to make sense of what he was sensing—and unexpectedly finding things to cling to. Unexpectedly finding a language he already knew.

Lifting his head with his back still turned, the Kalareim in the center of the room spoke. His voice, confident and cold, was unscrambled before Svetlana’s mind. It was a tongue she’d heard many times since her arrival.

“Do you believe in God, Incarnate?”

Though muffled slightly behind the head wrap, she could understand him clearly. There was no trouble deciphering his words through the connection. He was speaking Kalarael. And now, her fear was joined by confusion. She turned her head to look back at Akàziendi. The protector, now standing between Svetlana and the exit, was staring solely at the Kalareim in the center of the room. Svetlana turned her head back his way. “Yes…”

“And are you God, Incarnate?”

There was only one way to respond to that, too. Almost hesitating, she confessed the truth. “No.”

“Then you and Kukira indeed share something in common.” Reaching up with his hands, the Kalareim gripped the sides of his headwrap. The other Kalareim in the room did the same. Collectively sliding their hands upward, they revealed the sentient species beneath. Fox ears, colorful skin, and feathery manes. Turning around, the speaker faced her at last. “Tell me, visitor from the stars, what do you see?”

What she saw was plain as day—but more stunning than anything she could have possibly expected. “…you are Kalarael!”

He stepped toward her. “Do you not see a vile, detestable thing? Do you not see a child of darkness? The spawn of Ophareim? Look into my eyes and tell me…what am I feeling?”

And it was right then, at that question, that the difference was caught. It was the only thing that distinguished the being she beheld from the many she’d beheld since her arrival. Black, impenetrable eyes. Not a trace of color to be found. She answered in the only way she knew how. “I do not know.”

“And in that same vein,” he answered, “nor do the Kalarael know. If you were to test my blood, you would find that there exists only one sentient species on this world. But we and the Kalarael are not the same.” His dark gaze shifted to her protector. “Akàziendi is one of our best. A ferocious warrior. A cunning adversary to any who would dare bestow that title upon her. But more importantly than both, she is the embodiment of all that is good. All that values life and liberty. I am proud to call her Kalareim.”

Svetlana’s head was spinning. She was so completely confused. “…I…I do not understand what you mean.”

“Her sacrifice, her selfless and constant rejection of all that makes her Kalareim, is a model to be emulated. She, as all Kalareim, believes that all life is precious. That all life deserves a chance to flourish. It is not a value the Kalarael hold dear.”

“I don’t understand! What sacrifice? How are you even Kalareim? Whatever you are trying to tell me, I do not follow!”

He angled his head. “Do you not see, Incarnate? Do you not see our skin? Our plumes? Our forms? What is the only thing that makes Akàziendi unlike me?”

The answer was obvious. It was Akàziendi’s colored eyes. “Her eyes, but—”

“You are correct,” he interrupted. He looked at Svetlana a second longer before stepping past her and focusing on Akàziendi. “Given time, her eyes will revert to their true form, indistinguishable from those you see around you. For the cure for this ‘defect’ lasts only a while. But it is long enough to make a difference. At least, until her time runs out. Then it is up to her. Either she will live long enough to retrieve another dose of that which cures her, or she will be discovered by the Kalarael and be slain.”

Defect. Cure. Dose. Of all the words this leader was saying, those medical terms were the ones that meant something to her. Those were the ones unscrambling this mystery in her brain.

“Black eyes occur in less than one percent of all Kalarael,” he said. “It is usually discovered at childbirth, but occasionally, it will manifest within the first five years of life. The eyes lose their connection to the heart. We Kalareim correctly recognize it as a genetic disorder—one of no harm to anyone or anything. But to the Kalarael...it is a mark of evil. A symbol that the afflicted has been rejected by Kukira. That they have been adopted by darkness. Ophareim.” He spoke the dark god’s name with disdain. “Most children with this ‘condition’ are killed, some by their own parents, but many by the Sovereignty. Those that manage to survive long enough to escape…well, you behold them, now.” He dipped his head in Akàziendi’s direction. “Akàziendi is one of many Kalareim that we have inserted into Kalarael society. Their purpose is to locate and then extricate those who would otherwise be killed. They are the saviors of the future of the Kalareim.”

Svetlana looked into Akàziendi’s bright yellow orbs. The truth was finally revealed. “They rescue Kalareim babies before they are murdered.”

“That they do. It is by pure chance that one happened upon you. It is by even greater chance that they were selected as your protector. Believe me, it is not advantageous to her that she has been ‘elevated’ from darishu status. It places her in peril, for when the antibodies in her eyes fade, she will have no helmet to hide her darkness from view. At that point, no sense of kinship or camaraderie will matter to any of the Kalarael she has known. To whichever one kills her, it will be a great honor.”

Kalarians. The new term came to her mind. This planet does not have Kalarael and Kalareim. It has only Kalarians.

“We Kalareim do not introduce ourselves through bajuines, nor do we cling to customs or clan names. Simply, you may refer to me as Tributurian.”

Tributurian, as she had predicted. The leader of the Kalareim. Oppositional royalty.

He continued. “My time with you is short. Ban-Hezikal has surely sent out a distress call. We are no match for the might of the Kalarael. What we excel at is moving quickly.”

Considering they’d set up this tent under the cover of night, that seemed an understatement.

“I desired this meeting to implore you to do one thing: refuse to bless any attack on the Kalareim people. It would result in our eradication.”

Thankfully, she’d had no intention of it.

“It has been brought to my attention that Darishukan Korlustus is summoning the War Council. Though their intent may be to discuss the Khuladi, they will surely discuss a potential campaign against us. If you bless their efforts on behalf of Kukira, we will be destroyed.”

All this time, Akàziendi had been spying. What an astonishing turn of events. “Rest assured, I will bless no campaign against you,” Svetlana said, “but I must inform you that the situation we are in is not good. High Priestess Linjan has made it clear that we will not be allowed to leave Kalar until I make this blessing. If you have any suggestions, I would like to hear them.”

Tributurian answered, “I do not at this time.” He dipped his head toward Akàziendi. “Akàziendi will serve as liaison between my people and you. Any message I wish to relay, I will do so through her.”

Though Svetlana wondered via what means they were in contact, with time a concern, she opted not to inquire about it. “What made you come all the way here to meet me when it was such a risk to yourself? Were there not easier ways to tell me the truth? Could not Akàziendi have told me?”

“With her eyes as they are, would you have believed her? You have heard since your arrival of a second sentient species. I find it hard to imagine you would have thought her a part of it.”

Behind her, Akàziendi spoke. “My time with you has also been limited, Svetlana. As a darishu, I was not at liberty to discuss such important matters with you—particularly with Toro-shun nearby.”

Arching an eyebrow, Svetlana asked, “So he is not Kalareim, too?”

“Akàziendi is the only Kalareim you have met, until now,” said Tributurian.

Akàziendi continued. “If you wish to discuss things in further detail, we may. You will soon be engaging in a duel with the Bakma, Kraash-nagun. As your protector, it would be understandable that the two of us might train alone.”

It was a good idea. “We will do that, then. There is much I wish to discuss with you, to say the least.”

“I regret that our time must come to an end,” Tributurian said. “Though it may seem strange to go through the trouble of such a meeting for such a short period of time, it was important that you saw us. You have looked into the eyes of the spawn of Ophareim. You know that you have nothing to fear.”

Svetlana had no immediate response. She needed time to process this. “I understand. I do not wish you to be captured or killed.”

“I am glad to have finally met you, Svetlana. Were our circumstances different, I would very much enjoy discussing the stars with you. As it is, however, I will learn through Akàziendi’s experiences with you. You are safe in her care.”

At least that was one thing both the Kalarael and Kalareim could agree on—even if for entirely different reasons. Before they turned to depart, Tributurian handed to Akàziendi a small, silver case, no more than a half inch in length. “Another dose, for when your current one wears out,” he said. Akàziendi accepted it and then slipped it into her wardrobe. Tributurian’s focus returned to Svetlana. “A precaution all like Akàziendi must take. A new dose cannot be taken until the current dose fades completely, lest permanent damage be done. Though a Kalareim never knows exactly how long a dose will last, they can make a rough estimate. Akàziendi’s will likely come to an end soon.”

“We must leave,” Akàziendi said. “The Kalarael will respond to this visit quickly—with far more firepower than we can resist.”

Svetlana didn’t argue. Offering Tributurian and the Kalareim a final glance, she followed her protector outside the tent.

As she tracked across the runa legras and back toward the structure, Svetlana tried to wrap her head around what had just transpired. Of all the possibilities that existed in Svetlana’s mind as to what the Kalareim could have been, this had been nowhere near any of them. She was too floored to even put it all into perspective.

The Kalareim at post, all of whom still donned their headwraps, strode toward the tent. Svetlana turned to watch them. Within seconds of the last Kalareim’s entry, whatever antigravitational drives existed under the platform hummed to life. Moments later, the entire platform began to move away.

Svetlana could sense Ed’s presence in her mind. Though he had not entered the tent with them, he had stayed connected throughout her conversation with Tributurian. Now that the meeting was over, she very much wanted to know what he thought. Ed, what do you think about what just occurred?

The Ithini was ahead of Svetlana and Akàziendi, watching them approach as darishu rushed to the scene, Toro-shun among them. There is much for me to process, as there is for you, the Ithini finally answered. Though the Kalarael and the Kalareim are the same species—Kalarians, as you have dubbed them—their minds work in very different ways.

Akàziendi spoke to the darishu as they neared. Behind them, Yigôzien approached as well.

Whereas the Kalaraels’ natural inclination is to openly reveal emotions and motives, the Kalareim are the opposite. After spending so much time with the Kalarael, I fear I have grown accustomed to the ease at which I can probe their minds. Perhaps it has weakened me to the point where reading the Kalareim is a struggle.

The Kalarael exchanged bajuines in every direction. Svetlana didn’t care about any of them. Is it just a matter of rebuilding that mental muscle?

Ed’s answer came after a hesitation. I do not know. The Kalareim have been taught to hide their thoughts. I sensed much misdirection from Tributurian in the time I was connected.

Raising an eyebrow, she asked, Misdirection?

It would be premature for me to suggest that he possesses an ulterior motive, for his base argument is sound. But there is inherent distrust in his mind, far greater even than what exists in most Earthae. I am left with the impression that they have not only grown to despise the indicative nature of Kalarael eye color, but they desire to actively work against it. It is not that they intend to deceive. They seem to intend to hide true motivation. There is a difference, subtle as it may be.

She understood. The color-changing characteristics of the Kalarael were the reason the Kalareim had been rejected. It made sense that they would grow to hate not only it, but everything it stood for. The pendulum swung in the opposite direction.

I must connect you with the Kalarael.

I understand. A second later, the connection was widened to include Akàziendi, Yigôzien, and the darishu around them.

It was the invoker who spoke to her first. “Praise to Kukira that you are safe! Your decision to speak with the Kalareim was very unwise, and I harbor a great anger toward you for choosing it over my counsel.” Her red eyes verified the claim. “You must never put yourself in such a position again.”

Svetlana opened her mouth to express her own disagreement, but Akàziendi beat her to the punch. “In meeting the Kalareim on her own accord, the Incarnate protected the lives of everyone at Ban-Hezikal. They would have found a way to get to her, one way or another. The visit ensured that they did not charge through our doors with brandished weapons.”

It struck Svetlana as she watched the fervent, bright yellow eyes of Akàziendi, that what Tributurian claimed was true. All this while, Akàziendi had been playing a role. She played it, still. For a Kalareim to willfully adopt the very behavior that her species detested spoke volumes about the internal sacrifice it required. For all practical purposes, she’d stopped becoming Kalareim entirely.

What are you saying, Sveta? She chastised herself. There is no Kalarael or Kalareim. These are all the same species!

“This is an argument for another time, sister,” Yigôzien said, eyes still red with anger. “We must speak now with the both of you. You must tell us everything the Kalareim discussed. Come, follow us inside.”

Dutifully, the pair did as told.

For the next hour, Svetlana and Akàziendi were thoroughly debriefed on their conversation with Tributurian. Thankfully—and quite intentionally, it seemed—Akàziendi took the point position in all aspects of the meeting, going over it with all the fervor of a Kalarael zealot. It astounded Svetlana how her protector was able to essentially lie between her teeth while simultaneously controlling her emotions enough to influence the color of her eyes. The way she worded things, the way she spoke of things, it was all so intentional. All so…

…manipulative.

Slowly but surely, Svetlana was realizing that the color-changing aspect of the Kalarael eyes was not so much a built-in lie detector as it was a constant mood ring. As long as Akàziendi spoke in anger, her eyes would stay red regardless of the actual content she spoke. During one completely made-up recollection, she spoke of how the Kalareim initially tried to restrain her until Svetlana stepped in to usher peace. Her eyes glowed red with fervency, as one might expect. But as Ed revealed to Svetlana privately, it was not the anger channeled from the fictitious recollection that caused her eyes to simmer, but her anger toward the Kalarael in general. She had to keep this anger at the forefront of her mind in order for the ruse to work. It was remarkable, if not a bit disconcerting. In order for Akàziendi’s cover to remain intact, she literally had to monitor every emotion she felt. She had to play off of them in the right way at the right time. She had to care—about everything. It made total sense now why Kalareim like her were revered. It was total emotional self-control.

It was also necessary.

Though there was much that Svetlana didn’t understand, she had picked up on the temporary nature of this “cure.” At some point, possibly without warning, it would fade. She could only imagine the dire circumstances that that could leave someone like Akàziendi in. It also brought into perspective the grave danger her promotion had placed her in. Under the helmet of a darishu, she’d been safe. That was no longer the case.

There did come one point during the debriefing, as brief as it may have been, where Svetlana turned the tables on her questioners—and specifically, Yigôzien. With the truth now revealed, she asked the former invoker the obvious: why had they not told her that the Kalareim and the Kalarael were a part of the same species?

The answer, as disappointing as it may have been, was not terribly surprising. Yigôzien explained, in no uncertain terms, that they were most certainly not the same species. In the mind of the Kalarael, such vast differences in moral composition were more than enough to categorize the Kalareim as something different, regardless of what science said. Information about the Kalareim had not been shared with Svetlana because it’d been deemed unwise to expose her to Ophareim’s influence, particularly when the two “species” shared such similar physical characteristics otherwise. For her part in playing the role, Akàziendi agreed. But she knew that her new Kalareim friend knew better. She looked very much forward to discussing it with her in private.

As the debriefing closed and all parties went their separate ways, Svetlana found herself seeking out the runa legras alone. She found herself needing the solitude to gather her thoughts. It was a task that was not so easy.

Since the moment she’d found herself in Kalarael company, the concept of truthfulness had been at the forefront of her mind. It was such a noble ambition to strive for: to be a truth-speaker, to be honest. Yet when faced with a society that thrived on that concept, at least in principle, she’d found it far more unnerving than enviable. Now that she’d beheld the Kalareim, there was no doubt in her mind that regardless of their reputation, they felt far more relatable. They felt normal.

It was good to be around people who could lie.

And it was that thought—that desire to be around the potentially deceptive—that vexed her. It felt counterintuitive to morality. It felt sinful. But it also felt safe. If the Kalareim could lie, so could she. If misery loved company, so apparently did the ability to bear false witness. There was a comfort in knowing that she didn’t have to tell the truth all of the time. Sometimes, she could omit it. Sometimes, she could twist it. Sometimes, she could outright embrace its antithesis. She’d done so in playing the role of the Incarnate when she knew it was untrue. She’d used her own ability to deceive to her advantage—just like the Kalareim. If anything, it made the Kalareim feel human.

But did that make it right? Was the ability to lie important? And did it matter if that lie was of great magnitude or, ultimately, harmless? Did a harmless lie even exist? For the life of her, if a friend back on Earth came to her with a deep, emotional conundrum, would she not offer slight falsities in an effort to lift her spirits? Would she not tell her that things would be okay even if she knew they would not? Was that level of “helpful dishonesty” permitted? Was it okay?

It’d always been said that a friend tells the truth at all times. It was a concept that was even scriptural. But if a child came to her with a concocted “breakfast” that they were proud of, wanting her to taste it, would she not smile and tell the child it was delicious no matter what? A Kalarael wouldn’t. A Kalarael’s eyes would glow red and it would tell the child that its attempt at a meal was awful. It would crush the heart of a little boy or girl. By telling them the truth. She could not imagine that God would do the same. That, by itself, unsettled her.

Svetlana managed to claim almost an hour of solitude on the runa legras before footsteps approached from behind her. It was Akàziendi, with Ed obediently in tow. When the telepathic pinprick emerged in Svetlana’s mind, she addressed Akàziendi as the Kalareim approached. “Prior to becoming my counsel, Yigôzien was called invoker of custom. What do the Kalareim call secret agents like you?”

Stopping several meters away, Akàziendi scrutinized Svetlana—the façade of the loyal Kalarael protector falling for the first time. “We are called”— there was a pause in the translation before the alien term emerged— “the tasharin.”

Ed’s voice clarified. Much like the term darishu, there is no direct Earthae equivalent to tasharin.

Continuing with her line of questioning, Svetlana asked, “And when did you become a tasharin?”

Akàziendi’s yellow eyes darkened—though their significance to Svetlana, at least so far as the tasharin was concerned, had diminished greatly. “I was born in a city far from here. It is called Obek. It is a city of Clan Voolrevan.” She looked off into the distance. “I have not returned to it since the day that I turned. I was a child on that day—old enough to realize when I saw my reflection that something was wrong. I recall going to tell my mother and her eyes burning with fear and rage. I recall her trying to kill me with a blade and my running out of our home. Though I was old enough to know that something was wrong, the full ramifications of the turning did not come to me until after I was rescued.”

It was hard for Svetlana to even comprehend what she was hearing. To have her own mother try to kill her.

“I was fortunate enough to be found quickly by a tasharin who happened to be walking the streets. His name was Hsan-jin. He was the first Kalareim I had ever met. I did not even fully understand at the time what a Kalareim was. We had only been taught to run from anyone whose eyes reflected Ophareim.”

That part confused her. “But does a Kalarael’s eyes not turn black when they are afraid?”

“They do. You must understand, however, that pitch black eyes are exceedingly rare for a Kalarael and only occur in moments of great inner turmoil.”

Yigôzien’s eyes had been black in the Zone Runner, after her capture—though she imagined that considering those circumstances, it was understandable.

The tasharin continued. “I, of course, did not know that Hsan-jin was tasharin when I met him. His eyes did not reflect Ophareim, as Kalareim normally do.”

Svetlana noticed a distinct lack of disdain in Akàziendi’s voice when she spoke the name Ophareim, at least when compared to the way Tributurian had said it. Perhaps she wasn’t as inwardly hostile toward the Kalarael religion as her leader was.

“There were different means in those days by which Kalareim could hide their identity. The injection method that I use is not the same method that Hsan-jin used. In those days, they wore color-changing lenses over their eyes. But these were not tied into the true emotions of the tasharin, therefore they had to be manually controlled. A tasharin had to choose which of the Purities to reflect and to what extent. Though they were highly trained, it was imperfect, and it made the role of the tasharin very dangerous.”

Using mention of the Purities as her segue, Svetlana decided to address the issue of belief. “You speak of the Kalarael faith differently than Tributurian. There is no animosity in your voice as you speak of them, as I heard in Tributurian.”

“I do not harbor the same atheistic beliefs as do most of my people. My understanding of Kukira is…different.”

“Different how so?”

Akàziendi hesitated before answering, “The Kalarael live under the assumption that their beliefs are correct. The Kalareim do the same. It is my belief that we are all mistaken in one way or another—that there must be core aspects of our existence that we do not fully understand, as we were never there to witness them come into being.” Her yellow orbs returned to Svetlana. “The Kalarael believe in a creation event. They call this the Exhalation, for they believe that in a single breath, Kukira brought into existence all that we see. The Kalareim, in contrast, reject such a notion. They believe that there are cosmic causes and effects that set things into motion—that we are the result of such a process. They believe that life is inevitable, not ordained.”

Angling her head, Svetlana asked, “And what do you believe?”

“I believe that it does not matter,” she answered with conviction. “I believe that if the Exhalation took place, the Kalarael cannot possibly understand it as it truly was. And I believe that if we were a biological inevitability, it can never be comprehended as it occurred before our existence. Perhaps neither are true. Perhaps both are. In the end, it has no bearing on our lives, therefore it is not an argument worth having.”

There was so much honesty in her words. Coming from a Kalareim, she couldn’t help but find it a little ironic. “Some in my species also believe in a creation event. I am among them.”

“Then perhaps that lends credence to the notion. Perhaps the consciousness that inhabits the universe has a preferred way of doing things. Or perhaps in the absence of evidence, different species can reach the same conclusion as there is nothing else they know.”

Svetlana narrowed her eyes in scrutiny. “You must believe in something.”

“I believe I have a genetic disorder that the Kalarael mistook for the mark of Ophareim. And I believe that the Kalareim have allowed their hatred of the Kalarael to cause them to reject beliefs that may well be true.”

Akàziendi, quite simply, was a skeptic. Perhaps in the truest sense of the term. She believed concretely in nothing at all.

“I do not hate the Kalarael,” Akàziendi said, “but I do pity them. In exiling my kind, they have removed a portion of their population that has value. It was an act of fear. That act of fear has spawned acts of hatred from those they exiled. It is a dance of death by two parties that refuse to make an attempt at understanding.” She fell silent. “I often feel alone in my own understanding of things.”

That made two of them. “Does Tributurian know how you feel?”

“He accepts me for what I am. That is something the Kalareim do well with their own kind. Unlike the Kalarael, there is no single belief system among the Kalareim that must be followed. There exists among us many adherers to atheism, agnosticism, and skepticism in general. There are even those among us that are highly religious, viewing their own condition as a symptom of Ophareim’s influence. They are few, but they do exist. They live their lives plagued by guilt, which is unfortunate. We come in many colors—as opposed to restricting ourselves to three.”

It was the closest thing to a zinger that Akàziendi had laid down. But by and large, the Kalareim sounded as diverse in their belief systems as humans did. After living with the rigidity of the Kalarael, it was refreshing.

“There are things we must discuss,” Akàziendi said, her contemplative expression replaced by one of sternness. It was time to get to business.

“So we must. Where should we begin?”

Akàziendi began pacing around Svetlana. “The summoning of the War Council is of no small significance. That they will discuss us at this summoning is of grave concern. As your protector, I will be permitted wherever you go, so long as you deem it desirable. It is imperative that you allow me to accompany you to this summoning.”

“Listen,” Svetlana said, running a hand through her hair, “our plan is to leave this place as quickly as possible. As quickly as we are allowed to, anyway. You know what Linjan said to us. Any advice you have concerning that, I will gladly hear out.”

The Kalareim looked off into the distance. “I am afraid there is little I or my people can offer. We are of no threat to the might of the Kalarael.”

“They sure don’t seem to think so.”

“They see threats where none exist.”

Humans did that, too. “There is the Zone Runner—the Bakma spaceship—at Winduster. If my engineer, Wuteel, can figure out how to repair it so that it can dematerialize, then we could use it for escape. Provided we could get into it, that is.”

“Do you propose that we assist you with that?”

“The thought is crossing my mind, yes.”

Akàziendi fell silent, her yellow eyes looking off into the distance. At long last, she replied. “I will send this proposal to Tributurian for consideration. We may be able to muster forces of our own to help you capture the spacecraft. It is not beyond our capability.”

A path. That’s all Svetlana needed.

“You must understand that assisting you in capturing the Bakma spacecraft will further kindle the Kalarael’s anger toward us. At that point, what you have or have not done will matter little. They will blame us for tainting the Incarnate. No War Council decision will be necessary—they will attack us outright.” Slowly, Akàziendi’s eyes narrowed. She fell quiet—like a being in sudden, deep thought.

A knot formed in Svetlana’s stomach.

“I offer a proposal. As Tributurian’s entrusted liaison to you, I may do so.” The tasharin sauntered toward Svetlana. “We are outcasts on this planet. You have heard their words against us—witnessed their lust for our blood. They are willing to blackmail a goddess to quench it.”

On this planet. On this planet. Before Akàziendi said another word, Svetlana knew where this was going. Oh no…

“It is clear that Earthae and Kalareim can biologically coexist. We breathe the same atmosphere. We can survive on the same sustenance.”

Stepping back, Svetlana held her palms out. “Now, wait a minute…”

The tasharin continued. “By helping you capture the spacecraft, we are invoking the wrath of the Kalarael. That is a great risk to us. But if as a reward, we may establish a Kalareim colony on your world…that is a proposal Tributurian might agree to.”

Ed’s voice emerged in Svetlana’s mind. I advise extreme caution.

Svetlana already was. “Akàziendi, I am no species ambassador.”

“But you are, even if you did not intend it. Did your God not place you here? Did your God not put me, a Kalareim, in your path? Did your God not present us both with a dilemma for which this is an obvious solution? Would your God not want you to save an oppressed species such as mine?” The whole while she spoke, she circled Svetlana like a predator. “We have technology that far surpasses your own. We would gladly present it to you. Your ship can traverse space. Slowly but surely, you could ferry our people across the stars to your world. You have these means, Svetlana. We do not ask for much—merely a colony where we are safe from oppression.”

“Safe?” Svetlana laughed. “Do you think Earth is safe? We have been targeted by the Khuladi. They wish to enslave us.”

Akàziendi interjected. “Then they will face the combined might of the Earthae and the Kalareim.”

“I don’t think you understand the enemy we are facing here.”

“Did you not face it, boldly, at Winduster?”

Argh. “Yes, but—”

“Is our mutual deliverance from the Khuladi beyond the scope of your God’s power?”

She saw what Akàziendi was doing and she didn’t like it. “Please do not invoke the Name of my God to gain an advantage over me.”

“Or is your God the way so many of my people view Kukira? Merely an illusion?”

“Nothing is beyond the scope of my God’s power. He delivered me from the Bakma—He can deliver our species from the Khuladi. My concern is not faith in my God. It is trust in you.”

Akàziendi’s ears flicked—just a single time. “For what reason do you not trust me? Have I been dishonest with you? Have I not worked with you to prepare for your duel with Kraash-nagun? My anointing as protector may have been by the Kalarael, but it is of no lesser importance to me. For as long as I am able, no harm shall befall you. Unlike the Kalarael, I am not attempting to subvert you. I am being open and honest about the intent behind my proposition.

“As far as the invocation of your God, it is a legitimate question from a being such as me. I may not worship Kukira as my misguided kin do, but it does not mean that I believe in nothing. Perhaps your God is the God I shall someday serve—but if I am never given the opportunity to see Him intervene, then how am I to ever believe? I have little use for speculation in the realm of religion. If your God is real, I must be given the opportunity to see proof.”

She was so good at manipulation. The ease with which she twisted words, conformed them to guide Svetlana to the conclusion of her choosing. For as misguided as the Kalarael may have been, every bit of Yigôzien’s warnings about the Kalareim were ringing true in her mind. “My God does not prove Himself. That is not how faith works.”

“That is not how your faith works. I am not an Earthae. Our histories as species are completely different. How would I ever know of your God had you not come to this world? It is only logical—only reasonable—to surmise that if I am to put my faith in the deity of another species, I must be given a measure of proof first.”

“If you seek God,” Svetlana said, “you will find Him.”

Akàziendi resumed her circling. “Seek what God? Seek it where? How am I to seek a God I do not know exists? I am willing to give your God a chance. That alone should pique your interest. Or is sharing your God not a concern?”

“Of course it is a concern.”

“Then please do so. I wish to believe.”

She wished to believe like Svetlana wished for another pie to her face.

Perhaps sensing Svetlana’s hesitance, Akàziendi stopped pacing and said, “May I ask you a question?”

Svetlana let out a sigh. “Of course, you may ask me a question.”

“What have I done to lose your trust?”

Opening her mouth to answer, Svetlana caught herself before the words, “You are Kalareim,” could leave it. But it was the truth. Yigôzien’s warnings repeated in her head. The Kalareim were vile, they were detestable. They were evil. Svetlana had presumed that prejudice was entirely because of eye color, but what if there was more to it than that? What if the reflection of the Purities was merely on the surface? What if the outward appearance of prejudice was masking a truth about the Kalareim that Svetlana, in her open-mindedness, did not wish to see? What if, eyes aside, they were everything she’d been warned about? There was something about Akàziendi’s mannerisms, the way she circled like a shark, the way she dipped her head and bored deeply into Svetlana’s soul. There was a darkness to her. She was talking like someone with ill intentions to hide. Posed a question, however, she had no choice but to answer—so she did in the best way she knew how. “You have done nothing.”

“So your trust in me remains?”

“My trust—” She stopped again. She didn’t know what to say.

Ed, in his ever-vigilant way, chimed in. I can perceive the reasons behind your distrust, namely concerning her mannerisms. If I may play devil’s advocate, it may benefit us to keep in mind that just as the Kalarael have their customs, so may the Kalareim. The Kalareim may act outwardly in a way that arouses suspicion—but it may simply be their natural outward expression, not an indication that they are acting in ill faith.

Now she was just frustrated. Was it not you who advised me to exercise extreme caution?

I advised you to exercise extreme caution—not to discredit Akàziendi outright. I do not know her motives. She has hidden them well, even from me. There are natural barriers in her mind that may have been a lifetime in development. For this reason, I advised you to be cautious. It is not because what she says does not have merit. Just as I advised you not to read into the Kalarael’s eye color, I will also advise you not to read into Akàziendi’s body language.

This was getting complicated. Okay, fine. I will not judge her by her mannerisms.

Then again, maybe you should.

Svetlana gave him a flat look.

“Was there something you were going to say, Svetlana?” Akàziendi asked.

Focus returning to the tasharin, Svetlana thought before answering. “You must understand my position. I have spent many days with the Kalarael. I have grown accustomed to their means of expression. Yours is…different.” That was the best way she could think to phrase it. “I must adjust the way I perceive Kalarian mannerisms.”

Akàziendi angled her head. “Kalarian?”

“Is that not what you all are? You call them the Kalarael, you call yourselves the Kalareim. But you are all children born on Kalar. You are all of this world. You are all Kalarians to me.”

As Svetlana would have now expected, there was nothing that outwardly indicated how Akàziendi viewed the term. But the pause in her response was indicative of something. “An interesting descriptor.”

“Not quite so interesting as your proposal, I am afraid.” Setting her hands on her hips, Svetlana thought upon it. “You must understand that a Kalareim outpost on Earth, even without the threat of the Khuladi, is not so easy as it seems. If you were to be discovered by my species, you would immediately be distrusted.”

“Distrust is something to which we have grown accustomed.”

How could Svetlana make her understand? “It’s not like that. I don’t mean you would just be distrusted. You might be studied, or imprisoned, or…or even cut open.”

“Cut open?”

“The Earthae are not the most inherently hospitable species. I am…I don’t know if I would say an exception, but there are certainly governments that would care more about your anatomy than your well-being. That is a risk. A real one.” She scratched the back of her neck. “You would have to be hidden somewhere. Deposited, on an island, or a jungle, or…or a cave, I don’t know. Then you would have to learn how to survive. That is not so easy. There are a lot of things on Earth that can kill you. For all I know, mosquito bites could do you all in.”

The tasharin raised an eyebrow. “Mosquito bites?”

“You don’t have to know what that means,” said Svetlana. “The point is, your colony would be at the mercy of a planet you are unfamiliar with. You would face weather, animals, sickness…even the gravity is different. It is heavier on Earth. Not by much, mind you, but it is heavier. I am sure you could function, but it might take adjusting.”

At long last, Akàziendi shifted, turning to face Svetlana straight on. “Acclimation is not a concern. We are survivors. Gravity aside, all of the dangers you speak of are common, here.”

“Are you sure? Does it even rain here?” She lifted a foot, which was caked in wet runa legras. “I mean, look beneath us. What you all call the valesprings and the overflow, there is nothing like that on Earth.”

Steadfast to the last, Akàziendi said, “We would rely on you to guide us. Perhaps some of your kind would be willing to remain with us in seclusion to teach us how to survive.”

There was no getting through to her just how difficult a proposition this was. Shaking her head, Svetlana said, “The point is this—

“The point,” Akàziendi interjected, “is that we are outcasts on our own planet. We are rejected by our own kin—our own blood. We are hunted, we are killed. We must live amongst the rocks and the shadows. We have learned to move quickly because our existence depends on it. If I were to choose between the life of exile we live here or hope on a new, but dangerous world, I would choose hope. Tell me if you would not do the same.”

Svetlana didn’t need to think about that one. She would choose hope in an instant. But the moment she conveyed that, she would crack that door open. Drawing in a deep breath, she exhaled it and looked away.

“I see you understand.”

And there was the crack.

After a pause, the tasharin spoke again. “I will ask only this: that you consider my proposition. Do so without the prejudice of Yigôzien or her kin lording over you. Should you decide that it is a chance worth taking, I will present it to Tributurian. I believe I know what he would say. But please, decide quickly—or you will have the War Council to deal with. You have already experienced the treacherous tongue of Linjan. You will find the task of going against her not so easy…even for an Incarnate.”

In that, Svetlana agreed. With a measure of hesitance still remaining, but perhaps not so much as before, she nodded her head. “I will consider it.”

“You have my thanks, on behalf of myself and my people. Our future is in your hands.”

She certainly knew how to lay it on thick.

Reaching down to her sash, Akàziendi pulled out her shock staff. Pressing the button, she fully extended it. “It is understandable that the two of us might converse after our meeting with Tributurian, but we should spar as to not arouse suspicion. Privacy is an Earthae and Kalareim custom—not Kalarael. If we are alone here for too long, Yigôzien will wonder why.”

“You think she would suspect something?” Svetlana asked.

“I do not believe so, as she does not suspect me to be Kalareim, but she would certainly not hesitate to insert herself in our conversation. While I can lie, the less I am forced to do so, the better.”

She certainly understood that. Sighing, she reached behind her to pull out her staff. Holding it, she half-frowned. “Just so you know, it is very hard to wash this mud from my hair.”

“Then do not allow your hair to touch it.”

Touché.

“Your skills are improving—so let us begin.” With a deft spin, Akàziendi brought the end of the staff soaring toward Svetlana’s midsection. Svetlana’s staff met it with a crack.

For the next hour, Svetlana and Akàziendi trained on the wet runa legras. Though her blond locks did eventually become casualties, she found the tasharin’s words to be true: she was getting much, much better. Just the same, Akàziendi was skilled—extremely skilled. More and more, Svetlana felt the burning desire to make the tasharin’s face hit the mud, just once. Just to get one good ha in. But it wasn’t the end of the world if it didn’t happen. In light of the multitude of other problems facing her, getting a little dirty wasn’t so terrible.

Her conversation with Akàziendi and the tasharin’s proposition had left her with much to digest. Logistically, ethically, realistically…there was no shortage of things to figure out. The more time she spent with Akàziendi, the more she began to realize that the Kalarael and Kalareim were indeed like two entirely different species—even down to their learned mental behavior, as Ei`dorinthal could attest. She understood why the Kalareim might want to flee Kalar. That she understood it only made the decision tougher.

She needed advice. She needed wisdom. She needed someone to talk to who would be open, honest, and blunt to the core. Someone who wouldn’t be afraid to tell her, right to her face, if she was wrong. There was only one person she knew of who would be willing to do that to the level she required it. He’d done it before.

There was no doubt he would do it again.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-six

Date unknown

Time unknown

Ban-Hezikal, Kalar

TAUTHIN WAS STARING out the suite’s windows when Svetlana approached him. Her hair, damp from a wash in the cleansing pool, fell over her shoulders. Though it made breathing more difficult, she opted not to wear her face mask as she drew near. There was a vulnerability—an honesty—that she wanted to convey. She wanted to show she had nothing to hide.

Wearing one of the many half-patterned, half-translucent gowns that’d been given to her, she crossed her arms and stood by his side. The hues of the setting sun cast a vibrant display of deep reds, magentas, and oranges across the sky. It looked like God Himself had reached down with a paintbrush. Even having seen the Kalarian sunset many times now, it never failed to take her breath away.

Svetlana had barely spoken to Tauthin—at least, in any meaningful way—since his “lesson” to her after their visit to Sélestere. There’d been a strict avoidance at play on both their parts. It made the situation simultaneously easier and harder, albeit in different ways. But there was no avoiding this now. This was something that needed to be resolved. Of all the people she’d met on this journey across the stars, the Bakma leader had proven her most steadfast comrade. Her most honest friend. It was with that thought in mind that she opened her mouth to speak.

Tauthin beat her to it. “Not so long ago on your world, you spoke to me about what you Earthae call love. Do you remember this?”

She did. It was a conversation in Confinement. It may not have been long ago in the grand scheme of things, but in that moment, it felt like forever. But she remembered. “Yes,” she answered him. “We talked about…reproduction.” It would go down as one of the most awkward conversations she’d ever had. For Svetlana Voronova, that said a lot. “And how your, umm…eggs…had been removed from your ovaries, and…all of those things.” Honestly, they were better off forgotten.

“Yes,” Tauthin said, “that is the conversation of which I speak.” The Bakma lifted his chin as he stared out at the horizon. “Do you remember what I told you I knew of the concept?”

Eyes widening briefly as she tried to think back, she shook her head slowly. “Of love? I remember you did not know much. That maybe you did not understand it.”

“Yes. I did not.”

Turning her own gaze from the window, her eyes settled on him. She watched him silently as he continued to stare out.

Drawing in a breath, he said, “I think that I understand it now—so much as one of my species can.”

Her eyes narrowed a touch.

“Days have passed since we last spoke words of significance. I have made a purposeful effort to be removed from you. In this structure at Ban-Hezikal, that has been easy. But in my spirit, that is not the case. I hear the words I spoke to you on the runa legras. They play in my mind, over and over. It angers me that you made me say them.” His deep purple eyes went downcast. “It angers me that I said them. I do not wish to lose you as a friend. You are the first I have ever had.”

“Do you not consider Scott your friend?”

The Bakma grunted quietly. “I do not think of Remata as I do you. If I do not see him again, I would regret the loss of an interesting human that saved my life. But I would not miss him. But you—I grieve the friction that has come between us. I fear I am to blame.” He turned his head to her. “My spirit yearns for reconciliation with yours. I do not care if I was at fault or if you were. I wish to forget it ever occurred.”

Were she not exhausted, his words might have made her shed a tear. As it was, they shimmered briefly and nothing more. Reaching out, she placed her hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Tauthinilaas. What are we doing here, on this world so far away from anything we have ever known?” She looked out of the window. This was not the way she thought their conversation would go, but she would take it. “I have made a mess everywhere I have gone. It is what I do best. I should have stopped the celebration at Sélestere. I should have refused it, no matter what their customs dictated. But after a…after a life of failure and humiliation, a part of me did like it. A small part, but…maybe not so small as I thought. You were right when you pointed it out. Will you forgive me?”

“You know that I will.”

“Then you know I will forgive you,” she said without hesitance. “We can consider what took place history that we will never revisit. We will move on.”

Nodding his head, Tauthin said, “I would very much like that.”

“Consider it done.” Faintly, she smiled and looked at him. “And I love you, too.”

Grunting deep within, he looked down. “So that is what this is. Does it ever stop?”

“No,” she said, a breathy laugh escaping as she looked at the sunset again. “I am afraid it is a threshold that once you cross, there is no going back. We are in it for the long haul.” She paused. “But it is a good thing. It is the greatest thing. You will not want to live without it.”

Outside, the sunset dipped lower—the orange hues giving way to magenta and red, casting their colors over the pink landscape. The wetness on its surface caused the faintest of reflections. It was just detectable enough to be beautiful. Svetlana would have loved to spend the rest of her time with him simply admiring it. But there were things to discuss.

Drawing a breath, she dipped her head and began. “Our situation has grown more complicated.”

Tauthin looked at her, expression genuinely surprised. “How is that possible?”

After a quick glance behind them to ensure no one was listening, she leaned closer to him and whispered, “Akàziendi is a Kalareim.” Tauthin’s eyes widened. The Bakma leader had already heard about the Kalareim after Svetlana’s debriefing. He knew they were Kalarael with darkened eyes. But he didn’t know Akàziendi was among them. “She is something they call a tasharin. It is a Kalareim inserted into Kalarael society—like a spy.”

“But her eyes?”

“They have means of disguising them that the Kalarael do not know about. It is complicated. I will explain it later.” That part wasn’t important, now. “What matters for us is what she told me—and the offer she made.” Tauthin’s bony eyebrows lifted. “She said Tributurian, their leader, may assist us in capturing the Zone Runner at Winduster…but with a condition.” There always was one. “We must take a portion of the Kalareim to Earth to establish a colony.”

Immediately, Tauthin grunted, an expression Svetlana recognized as a sign of mockery. Turning his head toward the window, he said, “Does she think that Earth is uninhabited? Its surface crawls with Earthae from one hemisphere to the next. Where does she expect her people can colonize?”

“All those things, I told her. She did not care. She said that compared to being outcasts on their own planet, having to deal with a new world would be welcomed—even if they had to live in a cave, or a jungle, or some island. It is worth it to them.” She looked away. “I do not like to say it, but I think I understand. Am I crazy for saying that?”

Tauthin looked her way briefly before following her gaze toward the horizon. For several moments, the Bakma leader said nothing. “No,” he finally answered. She returned her gaze to him, and he continued. “It is easy for me to imagine their plight. Were I afforded the chance to start anew on a new world, I would take it—regardless of the risks.”

It hurt her to hear that. He’d had that chance. It was Svetlana’s doing, not Tauthin’s, that they were on Kalar. Had the Bakma leader been in the captain’s chair, he might already be at his new forever home, on some distant planet far, far away. “I took that chance from you,” she said solemnly.

“You did not.”

“I did. I am sorry.”

He released a huffing sound—the closest the Bakma species came to sighing. “The choice to come to Kalar was yours alone to make. Were it not for you, I would have remained chained to the wall of the Zone Runner. You are responsible for what freedom I now possess. It is far more than I ever experienced before I met you.”

Svetlana opened her mouth to reply—but he spoke again first.

“You should accept Akàziendi’s offer,” Tauthin said. Svetlana turned to him. “If the Kalareim wish a new chance on your world, give it to them. We can deposit them in a remote location, away from your cities. A secret place. It will not be easy for them, but that does not mean it is worse than where they are now. They will have peace, and that is what matters.”

She huffed a single, sad breath of laughter. “Peace. Fighting weather, the elements, animals. Gravity. That does not sound peaceful to me.”

For several seconds, Tauthin remained silent. Dark purple eyes on the ever-fading sunset, he finally addressed her again. “Did I ever tell you about the first Earthae I killed?”

Brow furrowing, she looked at him—her silence answering his question.

“It was many cycles ago. I cannot tell you where on your planet I was, but it was not one of your cities. It was a place that many of your species live, surrounded by trees and small, constructed habitats.”

She realized in that moment that there was no Bakma word for neighborhood. That concept was simply unknown to them. But it felt like that was what he meant.

The Bakma continued. “Our orders are always to disrupt—to prompt a response from your warriors. I believe that these were the first years of EDEN’s existence. It took them a long time to arrive.”

It sounded like it. EDEN’s initial rollout was anything but smooth.

“The first Earthae I saw were not warriors. They were a male and female from a residential habitat. Earthae young were with them. I was alone when I entered their structure. They wore the same frightened expressions that I have seen often during my many missions to your world.”

Svetlana found her eyebrows arching sadly. “What happened?”

“I killed them. It is what we are trained to do. There are no civilians in warfare, and so I did not hesitate. I even killed one of their sub-creatures.”

She didn’t know what that meant, and she had no desire to ask. The thought of Tauthin mowing down a scared family was enough to make her feel ill. She didn’t need him to confirm what kind of family pet he’d killed, too. Angling her head, she asked, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because if the Kalarael view the Kalareim as we were taught to view the judged, then the Kalareim will never have peace so long as they are on this world. They will be hunted. They will be slain, male, female, and young alike. The Kalarael will feel no remorse in doing so, as I felt none when I destroyed those first Earthae—and all Earthae since. Even today, I feel no guilt. I eradicated what I believed at the time was a pest—even if it was wrong.” He faced her. “If you use your status as an Incarnate to bless a campaign against the Kalareim, you would be no different from the Khuladi who blessed our campaign against Earth.”

At those words, at that understanding, the hair on Svetlana’s arms stood.

“You must not do this,” he said. “If the Kalareim offer you a way to leave this world, you must take it. If in doing so, you offer a portion of them to flourish on a new world, it is all the better.”

“Tauthin, I don’t trust them,” she said plainly. “I don’t trust…” She looked away. “I don’t trust anyone on this world—not even the ones whose eyes tell the truth.”

Grunting, he half-shook his head. “It does not matter if you trust them. Trust me. In the story of your species, I am a villain. Do not be the villain in the story of the Kalareim.” He leaned closer. “Accept Akàziendi’s proposal. See what support they can offer. At this stage, the best thing we can do for all parties involved on this world is to leave—preferably quickly, before the Kalarael make further demands of you. You know that they will.”

“Ugh.” She rubbed her hands up her face and leaned her head back. “This is a disaster.”

Tauthin angled his head. “May I offer an alternative viewpoint?”

“Sure.”

“This is an opportunity,” he said.

Parting her fingers, she peered through them as he spoke on.

“I have done many vile deeds as an instrument of the Khuladi, few of which I have felt remorse over, despite recently acknowledging their malevolence in my spirit. If this is an opportunity to do something redemptive, I for one would like to take it.” His deep violet stare remained on her. “You are my captain. You are my lady. What you decide is what I shall do. The choice, ultimately, is yours.”

Right back to where she’d begun—the recipient of Tauthinilaas’s humility. He’d acquiesced to her when she asked for the captain’s chair on the Zone Runner. He acquiesced to her, still. Of all the complexities she had dealt with since being taken in the Zone Runner, it brought a measure of comfort that the dynamic of their relationship stayed the same. She determined herself to never take advantage of it. Drawing in a breath through her exposed nasal cavities, she gazed out of the window at the endless runa legras. “For their goddess to betray them…that will be a hard thing for the Kalarael to overcome.”

“Fortunately for all of us, you are not their goddess,” Tauthin said. “You are an Earthae they have taken captive. These walls are beautiful, but they are a prison.”

His words were true. How she hated to hear them.

“All this time you have been here, your planet has waged a war. Your friends have likely wondered where you are. I do not know how much time has passed since we took you, or if our times have even correlated properly. We have operated the Zone Runner as best we could as a skeleton crew, but there is no guarantee that we did so at the level required for negligible time dilation. It is possible that months or years have passed in Earth time.”

Months or…years? Color drained from her face.

Upon noticing it, Tauthin lowered his voice. “There is a reason space is traversed in instantaneous jumps. Motion is the enemy of time. Though we moved little while in the Zone Runner…we did move, with no navigator to assist us. I do not know the impact that will have had.”

What if we have been here too long, already? She turned to look out the window. What if I return to a home I do not recognize? What if everyone I ever knew is—

Tauthin placed his hand on her shoulder.

She turned her head back to him.

“I sense your concern,” he said. “Do not let it consume you. Time and space are a delicate balance, but while we are here, on Kalar, it will remain relatively synchronized. Just the same, I feel it is imperative that we act as quickly as we are able. The sooner you can make your decision and—”

“We are doing it,” Svetlana said. Nodding her head with finality, she drew in a breath and looked at him. “We are doing it. We are getting the help of the Kalareim, we are taking that Zone Runner, and we are getting off this beautiful, terrible planet and returning to Earth. And we will take some of them with us.”

Tauthin bowed his head and grunted. “We must make sure that we have all the things you came for, primarily the information about the Khuladi.”

He was talking about the full-body scans that the Kalarael had taken, not just of the Khuladi, but of the Bakma, Ithini, and canrassi, too. All of it would be helpful for her to bring back to Earth. “I will tell Akàziendi tonight. She will report it to Tributurian, and we will see what happens.”

“You are making the right choice, Setana.”

“You led me to it.” She turned and took several steps away. “I must win my fight with Kraash-nagun. If we are to do this, it means we will not be gaining the Bakma from Winduster. It is highly unlikely we would have time to both free them and take the Zone Runner. Speed, I believe, is our ally.” She sighed. “Then again, I do not know what Tributurian will say. He may have his own ideas. He may reject this plan altogether. There is nothing we can do but see—and go about our business as if nothing unusual is happening.” Turning back to him, she said, “Thank you, my friend. You have always been a wise counsel to me.”

Tauthin’s violet gaze was steadfast. “That you call me friend is all the payment I need. Let us never allow emotion to endanger it again.”

“Let us never.” Stepping toward him, she opened her arms to give him a hug. “An Earthae custom. It is time you learned it.”

Opening his arms awkwardly, he allowed hers to wrap around him. When she gave him a squeeze, he put his around her back. The motion was rigid. It was not the kind of thing a Bakma would ever do. But as the seconds passed, bit by bit, his shoulders relaxed. He gently squeezed her in return.

“Appreciate these moments, Tauthinilaas. They are all too seldom.”

Holding her for a moment longer, he said, “I do, in ways you cannot comprehend.”

A second later, the embrace was released. Offering the warmest of smiles, she reached out to touch Tauthin’s cheek. Turning away, she returned to her space in the chamber.

Only when she’d crossed the room did Tauthin take his eyes off her. Turning back around to the window, the Bakma’s dark, violet lenses watched the last hues of sunset fade—until it, too, was completely out of view.

* * *

A short while later

Kraash-nagun was preparing his floating cot for slumber when Tauthin’s footsteps approached. Even without eyes, the blinded elite recognized the Bakma leader’s heavy steps. Angling his head in Tauthin’s direction, he waited to hear if the Bakma leader would speak.

“Soon, you will duel Setana,” Tauthin said quietly, but firmly. “When you do so, you will lose.”

Rasping loudly, Kraash-nagun said, “Are you a fool? I have worked with Ei`dorinthal for days. His eyes are like mine, now. My skills have not diminished since my time with the Khuladi. She has no chance to defeat me.”

Several long seconds passed before Tauthin spoke again. “That is not what I meant.”

Across the elite’s face, a new expression crept over him. His bravado slowly faded.

Tauthin said nothing more. He stepped back from Kraash-nagun’s sleeping space and turned to walk toward his own.

* * *

For the remainder of the evening, Svetlana thought on her conversations with Akàziendi and Tauthin. She thought about the ramifications and the likelihood that Tributurian would accept the offer. As soon as she saw the violet-skinned tasharin return to the chamber, she quietly pulled her to the side to share her decision. Akàziendi’s eyes brightened blue upon hearing of it, and then she quickly departed to presumably relay the message, by whatever means she possessed to do so. Svetlana didn’t see her again that night.

By the time Svetlana lay atop her floating bed to sleep, she felt as mentally drained as she had at any point during this journey—something that said quite a lot, considering all she’d been through. Having led one rebellion on the Zone Runner, she was on the verge of leading another one. She could only hope—and pray—that this one would end with less bloodshed.

It did not take Svetlana long to fall asleep, exhausted from making each hour of those thirty-three-hour days count. But she knew that each hour of each day was important. Each one brought her closer to her ultimate goal. To her escape. To her reunion with Earth.

It was about time.

OceanofPDF.com

PART IV

PART IV

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-seven

Saturday, April 7th, 0012 NE

1712 hours

Norilsk, Russia

Two days later

NATALIE WAS ON her way to the cafeteria when the alarms sounded—a pulsating wail that reverberated through Northern Forge’s halls. Stopping dead in her tracks, the captain blinked as every Nightman in the area looked up in confusion.

Suddenly, fully armored Nightmen were sprinting down the hall toward the hangar. After jumping against the wall so she wouldn’t get trampled, Natalie watched them charge through the hangar’s interior door. Looking in the direction from which they’d come, she saw Antipov running toward the hangar, frantically barking orders in Russian at the Nightmen that surrounded him. A second later, Saretok rounded the corner behind them.

What in the world?

The moment they passed, the whole cafeteria’s worth of Nightmen rose from their seats, abandoning their trays to follow the commotion.

“Nattie?”

The voice came from behind her, and she turned to see Logan trotting up the hallway, his pace not nearly so urgent as his predecessors.

“What the hell’s going on?” he asked her.

She was hoping he could tell her. With their spat momentarily set aside, she answered, “I don’t know, they just…”

A second throng of Nightmen, this time sentries, appeared with Valentin. Much like Antipov and Saretok before them, they ran toward the hangar. The keeper shouted fervently in Russian, waving his hands to part the crowd in front of them. Ignoring the keeper’s prompt to get out of the way, Natalie instead trotted alongside him.

“Hey, what’s happening?”

Sounding almost out of breath, Valentin answered, “We are found!”

Found? Staring slack-jawed, she replied simply with, “What?” When she took a step to follow him, Logan grabbed her arm from behind.

“If this place has been found, we need to get out of here—like, right now. There’s a tram tunnel, we can use it to escape.”

Tugging her arm free, she shot him a bewildered look. “Found by who?”

“Does it matter?”

Turning away from him, Natalie followed the growing crowd into the hangar. Snarling in frustration, Logan followed behind her.

Natalie had seen the hangar bustling before, but never like this. The hangar technicians were standing against the far walls, and the armored sentries had formed a rough perimeter around the massive hangar doors, as if they might explode and the whole place might be invaded. At the sound of her name, she glanced back into the hallways to see David, Dostoevsky, Javon, and Tom running toward her. She waited for them to catch up before she looked ahead again, slipping through the crowd to get a better look at whatever was happening. When she caught sight of Antipov, Saretok, and Valentin clustered around a control panel, she weaved her way toward them.

Behind her, Logan continued to protest. “I don’t like this at all.”

She held her hand up and kept on her way. As soon as she was within earshot of the three Nightman leaders, she asked, “What’s going on?”

All three men turned to her, casting looks of instant disapproval, though Antipov’s cooled quickly. He beckoned her to the panel. “Come and see for yourself.”

Following his indication, Natalie looked at the panel in question. There, displayed on a camera feed that was facing the mountain base’s entrance, was a hovering V2 transport. “Holy…”

“Not holy,” spat Valentin. “This is the opposite of holy.” Returning his focus to Antipov and Saretok, he said to them, “We must escape through the tunnel that leads to Norilsk. We must do it now.”

“Wait,” said Antipov calmly, eyes on the camera feed even as he held his hand up to silence them.

Exasperated, Valentin shook his head. “We cannot wait, general. If EDEN knows we are here—”

The general cut him off. “If EDEN knew we were here, a V2 would not be hovering in front of our hangar door. They would have sent a squadron to reduce this mountain to ash.” His eyes narrowed. “This is something else.” Lips curling, he shouted, “Can someone shut off that damned alarm?” Seconds later, the wailing fell silent.

“Can you identify it?” Natalie asked. “Can you tell where it’s from?”

Antipov shook his head. “Its transponder has been switched off. Another fact impossible to ignore.”

The spotlight at the front of the V2 flashed. Her own eyes narrowing, Natalie angled her head as she watched it flash on, then flash off, then flash on, then flash off. There were short bursts. Long pulses. There was definitely a rhythm to it. Natalie put it together immediately.

So did Antipov. “International Morse code,” he said simply.

Morse code. God, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard of anyone using Morse code. Apparently, it still had its uses.

“Morse code?” Saretok asked, arms folded across his chest as he leaned in closer. “What is it saying?”

For several seconds, Antipov remained silent, staring at the display as the flashing lights repeated their message. At long last, just at the point where it seemed Saretok or Valentin might step in to suggest something, Antipov drew in a long breath, turned to the hangar operator, and said, “Open the door.”

Open the door? Blinking, Natalie asked, “That’s what they said? Open the door?”

“That is what I said.” Looking at the controller again, he spoke Russian in a raised tone, presumably repeating his last command.

When the controller protested, Saretok shouted at him. Whatever the colonel said, it shut the controller right up. His hands flew over the control panel, and the rusty gears of Northern Forge’s hangar slowly began to whine. Stepping away from the group, Saretok bellowed something in Russian loudly, prompting every armored Nightman in the hangar to take up their weapons.

“Knock, knock,” said Antipov to Natalie, prompting her to look at him again.

She squinted uncertainly. “What?”

As he stepped past her, the general paused briefly to meet her bewildered gaze. “It said, ‘knock, knock.’” With no further words, he passed by her to prepare for the transport to land.

There were no distinguishing characteristics on the transport—no decorative markings on its hull that gave any indication as to who was on board. As it slowly hovered in, the roar of its engines overtaking the whipping sounds of the wind from the mountains, the Nightmen raised their weapons.

Slowly turning, the V2 rotated so that its troop bay faced the inside of the hangar. It was only as the aircraft was making its 180-degree pivot that a marking on its tail fin came into view. There were no words, no unit numbers. Just an image. Angling her head curiously, Natalie found herself leaning to see it more closely.

It looked like a pelican.

“No way,” said David under his breath.

Natalie glanced back to see him swap a look with Dostoevsky. Neither said another word.

Cl-clunk. The V2’s engines whined down as it landed. As the ship’s bay door lowered, the Nightmen forming the perimeter tensed. Giving them a sweeping glance, Saretok raised his hand to calm them down. Turning her focus back to the transport, Natalie watched as its foremost occupant came into view.

It was a woman. By the look of it, an older one. Her white hair fell to her chin line, and she was notably smaller than the larger men—all of whom looked like soldiers—who flanked her. As the ramp hit the ground and she began walking forward, Natalie took note of her wardrobe: a blue and silver, single-breasted military jacket. The kind worn by generals.

Eyebrows lifting, Natalie watched as the tiny woman marched forward until she came to the hangar floor. Only then did Natalie shift her focus to the men behind her. When she saw one of them, she almost did a double take.

Holy smokes, that’s Reginald Custer!

The blond-haired, ponytailed soldier didn’t see her, and he kept onward, walking step-for-step with another, more clean-cut blond man across from him. Though there were more people behind them, they remained on the ship.

Focus returning to Reginald, Natalie stared in wonderment. What the hell is he doing here? She was floored. If that’s Custer, then…then this transport must be from Sydney…

The short-haired woman stopped several meters in front of the transport. All around the hangar, a deathly silence loomed. She simply stood there, flanked by her EDEN bodyguards as her almost mirthful-looking eyes surveyed the room. At long last, after setting her hands on her hips and cocking them out a bit, she spoke. “Well.” Even in that single word, her thick Australian accent shone through. She extended her hands outward, an action that caused some of the Nightmen to flinch. “Take me to your leader!”

Slipping out from the edge of the crowd, Antipov stepped forward to meet her, stopping with a good five meters between them. He raised his chin. “General Madeline Becker,” he said, voice low and matter of fact. “I must say, this is a surprise.”

The woman identified as Becker narrowed her eyes as she focused on Antipov. For several seconds, the two stayed locked in a stalemate. It was Becker who broke it. “Now, you see that, there,” she said, pointing at Antipov and then angling back to look at Reginald. “Look at that guy’s hair. That’s what you’re going to look like in about thirty years if you don’t cut that thing off. Does that look good to you?”

Reginald sighed.

Despite the commentary, Antipov’s stare held firm. “Is there something we can help you with?” The question was laced with so much forced cordiality, he could have served it on a plate.

“Well, that depends,” she answered. “You see, you apparently know who I am, but I don’t have the foggiest idea who you are. Are you the one in charge, here?”

“I am.”

She dipped her head forward, a bit expectantly. When Antipov said nothing else, she asked, “And your name is…?”

“My name is not your concern.”

Becker chuckled. “Oh, sweetie, I can tell you’re stressed out. You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here and if I’m here to pick a fight, aren’t you? To that I’ll just say, if I was here to pick a fight, we wouldn’t be having this charming little talk. I’d have just had EDEN drop a nuke on your pale little dinger.”

Natalie’s eyebrows lifted. The Nightmen in the crowd looked at one another.

“So being as I’ve given you the courtesy of continued existence,” the woman said, “you can at least give me the courtesy of telling me your name.”

Again, silence fell throughout the hangar. Natalie’s gaze shifted to Antipov, who seemed genuinely unsure how to take this woman.

Clapping her hands together, Becker said, “Well, this was fun. I’m glad we got a chance to catch up.” Turning, she gestured for the men to return up the ramp. “Up we go, boys. I can still catch my soapies.”

“Wait,” Antipov said.

“Oh, goodie!” said Becker, turning immediately around to face him. “I got ’em set to record, anyway.”

Allowing himself a final moment to scrutinize her, he said, “I am Iosif Antipov, general of the Nightmen.”

She threw her hands up. “Ah! A general, that’s wonderful. You’re just the man I was hoping to find.” Gesturing to the men behind her, she said, “The eye candy behind me are Captain Rex Gabriel and Lieutenant Reginald Custer, both proud patriots of Pelican Squad, the finest unit this side of the Pacific. You already know who I am, so that’ll save us some time.” Stepping toward Antipov, she continued. “Now, would you like me to explain why the general of a major EDEN facility snuck off in a transport to pay a visit to the world’s most wanted military cult?”

If this woman wanted to catch him off guard, she was succeeding. Antipov looked like he was on his conversational heels. “Indeed,” he answered hesitantly. “I would.”

Her voice became stern. “You see, the two men behind me are among the best I’ve ever known. They have come through for me time and time again, and I’ve come to consider their squad a flagship of sorts for our little Aussie startup.” She stopped mere feet from him. “So when they and my chief of security step into my office and tell me that something strange is going on, and that representatives sent from EDEN Command are lying to their faces, and that the only way to find the truth might be to take a secret trip to a mountain range in Russia, I’m not going to do what I’d do for anyone else and write it off as nonsense.” Hands returning to her hips, she said, “My boys are convinced that EDEN Command is up to something, and it’s not good. Call it women’s intuition or the Aussie spirit of rebellion, but something’s gnawing at my brain telling me they’re right. So here I am, general.” She leaned forward. “Convince me that they are.”

Antipov glanced in each direction, as if to take in the room—to gauge it—before responding. Looking at her again, he asked, “How did you find this place?”

“Captain Gabriel,” Becker said, half-stepping aside as she looked back at him, “would you care to elaborate on that one?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, his eyes fixing on Antipov. “We have a history with the Fourteenth—let’s just say there’s much mutual respect. And my lieutenant here has a bit of a history, too, with Captain Rockwell.”

Nothing like the public mention of a past relationship to make Natalie want to sink through the floor. Reginald hadn’t noticed her in the crowd yet, and that was fine by her.

“We knew when everything initially took place that none of it sounded like the people we knew, on either front. When the pilot, Miss Feathers, got placed in our custody at Sydney, we realized we had an opportunity to speak to someone who might be able to give us some answers.”

Tiffany! There was a notable excitement among her friends at the mention of her name.

“Call it a leap of faith,” Rex said, “but when she told me her story, we believed her. She must’ve trusted us, too, because she told us where to find you. She basically told us…everything.”

What a risk Tiffany had taken. Had she been wrong about these guys, the mountain base would already be a smoldering heap. Briefly, she looked at Antipov, who looked less than pleased that someone had been so cavalier with Northern Forge’s location. Nonetheless, what was done was done. While reckless, Tiffany’s revelation to Pelican Squad might have just opened a door.

“So what’s this I hear about a recording?” asked Becker, picking up where Rex had left off. Arching an eyebrow, she angled her head expectantly toward Antipov.

“Do you understand the risk you have taken coming here?” asked Antipov, ignoring the EDEN general’s question.

Eyes still locked on, Becker shook her head. “Oh, not much of one. You see, my vice-general knows where I am, and if I don’t come home, well…party at your place. Now, I’ll go ahead and repeat my question. What’s this I hear about a recording?”

There was nothing that Antipov could do—nothing he could say. As the crowd in the hangar watched with bated breath, the self-anointed general of the Nightmen bore the look of a man without options. Checkmate, Natalie thought as she observed him. She’s a hand you never saw coming.

After what felt like an eternity, Antipov lowered his chin and said, “Well, General Becker. Welcome to Northern Forge. Please, come with me.” When all three of the visitors began to walk forward, he stopped them. “Only the general. The rest of you may wait in the cafeteria—or one of the lounges, if you wish.”

Becker’s eyes narrowed, just a bit, as if trying to determine in her own mind if this was a battle worth fighting. Ultimately, she must have decided it wasn’t. “You boys don’t get into too much trouble,” she said to Rex and Reginald without looking.

“Yes, ma’am,” they replied.

“Captain Rockwell,” Antipov said, cold eyes turning to Natalie.

Caught off guard, she cleared her throat and looked at him.

“Since you have history with Lieutenant Custer, perhaps you can entertain him and his friends while we are away. I do not believe we will need very long.” Not waiting for her response, he said, “Grigori, Valentin, please join me. And please, someone close that hangar door!” Saretok and the keeper complied, turning to follow Antipov into the base, a quasi-hesitant Becker following behind them. Seconds later, the base’s massive hangar door began to slide shut.

“Reginald bloody Custer,” murmured Logan in disgust. “Now that’s bloody typical.”

“Shut up, Marshall,” said Natalie. Stepping away from him as the hangar occupants at-eased, she weaved through the crowd toward Reginald and Rex. “Well, well, well,” she said as she approached her old ex-boyfriend, “look what the cat dragged in.” She wasn’t sure if she should allow herself to smile or not. The two hadn’t broken up on good terms. When Reginald had left Atlanta for Sydney, it’d been a relief to her. Now her past was staring her in the face.

He looked as uninspired as she did. “Can we just keep this professional?”

“That was never an issue for me.”

“Says the officer who slept with two subordinates.”

And right there. There it was.

Taking a step forward, Logan said, “You watch your mouth—”

Natalie slammed her hand against Logan’s chest to block his approach. Her eyes stayed on Reginald. “I have been tasked with entertaining you while your general talks to mine,” she said. “If you and Captain Gabriel will please follow me.” Without another word, she turned to lead them out of the hangar.

* * *

EDEN Command

At the same time

SLAPPING HIS HAND against the top of his desk, Pablo said, “It is gone.”

“What do you mean, it’s gone?” asked Marty, who was hovering over the Spaniard, staring down at the screen that displayed a geographical map of the Earth. “Bring it back!”

“It is not that easy.”

“It sure seems easy to freakin’ lose it. This is the second time!”

Pablo grinded his teeth together then said, “I did not lose it the first time. It went out of range of my helmet. Now that the satellites are looking for it, it does not depend on my helmet tracker to find it.”

“Too bad you couldn’t have thought of that in Atami when we coulda tracked ’em.”

“This was your plan, not mine!”

The door to Pablo’s temporary quarters in EDEN Command opened as Chiumbo Okayo, acting executive officer of Vector Squad, stepped inside. The Mwera tribesman’s comm was still in his hand. “I am sorry, I came as fast as I could. Have you picked up the drone signal?”

“We had picked up the drone signal,” said Marty with a frown.

Chiumbo frowned as he took his place beside Marty, leaning over Pablo to look at the computer screen. “What happened?”

“The signal appeared briefly, right here,” answered Pablo, pointing to where a large, shaded circle was hovering over Russia. “It narrowed down the general region, but it was nowhere near strong enough to pinpoint an exact location.”

“But more likely from the center, correct?”

The Spaniard shook his head. “Not necessarily. It could have originated from anywhere in here. Krasnoyarsk, Novosibirsk. Yakutsk, Norilsk, as far west as Perm. It confirmed what we already knew: that they are operating out of Russia.”

Clapping his hand down atop Pablo’s shoulder, he said, “But it confirmed something. That means it worked.”

Raising an eyebrow, Pablo looked back at the other two men. “Should we tell the captain?”

A short span of silence passed before Chiumbo answered. “I would rather wait until we have something definitive.”

“Yeah,” said Marty, “no use givin’ him false hope if we ain’t got nothing to show him. Yet.”

“Yet,” Chiumbo repeated, smiling as he stood up straight again. “It is important we remember that word. Have faith, my friends. We will find them.”

Marty nodded, his smile somewhat subdued, but still there.

“Let me know as soon as it shows up again.”

“At least I know where to focus, now,” said Pablo. “If we can get it to appear another time or two, then I think we will have them. Every time the signal appears, the circle will get smaller.”

With no further words and a pat on Pablo’s shoulder, Chiumbo turned and left the room.

* * *

Northern Forge

A short while later.

THERE WAS AN almost deafening level of chatter in the cafeteria. From every table, Nightmen were talking, shouting, and laughing amongst themselves. Though Natalie couldn’t understand what they were saying, with what had just transpired between Antipov and Becker, she imagined—perhaps even hoped—that what she was hearing were jokes being told at the Nightman leader’s expense. It would have added a granule of levity to her situation, even if vicariously at the expense of someone else. Yet as she stared across the table at Reginald Custer, there was no such sense of levity or comfort within her. For certain, having comrades from the Fourteenth and Falcon Platoon around her made the situation a little less awful. And of course, Pelican Squad’s arrival at Northern Forge—at least, in the ambassadorial sense—was a blessing in and of itself. But the truth of the matter was, she and Reginald didn’t exactly have the kind of history she wanted to think about.

In the minutes that followed Natalie and company’s arrival to the cafeteria, members of the Fourteenth trickled in to greet their long-lost Pelican cousins. It still boggled Natalie’s mind that any of these people were connected at all. Of particular fascination to her was seeing how the different members of the Fourteenth reacted differently to the two Pelican representatives. She got a slight tickle when she saw Esther’s reaction to Reginald, which was more of a sigh and an eye roll than a how have you been? She wished she could have been there when the two units first met to put it all into context.

The conversation with the Pelicans was a barebones one, consisting of recaps to explain how they’d all gotten to this serendipitous point. As it turned out, the event at which the Fourteenth had worked closest with Pelican Squad was the Interspecies Conflict, the incident where H`laar’s message to Captain Faerber had originated. Though Pelican Squad hadn’t been privy to the message itself—a terrible misfortune, as it would have added so much credibility to Scott’s testimony—it was that event and the questioning of a woman named Jaya that first raised red flags for Rex. Of particular note was when she tried to convince the members of Pelican Squad that there’d been no alien survivors at all, when they clearly knew that wasn’t the case. But that was but one of numerous inconsistencies she tried to sell them. Her liberal concept of “truth” was what prompted them to visit Tiffany in the first place.

But that was all in the past. What mattered now was that the Nightmen might have stumbled upon an unlikely ally in the general of an EDEN base—one willing to take an extreme chance based solely on the word of her soldiers. Natalie would have preferred that ally had been, say, Vector Squad, the intended recipient of H`laar’s original message, but Sydney would have to do—even if Reginald Custer was part of the deal.

Halfway through the meal, Natalie received a call from Artur Pashkov. The forge master wished to see her about her armor. Upon informing him that it wasn’t the best time, he insisted, explaining to her that a few minutes now could save him a full day’s work later. Coaxed into it, Natalie politely excused herself and exited the cafeteria. Only a few steps removed from it, Reginald caught up with her.

“Hey,” he said, approaching her from behind.

Natalie sighed—she couldn’t help it. “Yeah?”

“I want to go with you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Nodding, he said, “Yeah, I do.”

“I don’t want you to come with me.” The comment prompted Reginald to release a sigh of his own before looking down at the floor. Rolling her eyes and always a sucker for the pitiful, Natalie turned and resumed her walk. “Whatever, come on.”

Trotting to catch up, he did so before she reached the elevator. “So what, you’re getting fitted for armor?”

“Yeah, that’s literally word for word what I said the call was about.”

“Natalie, come on…”

She stopped and about-faced. “Come on what?”

Extending his hands out sideways, he said, “We’re here, aren’t we? By the look of it, you guys could use a miracle. Be happy with the one you got.”

“Dark is the day when you constitute a miracle.” The sarcastic remarks were so easy when it came to him. It was like he drew them out of her. But she knew he was right. Had it been anyone else who’d walked out of that transport—anyone else—she would have been ecstatic. She needed to be happy with what she had, even if it was him. “I’m sorry,” she said, closing her eyes briefly. “Let’s just get on the elevator.”

Natalie’s relationship with Reginald back at Atlanta had been problematic from the start. It’d occurred during the short time that she’d been an epsilon—the EDEN rank for officers-in-training, and Reginald was at delta trooper. As was the case with most of the romantic relationships in her life, it was one based more on the heat of certain moments than anything of actual substance—and like most of them, it’d turned out to be a colossal mistake.

It wasn’t that Reginald was a bad person in the sense that he’d rob a bank or trip old ladies trying to cross the street. It was just that when it came to matters of personal interaction, he was a narcissistic jerk. Everything was about him. Always. And opinionated! There was nothing wrong about having a strong set of core values, but Heaven help the person who talked to Reginald Custer and had a different way of looking at things. They were stupid, or short-sighted, or ridiculous. His tongue was a sharp knife, and anyone who got too close was going to get cut. Worse yet, he seemed to relish the confrontation. It was just like the completely unnecessary comment he’d made earlier to her about sleeping with subordinates. What an awful and unfair way to word a very personal attack. She hated that about him. It was a wonder why she’d dated him at all.

Though he and Logan had never seen eye to eye, there was one incident where their dual stubbornness boiled over into physical conflict. It was yet another instance where Reginald’s mouth initiated the confrontation, this time with the insinuation that there were certain “aspects” to Natalie that were more involved in her rise to epsilon than her passion and ability. It was a mean-spirited, chauvinistic remark made worse only by the fact that he was her boyfriend. It also resulted in Logan—never one to take any slight toward Natalie lightly—beating the daylights out of Reginald and putting him in the infirmary. Natalie broke things off with him, and he was transferred shortly after to Sydney. It was a move that their CO insisted was logistics based, though his soldiers knew better.

But with every ending came a new beginning, and she found hers in a relationship with Logan that was one hundred percent rebound. That it lasted longer than her relationship with Reginald said little. Both men were the wrong men. It was like Logan always told her: she was awful when it came to men. He called it her only flaw. It was a kind assessment, slanted in her favor. But truth was still truth, even if it sugarcoated other sins. She simply went after the wrong guys. It was only natural she’d go after the man who’d become Earth’s most wanted next. All she could do was thank God that EDEN didn’t have strict regulations when it came to relationships among the ranks. As long as it didn’t show on the battlefield, they really didn’t care. Thankfully, she still had a gold star in that department.

Or, had one.

The elevator dinged as they reached Level-1. When the door opened, the warmth of the forge hit them. Natalie was used to it by this point, but Reginald noticeably grimaced. Eyeing him sidelong, she said, “If it’s a little too hot for you, you can always go back up.”

“Pfft.”

Of course he’d pfft.

“This ain’t nothing.”

It was something, all right. It was as sweltering as a place could get—a throwback to times when armor was made in fiery furnaces with anvils and glowing steel. She had to admit, the Medieval-ness of it all was growing on her. “Every piece of Nightman armor is made with human hands.”

Following her out of the elevator, he pulled briefly on his ponytail.

She hated that ponytail with a passion. She wanted to just yank it. “Doesn’t exactly sound efficient,” he said.

“It might not be efficient, but it’s built to last.” Stopping in her tracks, she turned around to face him—the sudden about-face almost causing him to smack right into her. “Why are you such a prick?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. Why are you such a prick? Every word out of your mouth is a dig on something. You can’t let things be, it’s like a sick addiction.” And why in the hell did it have to be you who showed up here, of all the people on the godforsaken planet? She’d leave that part unspoken. For now.

“Do you realize,” he asked, “that one of the reasons we’re here is because of me? Because I counted the time I served with you as a good character reference on your behalf? Do you want to know why I did that? Because I’m not petty like you.”

I want to hit him, I want to hit him, I want to hit him.

He looked at her with genuine curiosity. “How’d you get wrapped up in all of this?”

“Yeah, so we literally just had an hour-long conversation in the cafeteria about that.”

“I’m not talking about a stupid play-by-play. I mean, like, how did you get wrapped up in this? In your head?”

What the heck was he talking about? Shaking her head and blinking, she could only manage, “What?”

“Never mind.” Sighing, he said, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

He waved his hand nonchalantly. “All of it.”

“That’s a pretty broad apology.”

“Well, I mean it.”

She leaned closer and narrowed her eyes. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m not sorry for anything you did.”

“You’re not?”

“No…because in the end, I got to watch Logan knock your lights out. And that,” she said with a dangerous chuckle, “made everything worth it.” Game, set, match. Or at least, it sure felt that way. Turning around with a smirk on her face, she resumed her trek into the forge.

From far behind, he said, “Was that fun?”

“Was what fun?” she asked, still walking.

“Getting your little zinger in.”

It was, she had to admit it. “Oh, absolutely.”

“Can I offer you a suggestion?” he asked, still standing far behind her.

“I can’t wait to hear it.”

He paused. “Don’t get used to mouthing off.”

“My goodness, that’s rich coming from you.” Turning back around, she stared at him from a good seven meters away. “And why, pray tell, shouldn’t I?”

Eyes staying on her, it wasn’t until he’d reached her and begun to pass her by that he answered. “Look where it got me.”

She blinked. As he walked past her toward the forge, she turned her head to watch him walk away. Look where it got him? He was a lieutenant. He lived in Australia, of all places. By all practical accounts, things were going great. But the way he said it…it almost sounded sincere. Almost like he was passing on wisdom learned through an abundance of mistakes. Almost like he meant it for good. As he entered the forge, then promptly stared at it like he had no idea where he was supposed to go next, it came to her. Oh man…he’s absolutely miserable.

He was. He was miserable. With life. With himself. His words reeked of it. And in the best way that Reginald Custer likely knew how, he was trying to pass something onto her that he’d had to learn himself. That actions, and sometimes, words, had consequences. For the faintest of moments, she felt a tinge of genuine sympathy.

Turning around, he held his hands out expectantly. “What, you want me to take point? Get in front!”

And just like that, all sympathy was gone. With a sigh that said typical, she entered the forge to take the lead.

Despite having made several trips into the forge since her return, Natalie still found herself in a state of awe at the sight of the soot-faced blacksmiths and the orange glow of pouring metal. The heat was incredible—so much more intense than it was by the elevator. It was a wonder these workers didn’t routinely suffer from heat strokes. A glance in Reginald’s direction showed the soldier deliberately stone-faced—the kind of hardened, ice-cold look one gave when they were at a loss for words but didn’t want to show it. Forced bravado. It was the Custer way. Gesturing toward Artur’s office in the far corner, Natalie said, “Let’s get crackin’.”

Even in the small walk across the forge, Natalie found the back of her shirt sticking to her skin. Not too far from her, a worker was pouring an entire bottle of water over his head. She imagined she’d be doing the same thing after an hour or two in his shoes.

Artur was waiting for her at the precipice of his office, his eyes shifting to Reginald as soon as the pair approached. Offering the forge master a smile, she stepped aside to offer introductions. “Reginald Custer, Artur Pashkov—Artur Pashkov, Reginald Custer. The third.” That part was important, even if Reginald wasn’t going to mention it. “Reginald came here with Pelican Squad. He’ll be staying for…probably not that long.” Measured in hours, surely.

“Pelican Squad?” asked Artur, raising a bushy eyebrow.

“Yeah, you know, all the sirens and alarms and whatnot. We had, uhh, unexpected guests. Good guests,” she said quickly. “Good guests.” The look of total disinterest in Artur’s face prompted her to continue. “All right, suit me up!”

Pivoting around, the lumbering forge master walked into his office. “Right this way.”

Casting Natalie a suspiciously raised eyebrow, Reginald followed her and Artur inside.

The first thing Natalie noticed upon entering the office was the temperature. My goodness, it felt good in there! Whereas the floor of the forge itself was scorching, Artur’s office felt like it was built into an ice box. It felt great. It was far neater than she ever would have expected from the gruff forge master, with neatly aligned drawing tables along the far wall of the room, several full-sized mannequins that were clad in various armors, and organizational trays, each with a variety of drawing and sculpting tools. “Wow.” It was all she could say as she beheld it all for the first time. This guy had his ducks in a row.

“Right behind you,” Artur said without looking, gesturing blindly to the other wall with a hand.

Turning, Natalie’s emerald gaze fell upon the mannequin that was set apart from the others—and the amazing suit of armor that was attached to it. It was fulcrum armor, no doubt—that much was evident by the spiked half collar mounted atop the breastplate. But it was so streamlined, so sleek. It was so thoughtfully crafted to…well, look good.

Behind her, Reginald said, “Holy smokes.”

Holy smokes was right. Leaning closer, she inspected the bright red, upside down triangle attached to the left side of the breastplate. Such a simple design. How did they make it look so beautiful? Beneath the Nightman crest was a metal nameplate, the name Rockwell stamped on cleanly. The hair on her arms stood on end.

“Would you like to try it on?” Artur asked.

Leaning back, she stared into where the eyes would be on the otherwise faceless helmet. “Most definitely.” Stepping back to get a good look at it, she asked simply, “How?”

The forge master trundled past her, grabbing the sides of the torso with his plump hands and sliding the forward half upward, where it unlatched. Turning, he handed it to her. “The same principle as EDEN armor. Magnetic latches hold it together, clamps tighten the seals. One thing EDEN did well was create a suit of armor that is quick to get on. There was no need to reinvent that particular wheel.”

The fewer new things she had to learn, the better. “All right, then, don’t mind if I do. It’ll fit over this uniform, right?” There were no female Nightman uniforms—at least, not yet. She didn’t want friction to be an issue.

“It will work well enough, but you will have several uniforms tailored to your specifications. It will fit ideally then, but it should still feel good now.”

That all worked for her. Casting a sidelong smirk Reginald’s way, she said, “Step aside, Custard. This girl’s gotta suit up.”

Waving her off much like he was swatting at an invisible insect, Reginald turned around to meander about the office. After a quick pass with his eyes, he wandered over to a mannequin wearing EDEN armor.

Taking the front half of the breastplate in hand, Natalie began armoring up.

As piece after piece of the armor went on—the breastplate, the leg and shin guards, the torso strap, and more—Natalie couldn’t help but notice how much lighter this was than standard EDEN armor. With the added protection that Nightman armor provided, it was a little mystifying as to how this was possible. Costs had to play a factor in it, else she could think of no good reason why all EDEN armor wasn’t crafted like this. The fact that it was all handmade surely made Nightman armor much more expensive, but she had to admit, it was a difference that could be felt. Whereas she slipped into EDEN armor, this armor felt like it hugged her. It felt secure. Yet unrestricted. As the last piece of her torso and lower body came on, she held her hands out widely, then pulled them back in. She had full range of motion.

I could move so fast in this. No wonder they excel on the battlefield. This armor alone gives them a humungous edge.

The last part to go on was her helmet. As she held it in her hands, staring into the spot on its faceless front where eyes would be, she tried hard to see her reflection in the black, lustrous metal. But it wasn’t there at all. Drawing in a deep breath of preparation, she lifted it above her head and then eased it down.

It had always been a wonder to Natalie what it must have looked like behind that faceless gaze—that helmet with no eye holes or visor. She knew it was a camera system of some sort. As the helmet came down over her head and she saw only darkness, Natalie wondered if there was something she had missed. Then, in an instant, when the magnetic clamps locked in place above her collar and the internal systems of the armor came online, the room became crystal clear.

Every detail of the room came into focus as the lenses in front of her eyes turned on. It was bright, vibrant. As if she was looking at it all with her real eyes. Maybe even better. Turning her head and once again discovering she had full range of motion, she stared in awe at the room in front of her. EDEN visors had limited HUD displays. They could highlight nav coordinates, locate and identify extraterrestrials with their Ex-Trackers. But this was like sitting in her own body’s cockpit. Everywhere she focused her eyes, distance indicators appeared. A heartrate monitor was clearly visible in the upper right, with several spaces beneath it that must have been reserved to monitor the heartrates of others. When she squinted, the camera zoomed. This was incredible.

“Is it working for you?” Artur asked.

Turning her gaze to Reginald, she watched as he faced her from where he’d been looking at the other mannequins. Squinting harder, she zoomed in on his facial expression. He looked like he wasn’t sure what to think. That wasn’t a problem for her. “I love this.”

The bearded forge master nodded. “It is an enhanced helmet design. There is some superior technology to what most Nightmen have. In the future, we hope to phase much of the new HUD into all our designs, but for now…” he gestured with his massive hand, “you can enjoy our newest technology.”

Enjoy was the right word. This was absolutely fantastic.

“We hope to tie in an ammunition counter into the system—we are working to implement some modifications in the E-35 to wirelessly transmit data to its user. There are some obstacles to overcome yet, but it is a taste of what’s to come.”

“Do you have any idea how effective EDEN would be with this?” she asked, looking at both men in awe, though they couldn’t see it on her face.

“Yes,” the forge master answered, smiling a bit, “that is why General Thoor did not like to share it.”

What an edge. What an incredible, game-changing edge. EDEN was just…so inferior to this. In every single way. Taking the armor for the equivalent of a test drive, she walked forward in the room toward a mirror in the far corner. It felt as effortless to walk as it did to move her arms. As she neared the mirror and her reflection came into view, she stared at it. This is so awesome. Stepping forward quickly, she reached down to where a holster would be and mimicked raising a pistol to aim at herself. Bad to the vecking bone.

Hands in his pockets, Reginald asked rather blithely, “Having fun?”

Yes, she was. Not feeling the least bit silly at all, she lowered her invisible pistol. As she stared at her black, armored reflection, she just shook her head. She didn’t have words.

Reginald, of course, did. Clearing his throat, he tilted his head in Artur’s direction. “So why do you guys have a set of EDEN armor here? What’s the purpose, since you guys do all your own stuff?”

“As I said earlier,” Artur answered, “there are some aspects of body armor that EDEN does well. Sometimes I like to take a look at what they do on a closer level.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I also just like to collect.”

Nodding, Reginald looked at the EDEN armor again, then back at Natalie. He smirked. “This set looks about your size if you ever have a change of heart.”

“Ha.” Not a chance. “This is the kind of armor that keeps you alive, right here.” She nodded at herself in the mirror.

Hands still in his pockets, Reginald’s gaze returned to the armor from EDEN. “Your body or your soul?”

Behind her helmet, Natalie rolled her eyes.

“So,” Artur asked her, “everything fits?”

“Like a glove,” she answered.

The forge master nodded. “Good. You can go ahead and take it off. I have a few components left to install and a few screws to tighten. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

The last thing she felt like doing was taking off the armor. She felt more like leading a military parade. “If I must.”

“I am afraid that you must.”

Shoulders sagging like a kid having a shiny new toy taken away, Natalie returned to the mannequin on the other side of the room to remove her armor.

The process of removing the fulcrum armor was not an enjoyable one, and Natalie found herself holding onto its individual parts and pieces for moments longer than she needed to just to imprint the feel of them to her memory. She knew the time would come when she would get to don the armor again, for real that time. It was a moment she greatly looked forward to.

After a small bit of closing chit-chat with Artur, Natalie and Reginald left his office to make their way back to the elevator. As much as she would have loved to stay down there just gawking, she knew that Becker’s meeting with Antipov wouldn’t last forever. Soon enough, everyone would want to know where Reginald was. As she entered the elevator with him to go back to Level-3, she cast a sidelong glance his way. Much as he had been in Artur’s office, the lieutenant was staring ahead somewhat blankly. He looked curiously detached, for someone as incessant as he tended to be. Narrowing her eyes a tad suspiciously, she asked him simply, “What?”

“I mean, do you really think that’s you?” he asked her instantly.

So obviously, you were waiting for me to catch your dumb, lost expression. Looking forward again, she said, “You know what it is? It’s effective.”

“Yeah, but that’s not what I asked.”

Arching an eyebrow, she asked him, “Would you take armor like that into combat if you had the chance?”

“Of course I would.”

“Well, there you go.”

He shook his head. “But I’m a jackass. You’re Natalie Rockwell.”

They call me Venus here, actually. That thought, probably for the better, remained inside her head. “What does who I am have to do with it? I’m a soldier just like you.”

“You’re more than a soldier. You’re an ideal. You work hard, you do what’s right, you go by the book. That’s just you.”

He had no right to tell her who she was or wasn’t. “Listen, whatever lines were drawn in the sand, EDEN drew them. They wanted a fight, they’re getting a fight.”

For several seconds, Reginald remained quiet. “I guess that’s the thing.”

“What’s the thing?”

He seemed to search for his words. “You’re so eager to fight EDEN right now, and I get it. They did you wrong, they hurt a lot of people.”

“They’re dangerous.”

Nodding, he said, “And they’re dangerous, sure. Like I said, I get why you’d want to fight them. I would, too.”

She stared at him dumbfounded. “Okay, so…?”

“I just wish you’d be as passionate about fighting to save EDEN as you seem driven to destroy it.”

Natalie blinked. The elevator dinged. As the doors opened and before she could manage a response, the ponytailed lieutenant stepped out.

But…I do want to save it.

But did she?

As the elevator door moved to close again, she quickly slipped out into the hall.

Upon returning to the cafeteria, Natalie found her comrades and those from Becker’s transport engaged in conversation that was far more jovial than the data dumps she’d left them with. There was talk of Russian winters, of the surf scene on Bondi Beach in Sydney, and whether the comforting warmth of borsch on a cold day or the sweet simplicity of yeast spread on toast in the morning made for a better meal. There was laughter—something that was much needed for everyone.

But even that long overdue laughter couldn’t quell the uneasiness Reginald had put in her. It couldn’t quell the frustration. What right did he have to judge her based on the type of armor she wore? Did it say anything about who she was as a person? Was anyone’s personal dress code going to send them to hell? Natalie wanted the best tool for the job, and fulcrum armor was it. It said nothing about her character, her convictions, or her allegiance. And even if it did, so what? Who was she supposed to side with on this one? There wasn’t an EDEN soldier on the planet that wouldn’t gun her down on sight—she’d seen that much in Atami.

I’m a fulcrum. And I did it without murdering someone. The Nightmen have changed. What did Reginald Custer know about change? Not a thing. In his own words, he was a jackass. She’d known enough of them in her lifetime to know their opinions weren’t worth much.

When Becker finally returned some three hours after she’d disappeared with Antipov, the expression she wore was far removed from the confidence and bravado she’d shown upon her arrival. Her face was stone, her eyes conflicted. She bore the look of a woman whose unwavering sense of truth had just been challenged. Natalie knew that feeling well. It was the same mix of emotions she’d felt when she’d heard the recording between Archer and the Ceratopians. She was sure that Becker had heard it now, too. The general said nothing about anything she’d seen or heard—a deliberate effort, it seemed. She was only overheard telling Antipov, “I’ll be in touch,” to which he said something low and indiscernible. With no other discussion taking place, she collected her fellow visitors from Sydney and boarded the transport. There was far less fanfare in their departure than in their arrival. There were handshakes, a few man-hugs, and a couple obligatory “I’ll see you soon’s” with little to no evidence to back up the prospects. Reginald made no effort to tell Natalie goodbye; he seemed content to let her dwell on what he’d said in the elevator. Then, almost as suddenly as Pelican Squad had arrived outside the mountain base’s hangar…

…they were gone.

Natalie didn’t ask Antipov about what he’d shown Becker or what would ultimately become of her visit. She didn’t feel that she needed to. He had extended to Natalie the trust of the Nightmen, and she would give him that same courtesy. She knew that, when the time came, she’d be told all she needed to know. Even if it wasn’t everything. Even if it was just enough to get her killed for the greater good. She swore to herself that it’d be a sacrifice she’d be willing to make. But just in case it wasn’t, at least she’d have a good set of armor to help.

She refused to feel guilty about that.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-eight

Date unknown

Time unknown

Ban-Hezikal, Kalar

IT WAS NOT a good day.

Slinging a glob of wet runa legras from the side of her head, Svetlana sighed and looked down. This was her fourth time having to push herself up to her knees after a face-smacking into the pink mud. Considering she and Akàziendi had only been training for fifteen minutes, it was beginning to feel like she’d taken a major step backwards. Cursing in Russian, Svetlana wiped her pink-streaked hair back—again. Rubbing as much runa legras from her hands as she could, she regripped her shock staff and reassumed a fighting stance.

Akàziendi, spotless as always, readied her staff. The violet-skinned tasharin’s technique had grown increasingly more challenging with each day that’d passed. She had stressed to Svetlana, day in and day out, that she was improving. On this day, Svetlana found it hard to believe.

Striking forward with a jab, Svetlana allowed Akàziendi to parry in order to use momentum from the blow to come in at a different angle. It was a strategy that worked some of the time—but this was not one of them. Their staffs collided as the tasharin met Svetlana’s attacks one after the other, blocking downward, then upward, then downward again. By the time five blows had been exchanged, Akàziendi had already transitioned into the aggressor.

Crouching down mid-strike, Akàziendi sent the far end of her staff swinging for Svetlana’s front foot. Svetlana lifted it to avoid the sweep, but it was too late. With a solid, straightforward thrust, the tip of Akàziendi’s staff—set to minimum charge—popped against Svetlana’s upper torso. Even had there not been a charge involved, the awkwardness of Svetlana’s footing would have done her in by itself. Toppling backward, Svetlana skedaddled for several steps before her feet gave way. She landed flat on her back with yet another loud, wet splat.

After pressing her head back in frustration, Svetlana growled and then rolled to push up. This one-sided pummeling was getting old.

Ed was not present during this training session, the Ithini having gone with Kraash-nagun to work on his training with Toro-shun, which was taking place on the opposite side of the Ban-Hezikal structure. Though it would have been nice to be able to communicate with Akàziendi, it wasn’t necessary. The beatdown she was delivering was saying enough by itself. So far as timing went, this couldn’t be worse. With her much-ballyhooed duel with Kraash-nagun slated for that evening, this was not the time to suddenly fall apart.

As opposed to the hustle and bustle of her first days on Kalar, the past several days had seemed strikingly normal. She woke, she trained, she mulled about the facility, she trained, she waited for new developments, she trained. There was a definite routine for both her and her comrades.

Wuteel, for all Svetlana’s grievances with him, had been as around-the-clock as anyone, tirelessly working on a solution to the damaged Zone Runner’s issues. For two days in a row now, the Kalarael had allowed him to go to Winduster alone to work on the spacecraft. With Kalarael surrounding him, he was no threat there. Getting that ship repaired was Svetlana’s top priority, even if it meant lending trust to Wuteel to do it.

To no surprise whatsoever, Akàziendi’s proposal to Tributurian regarding taking Kalareim colonists to Earth was met with exuberance. According to Akàziendi, they were already beginning the process of mustering a force to help liberate the spacecraft. The time and date for this liberation was unknown, but impending. As soon as Tributurian picked a date, he would let Akàziendi know.

Despite the reality of their situation, Svetlana felt a measure of guilt for what was being conspired. She felt particularly bad when it came to Yigôzien, who worshipped the ground Svetlana walked on. She was always there, providing insight, making sure that everything Svetlana could possibly want or need was in ample supply. There was no denying that Svetlana felt a great deal of bitterness toward Linjan and the others involved in her unspoken imprisonment. But Yigôzien had nothing to do with any of that. The teal-streaked invoker was entirely innocent. For days now, Svetlana had been praying for a solution to reveal itself, one that wouldn’t result in outright betrayal of the Kalarael, and Yigôzien in particular. Svetlana had no intention of judging their whole species for the deeds of a few. Yes, they were misguided, and yes, their attitudes toward the Kalareim were repugnant. But this was a generational, systemic problem. Individuals could only be blamed so much for that. It was strange, praying to a God that literally no one else on that planet believed in. She would have been lying had she said that she hadn’t questioned things in her own heart—namely, was her God even real? It was easy to say He was when experiencing deliverance from a situation that required the miraculous, as had been the case on the Zone Runner with Nagogg. But it was much, much harder when living with a society that had their own historical religion—one that if not for her arrival, would have never intersected with her own. Were their Gods the same? Did God play by multiple sets of rules? If He did, was He also playing with the Khuladis’? These were hard questions to ask. They were even harder to answer.

In the end, she knew only one thing for certain: in the times in her past when she’d called upon God for rescue, He’d delivered her. She’d at one point chastised Tauthin for daring to suggest she denounce her “Earthae God” at the hour she needed Him most. She would be a fool to turn her back on Him now.

Shock staff swinging, Svetlana proceeded with another offensive run. Akàziendi parried blow after blow, backtracking as Svetlana pressed forward until suddenly, the tasharin stepped forward, forgoing her weapon to trip Svetlana forward with a simple kick of the foot.

Sliding face-first yet again, Svetlana lifted her head, angrily smeared away the runa legras from her eyes, then slammed her staff into the ground and screamed. As Svetlana rose to her feet, Akàziendi angled her head and watched.

Svetlana was an absolute wreck. This was as bad as the tail-kicking Tauthin had given her. Tendrils of pink hair dangling, she glared at Akàziendi and threw her hands in the air. “What the hell is happening? Can you tell me that? Why am I falling apart right now?”

The tasharin said nothing, which wasn’t surprising considering Ed wasn’t there to connect them. It didn’t really matter to Svetlana, anyway. She just wanted to vent.

“I mean, this guy is blind! Can I not beat a blind person? Must we go through all this? I was doing good, right? You said I was before.” Lowering her head, she shook it. “He’s blind, Akàziendi. He’s blind! If I cannot beat a blind Bakma with a stick, then I don’t deserve to lead anyone.”

Akàziendi spoke for the first time, the melodic sweetness of her natural-speaking voice wafting through the air around Svetlana. She didn’t understand a lick of it.

“Setana!” said a voice from far behind her.

Turning her head, Svetlana watched as Tauthin approached. The Bakma stopped when he saw her, looking at her caked-up body before glancing to Akàziendi, then back to Svetlana again. “How is your training going?”

She narrowed her eyes.

“We must speak about Kraash-nagun,” Tauthin said.

“Must we?” she asked, holding her hands out. “Must we, really? What did he do, grow eyes? Will they let him use a gun? I feel like I am wasting my time, rolling around in the mud, day after stupid day.”

Tauthin’s gaze was steadfast. “You sound frustrated.”

Grumbling, Svetlana reached down to scoop up a handful of wet runa legras. She flung it toward Tauthin’s head with abandonment. Her aim wasn’t even close.

“That was uncalled for.”

“You know what’s uncalled for?” Svetlana trudged toward him, nearly slipping forward until she caught herself with a hand. Standing upright, she continued onward. “I will tell you. This. This utter humiliation.”

The Bakma’s knobby brow lowered. “You have been through worse.”

“Blah, blah, worse, worse, they cut off my nose, whatever. I am sick of…” She held her hands out, fingers rigid like she was trying to grab something, but ending up with nothing. “Feeling completely gross. What is it with me, really? Why am I always so gross? Is it because I am a clean freak? Is this supposed to be irony?”

“It appears you are having a moment,” Tauthin said. “That is unfortunate, because we truly must speak about Kraash-nagun.”

She shook her fists at the sky. “Ugh!” Trudging forward, she motioned for Tauthin to lead the way. “Let us go, then. Whatever you say.”

Every footstep she took was heavy. It wasn’t just the weight of the mud caked to her feet and legs—it was the exhaustion of doing this day after day. That was surely another reason why she was so drained. With days nine hours longer than on Earth, she’d essentially had two full extra days in Earth time to train. While that sounded beneficial, it had demolished her circadian rhythm. She could feel that physical toll.

At long last, she, Tauthin, and Akàziendi emerged on the far side of the structure. Slowing to a stop, Svetlana looked ahead at the sparring ground of Kraash-nagun. The blinded elite was there, as was Ed, who was standing near him with his back to the new arrivals, none of whom were apparently close enough to trigger his senses. But it was at that point when something else caught her eye. Something she hadn’t expected to see. There was another figure there, but their identity couldn’t be determined. They were too covered from head to toe with wet runa legras. Angling her head, Svetlana raised a quizzical brow and asked, “Who is that?”

Lowering his chin, Tauthin’s voice fell low. “That…is Toro-shun.”

Her mouth opened. No words came out.

Toro-shin, wiping fresh mud from atop his feathered head, wearily took a position across from Kraash-nagun. The darishu, out of his armor, readied his shock staff.

The attack came.

Charging ahead, Kraash-nagun swung his shock staff in a wind-whipping circle then thrust it forward. Toro-shun leapt back to deflect it down. The deflection connected, but the blinded elite was already countering the defensive move. After yanking his staff back, he struck several times at the darishu’s head, torso, legs, then torso again. The last hit rang true, and Toro-shun stumbled backward. Planting his staff, Kraash-nagun transitioned into a spinning sweep, knocking Toro-shun clean off his feet. Jabbing with the staff, Kraash-nagun struck him while he was still airborne. The next thing Svetlana saw was Toro-shun rolling like a rag doll across the pink mud. The next thing Svetlana felt…was sheer panic.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

Tauthin’s voice remained low, their observation still undetected. “It has been like this for half an hour. There is nothing Toro-shun can do.”

Nothing Toro-shun could do. Nothing a trained darishu could do. Had Kraash-nagun eyes, this might not have been shocking. But his eyes were an Ithini’s, presenting his body at an entirely different point of view than he’d ever experienced. Like he was controlling it from afar. And he was excelling with it.

That dull ache worsened. “I…” Svetlana didn’t have words. She stared at Kraash-nagun in awe.

“Let us return to our side,” Tauthin said, quickly turning to lead Svetlana and Akàziendi away. Neither female protested.

As soon as Svetlana was back on her side of Ban-Hezikal, she plopped her back against the outer wall. Pushing her hands up over her stained hair, she stared forward and asked, “What have I done?”

“I warned you,” Tauthin said. “It was foolish to challenge Kraash-nagun to such a duel.”

She was too flabbergasted to hear him. “How can he be so good? How can he do that to a darishu when he has no eyes? How could he have learned to control his body in such a way?”

“He is an elite. He has mastery over his body. Once the adjustment was made, he needed rely on only instinct.”

Their duel was that evening. That evening! She was yet to take down Akàziendi a single time. Any mud that had gotten on her was a result of Svetlana’s splatting into it. The tasharin had never attacked Svetlana with as much speed and finesse as Kraash-nagun had just taken down Toro-shun. “How could I have done this? What was I thinking?” She was nowhere near good enough to take down a warrior like him.

Tauthin, it seemed, agreed. “You must find a way to withdraw from this duel, or to postpone it until we can figure out what to do.”

“If I withdraw, the shame would be—”

“—preferable to your death,” the Bakma said.

Akàziendi shifted her now-yellow gaze between them.

Continuing, Tauthin said, “I will confess to you that yesterday, I instructed Kraash-nagun to lose his match to you. I knew you would not approve of it, but I also knew what kind of warrior he is. It does not appear he is heeding my instruction.”

Had this been a typical situation, she would have likely blown a gasket at the thought of Tauthin interjecting himself in such a way. But now, she wished it’d have worked. “I need a plan. I need an idea!” Pushing up from the wall, she paced back and forth. “There must be something I can do!” Now she was just rambling to herself. “I cannot back out. I cannot. I told them this was some sacred custom. They have been waiting for it!”

Akàziendi said something—her alien words lost amid the musing of Svetlana and Tauthin.

“It would be better to lose face than your life, Setana. I cannot guarantee he will not try to take it.”

“But he would surely know the Kalarael would kill him if he did that!”

“You have told them this was customary. With their adhering to custom, you know they would honor it!”

“Honor my death? The death of the Incarnate? That is crazy!”

“This is a situation you have caused. If you would have only listened to—”

“—I don’t need to hear that right now! I need something that can help!”

Akàziendi shouted—a harsh word that caused the other two to flinch. Ceasing their bickering, they gave the tasharin their attention.

Taking a step back, Akàziendi pointed at the ground with her staff. Dragging its tip through the mud, she began to draw a picture. Svetlana watched, head angled curiously as Akàziendi drew an oblong, oval circle. A ring? An arena? Moving the tip, she drew another smaller oval within it—then beside it, another. When she drew a short, horizontal line beneath them both, Svetlana realized what it was she was creating. It was plain as day.

An Ithini’s head.

Eyes reddening as they lifted to regard Svetlana and Tauthin, she allowed her glare to linger between them. Then, suddenly, she lifted the end of the staff then smashed it down into the center of the drawing. The runa legras splattered right between the Ithini’s eyes. Slowly, her eyes lifted to regard them again.

It didn’t take much for Svetlana to realize what the tasharin was suggesting. To realize what she was telling Svetlana to do. Despite no common language between them, she’d made her suggestion loud and clear.

Take out Ed.

Svetlana lifted her hand to cover her mouth. Her eyes lingered on the smashed Ithini drawing before they lifted back up to stare at Akàziendi. She didn’t know what to say.

It was a problem Tauthin didn’t seem to have. “…that could work.”

“That could work?” Svetlana asked, aghast.

He turned his head to her. “Kraash-nagun sees because Ed gives him eyes. If you incapacitate him during the match, it will discombobulate Kraash-nagun and make him vulnerable.”

As horrifying as the thought of getting beaten down by Kraash-nagun was, this suggestion was actually worse—and she let him know it. “And what of poor Ed? Will he not feel betrayed when I beat him with a stick?”

“You do not need to beat him,” Tauthin said, gesturing with his hands for emphasis. “You need only disorient him. Throw a handful of mud at him, hit him in the face.”

“I tried to hit you with mud and I missed by ten feet—and I was like, five feet away!”

The Bakma growled in frustration. “Setana, of all the options we have, this may be the only one that saves face.”

“This does not save face,” she said with adamance. “This is as dirty a trick as I could have ever imagined.”

Upon placing his hand on her shoulder, he leaned in to look squarely at her. “…and one that would work.”

There was no doubt it would work. If Ed was taken out, Kraash-nagun would be blind. That didn’t make victory inevitable—he had downed Gabralthaar blind, after all—but it would undoubtedly make defeating him more likely. Especially if there were moments of confusion and disorientation first. It would work.

And it would be awful. Taking a step back, she slowly shook her head. “I appreciate the idea, but this would not be right.”

“It is not about ‘right.’ It is about survival.”

“It is about right! If I do this and I win, then what will I be? No better than Nagogg? Than the Khuladi? It would be better to be killed by Kraash-nagun than to live my life as a despicable monster!”

The Bakma leader leered. “I am losing my patience with your sense of morality. Do you not understand the situation we are in? Do you not understand that by losing this fight, you are putting the rest of us at risk? If Kraash-nagun kills you, what is to stop the Kalarael from likewise killing us? Even Ed, whom you are trying to protect, would be in danger! The Kalarael would have no reason to keep any of us alive, especially if one of us were to slay you. For all you know, incapacitating Ed may very well save his life!”

“Umm, would you care to explain how you suddenly went from ‘they will adhere to custom,’ to, ‘they will kill us if you lose?’”

“You are deflecting the point I am trying to make!”

So much for their heartwarming resolution. “Do not try to guilt me into doing something so inconceivable. Wrong is wrong, Tauthinilaas!”

“Nothing is wrong! Survival is all that matters. Have you not learned that?”

“What I have learned is that the more you justify terrible things, the more terrible you become.”

Whipping his hand up in frustration, Tauthin said, “Then what is your solution? How do you plan to defeat an elite warrior such as him when you have not felled Akàziendi one single time?”

“My God will—”

“Your God is not real!” The words exploded from Tauthin’s mouth. “Everything you claim your God has done can be explained by coincidence and circumstance! Is that what your God excels at?” Storming back and forth, he gestured wildly with his hands. “You disassociate. God did it! You kill a crippled Nagogg. God did it!” He spun around to face her. “You find yourself elevated to the status of a god here. Tell me, did your God do that?”

Tears were almost brimming. She was so completely enraged. “God has been with me every step of this journey, and He is very, very real. Do not challenge me on this.”

“A trait all zealots possess. None like to be challenged. It is because they know their argument fails.”

Silence fell. As the two stared at each other, the only sound that could be heard was the wind howling around the corners of Ban-Hezikal. For almost ten seconds, neither said a word.

Tauthin finally broke the silence. “Defeat her.” He pointed to Akàziendi. “Bring her to the ground. Turn her feathers pink. Do what you have been unable to do thus far. Then, and only then, will I believe you stand any miniscule chance.”

Leaning her head back, Svetlana closed her eyes. The initial reaction inside her was, Please don’t make me fight her again. But therein lay the problem. If she couldn’t bring down Akàziendi—if she couldn’t down her trainer one single time—she stood no chance whatsoever against Kraash-nagun.

The weight on her shoulders was so heavy. What she really wanted to do was just lie down. This week-long beating had taken its toll. After lowering her head briefly once again, she set her eyes on Akàziendi. Lifting a single finger, she said to the tasharin, “One more time.”

The Kalareim angled her head. There was no way for Svetlana’s words to be translated in her mind. She could only hope Akàziendi knew what she meant. Large eyes narrowing, as if in sudden, deep thought, Akàziendi dipped her head. She understood. Readying her shock staff, she turned to march back into the sparring space.

Svetlana’s gait was far less nimble. Her feet dragged. Closing her eyes halfway to the spot, she thought a prayer. God, I need to do this. Please. If there was ever a time when I needed a boost—when I needed to believe that I could do this the right way—that time is now. Let me bring Akàziendi down. Withdrawing her shock staff, she gripped it tightly between her fingers. Arriving at her starting point, she wiped back her hair to get it out of her eyes and regarded the tasharin before her.

Perfect. Akàziendi looked perfect. Besides her feet where the wet runa legras had splashed, there was not so much as a speck on the tasharin’s body. Her black and purple down feathers, her violet skin. She was totally clean.

It was time for that to change.

Holding her staff at the ready, Svetlana nodded her head. The fight was on. As both women began slowly circling, Svetlana prepared to make her strike.

Akàziendi struck first. Lurching forward, the tasharin brought her shock staff whipping around toward Svetlana’s head. Svetlana leaned back and parried it with a circular motion. Stepping forward, she countered with a double thrust—one quick one to the torso then one to the head. Akàziendi knocked both out of the way before quickly stepping back to reestablish distance.

Svetlana’s heart was thumping. With her staff fully extended outward, as she would have held the chieftain’s spear, she stepped forward to strike at Akàziendi’s head. Akàziendi parried and countered—to which Svetlana parried and countered in return. Back and forth, their staffs clacked and popped. The lowest possible shock setting was being used—just enough to bring someone to the ground without doing any real damage. Svetlana had certainly felt its sting enough. A counter, a parry, a counter, a parry. Back and forth, the two went, each series of blows setting the stage for one of them to make a push.

Svetlana pushed. Ducking down, she sent her staff whirling around at the tasharin’s knees. As she expected, Akàziendi dropped the tip of her staff to block. Just like Svetlana wanted her to. Press in! She’d been yet to completely commit to being the aggressor. It wasn’t in her nature; it wasn’t her style. But desperate times called for new measures—and this was as desperate as it got. Sliding the tip of her staff upward along the shaft of Akàziendi’s, she forced the Kalareim to momentarily relinquish her grip in order to prevent her hands from being shocked. That was when she made her move.

Charging forward, Svetlana struck out at Akàziendi not with her staff, but with one of her hands. Svetlana’s hand reached Akàziendi’s collar just as the tasharin shuffled her feet to dart backward. Contorting her body sideways to tear herself free, Akàziendi left a part of her back exposed. The window was barely there, but it was there. Svetlana had to take it. A sweep with the legs was too convenient—too predictable. Akàziendi would defend against it. The tip of Svetlana’s staff was already on the ground. In a split-second decision, she opted for the move Akàziendi wouldn’t expect. She jerked the bottom of her staff from left to right at the tasharin’s feet. The attack was just quick enough to be unavoidable. The staff connected with the back of Akàziendi’s calf. The tip pulsed with energy. The next thing Svetlana saw, she couldn’t believe.

Akàziendi went airborne. Time seemed to slow down. Svetlana’s eyes opened wide.

Splat!

Wet runa legras splashed in all directions. Akàziendi’s backside imprinted in the mud. Her head rocking back, she closed her eyes in pain.

Svetlana’s mouth fell agape. Ripping off her mask, she let her jaw hit the proverbial floor. A high rushed to her brain.

…I did it.

She couldn’t believe it, even as she watched Akàziendi lift her head and roll over to push up. She literally couldn’t believe it. “I did it!” Head whipping in Tauthin’s direction, she locked eyes with her Bakma companion. She pointed where Akàziendi fell. “I did it!”

“I heard you the first time,” he said begrudgingly.

Rising to her feet, Akàziendi turned her head sideways as best she could to look at her back, which was caked in runa legras. Reaching up, she ran her fingers through the back of her down feather hair and slung what came out to the ground.

“I got you!” Svetlana said, pointing in Akàziendi’s direction. She didn’t mean it to sound mocking. She just literally couldn’t believe it. For days, she’d dreamt of turning the tide on her trainer. Though this wasn’t exactly the faceplant she’d craved, it was more than enough to feel vindicated. “I finally got you!”

Akàziendi’s staff flew from right to left at Svetlana’s feet—there was no chance for Svetlana to react. The next thing Svetlana felt was air before she came crashing down just like the Kalareim had.

The fall hurt, and the act reeked of sour grapes. Svetlana didn’t care. Laying her head back maskless in the mud, she laughed.

In comparison, Tauthin let out a sigh.

Reaching out with her hand, she said to Tauthin, “Help me up.” There was zero chance she wasn’t yanking him down with her.

“No,” he said flatly.

“No, come on, help me up!”

“You will try to pull me to the ground. It is the kind of foolish thing you would do in such a euphoric and stupid state.”

That smart-aleck alien. “I won’t, I promise!”

“Get yourself up,” he said, turning and walking away.

Grabbing a handful of mud, she slung it at the back of his head. It missed feet off to the side. “Seriously?” she asked herself. Placing her hand on the ground, she pushed up to her feet.

Tauthin turned back around. “What have you proven here? That you can win one round out of how many? One hundred? Two hundred?”

“I proved that when I must win, I can win.” She pointed to Akàziendi without looking. “If I can do that to her, I can do it to Kraash-nagun.” Turning to Akàziendi, she watched the tasharin try to wipe the mud from her back. Svetlana put her mask back on to conceal her grin. After watching Akàziendi struggle, she looked at Tauthin again. “And I proved that my God has my back.”

“You are a miserable creature.”

Behind her mask, her grin widened. “You love me, Tauthinilaas.”

“Grah!” he said, turning away.

“Admit it! What just happened was amazing.”

Turning to her again, he said, “What just happened was a fluke.”

One being’s fluke was another being’s miracle. But she’d entertain the thought anyway. “Then I’m just one fluke away from ending this for good.”

“Be that as it may…” he said, his words trailing off as he looked at her.

Angling her head, Svetlana asked, “Be that as it may, what?” When several seconds passed in silence, her smile widened. “You have nothing to say.”

Setting his own hands on his hips in adopted human fashion, Tauthin looked down at the ground and shook his head.

This felt so good. It felt so unbelievably, rewardingly good. This was exactly what she needed when she needed it the most. Inside, she couldn’t help but rejoice. Thank You, God. As You have, time and time again, You came through when I needed You most. Thank You for that. I praise You for that. May I never forsake You. Looking at Akàziendi, she watched as the Kalareim wiped her caked hands on the front of her wardrobe. Considering the falls Svetlana had taken, Akàziendi got off easy. But a mess was a mess—Svetlana would take whatever victories she could get. Sashaying past the tasharin, she winked when Akàziendi looked at her. “See you in the cleansing pool.” She knew the Kalareim wouldn’t understand what she was saying—or a lick of the Bakmanese that’d been spoken between Tauthin and herself. But she had a feeling her trainer would get the gist. Turning her head to Tauthin, she offered him a smile, too. Even behind her mask, her eyes gave it away.

For the briefest of moments, the Bakma’s face softened. When he spoke, he sounded defeated. “Well done, Setana. May you do as well against Kraash-nagun.”

There was no doubt that she would. Time and time again, God had proven His faithfulness true. He would see her through, again. Trudging through the runa legras, feet feeling lighter than they had before, Svetlana made her way back to Ban-Hezikal.

Tauthin watched until she was gone. Muttering to himself in Bakmanese, he turned to regard Akàziendi—to regard the trainer that’d finally been bested.

Akàziendi’s eyes were also on Ban-Hezikal—and that same set of doors through which Svetlana had walked. Slowly, they narrowed. Upon twirling her stick vigorously and with body language that looked far from defeated, she latched it back in place. Paying no mind to the mess on her backside, she marched back toward the adobe structures.

With every second Tauthin watched her, her demeanor stood out more. There was such confidence for someone who’d just hit the mud. There was such an air of focus. It wasn’t until she’d moved several paces past him—his opaque gaze on her all the while—that the dawning finally came. In a rare moment of true surprise, he spoke to her. “You fell on purpose.” Akàziendi walked on, even as he stared from behind. “You were building her confidence.”

The tasharin stopped walking. Angling her head down and to the side, she watched him out the corner of her eyes.

“Why?” he asked.

No answer was given—for there was no understanding of the language between them. Facing ahead again, she resumed her march to the structure.

For almost a full minute after both females had departed, Tauthin stood alone on the runa legras, his eyes staying on the door they’d disappeared through. At long last, and with shoulders far weightier than they’d been minutes before, he followed them inside.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Twenty-nine

Tuesday, April 10th, 0012 NE

1330 hours

Norilsk, Russia

THERE WAS SOMETHING to be said for normalcy. There’d been so much action, so much turmoil in Natalie’s life, between Cairo, and being kidnapped, and turning outlaw, and fleeing Japan, that her head felt in a constant state of spinning. But in this moment—in this calm, meditative moment between reverse warrior and warrior one—she found herself feeling completely normal.

Yoga was not necessarily Natalie’s thing. She respected the hell out of people who did it religiously, and every time she’d gotten herself on a kick of it, she’d felt surprising results for the simplicity involved. When it came to working out, the Nebraska girl found herself somewhat old-fashioned. Jogging, lifting weights, running through tires, crawling through a muddy obstacle course. Those things felt real. Visceral. She couldn’t help but feel that yoga, though undoubtedly effective, was more Californian than red-state American. Best enjoyed by people who preferred their burgers made of soy. Until, of course, it was the only thing she could do.

With Northern Forge’s weight room in a constant state of bustling occupancy, and with jogging through the jam-packed base a non-option, Natalie found herself resorting to what she could do on her own time, in her own room, with no equipment involved: push-ups, sit-ups, and of course, yoga. She wasn’t the best at the various balancing acts the video she was following along with had her doing, but she was hanging in there. She was certainly feeling it, both in her shaking thigh muscles and in the damp, sweat-darkened strands of hair that fell over her forehead. She had to give yoga pros their props. This stuff wasn’t easy.

Nothing was.

Over the past several days, Natalie had found herself growing more and more anxious for whatever it was Antipov had in store to strike back at EDEN. The addition of Pelican Squad to the mix only heightened her sense that something crazy was on the horizon. There’d been absolutely no talk of Becker, or the Pelicans, or Sydney since their short visit and departure. It was as if the whole of the Nightman presence at Northern Forge decided to pretend it never happened.

Natalie had scarcely seen Antipov since that day. Sequestered in his quarters, wherever they were, she figured he must have been in full-fledged preparation mode for the fight ahead. The only word she’d personally heard from him was a text message on her comm a full day after she’d tried on her fulcrum armor, asking simply, “did it fit?”

“Like a glove,” she’d replied.

And that was it. No follow-up, no orders, no “good to hear it.” It felt a little bit cold, considering the warmth and honesty with which he’d welcomed her into the fold. But it was what it was. He had his prerogatives, and she had hers—namely, getting into the best combat shape she could possibly pull off. Yoga, for all of its calmness and grace, was serving that purpose quite well. She was feeling muscle strands tremble that she didn’t know she had.

“Can we talk for a minute?”

Shrieking, Natalie spun around, fell on her rear, and scampered back until she was standing. With her heart drumming, she heaved startled breaths as she eyed the voice’s source. That alien, that high-ponytailed version of Esther, was standing there in the bathroom doorway. Closing her eyes, Natalie lowered her head. “God, Ju`bajai, do you have to just appear? I mean,” she pointed behind her toward the room door, voice still breathless, “can’t you just pretend to knock?”

The construct’s expression remained serious. “It’s about Esther.”

“It’s about Esther,” Natalie said, nodding her head in exhausted defeat before holding her arms out. “All right. Tell me about Esther.”

“She’s being lied to.”

If the tease was meant to pique her interest, it worked. “What do you mean?”

Eyes narrowed, Ju`bajai answered, “All this time, she’s been told that her husband might be alive. That he might be one of the survivors.” The construct paused. “He isn’t.”

Half shaking her head, Natalie took a step closer. “Wait a minute.” Any frustration she’d had with the Ithini’s unexpected arrival was gone, now. “Ju`bajai, what are you saying?”

“The survivor,” she answered Natalie plainly. “It’s not Jayden. It’s Becan McCrae.”

Becan McCrae! Running her hand through her sweaty strands, Natalie found herself staring dumbfounded at the construct in front of her. The survivor was Becan? How did she know? Had Antipov not told them the survivor was unknown? “Antipov told us—”

“—what we needed to hear to be motivated,” Ju`bajai interrupted. “Or more specifically, what Esther needed to hear. Because he knew that if it might be Jay, she would show up at EDEN Command ready to fight tooth and nail. An angry Esther is an effective Esther. It’s also a dangerous one. And that’s what he wanted.”

“How do you…?”

For the first time, the construct moved, stepping away from the bathroom to walk into the room. “Ever since I arrived here, I’ve been trying to crack Antipov’s mind. He’s the most mysterious person on Earth. Call it a personal challenge.” She stopped strolling and faced Natalie. “It took days to get to the point where I could glean anything at all—and almost nothing of actual significance. But I continued to try, risking detection to try and hack the most secretive man in the world. After nearly around-the-clock effort, it finally worked.” The construct stared Natalie in the eyes. “He has known the survivor was Becan from the very beginning. His man in EDEN Command told him. He made the decision to keep it from Esther to string her along. To make sure she remained an effective tool, with her batteries running on hope.”

But Esther didn’t want Jayden to be the survivor. She said she was pulling for Becan.

Detecting Natalie’s thoughts, the construct gave her a disappointed look. “Do you really think that’s what she wanted?”

Turning away, Natalie pressed her hand to her forehead. Her mind raced. What did this change? On an operational level, nothing. But on a personal one? This would matter to Esther. This would affect her whole outlook, her mindset. This would tear her apart. She’d been an emotional wreck since Japan. She could have known the truth from the beginning. He let her suffer to get what he wanted: a motivated soldier. He knew she was being tormented. He didn’t care. She felt the anger rising within her. After all she’d done for him, how could he? She didn’t just deserve to know the truth. For her own sanity, she needed it.

Eyes still on Natalie, the construct seemed to be holding her breath. Keeping something within. Only when Natalie picked up on her silence and turned to regard her again did Ju`bajai speak on. “That’s not the only thing he hasn’t told you.”

* * *

Ten minutes later

Antipov was in the middle of a conference when a red-faced Natalie burst through the door. All of the men present—Antipov, Saretok, Valentin, and a small collection of fulcrums—flinched at the sudden and unexpected arrival. Before anyone at the table could speak, Natalie locked eyes with Antipov and pointed her finger. “You and me are gonna talk.”

“Fulcrum Rockwell,” said Antipov, tone steady despite the disruption. “Is there something I can—”

“You’re damn right there is.” Storming around the table as the wide-eyed fulcrums swiveled in their chairs, she stopped when she was standing directly across from him. “Why did you stop Lilan’s video from going public?”

Instantly, Antipov’s expression changed. His softer, placating expression narrowed. He locked eyes on her.

She wasn’t through yet. “And after you explain that to me in a way that makes sense, you’re going to tell me why you haven’t told Esther that her husband is dead.”

A low chuckle escaped Saretok’s lips. The mohawked fulcrum looked down and away.

“If you gentlemen will excuse me,” said Antipov lowly, “I must speak with our newest fulcrum.”

“Take all the time you need with your fulcrum,” Saretok said. “She is certainly not mine.”

Ignoring the colonel, Natalie stepped into the hallway. With fists hot as fire, she waited for Antipov to join her. When he closed the door to the conference room behind him and turned to face her, she jumped right back into it. “I hope you’ve got some good answers, because—”

Slap!

His palm smacked against the side of her face. Stepping back, she touched her cheek and stared at him with her jaw hanging.

Antipov’s face was twisted—enraged. “If you ever show me such disrespect again, I will have you thrown off this mountain,” he snarled. “Do you understand, fulcrum?”

“I—” She didn’t know what she understood. Her head was still spinning.

He continued. “I did not release Colonel Lilan’s message because I did not want to tip off EDEN that we had an advantage. It is for the same reason one does not show their hand when they play cards. You keep such valuable things close until it is time they be played.”

When she opened her mouth to speak, he went right on.

“And I have not informed Mrs. Timmons of her husband’s death because I do not want to lose her before the most important battle we have ever faced. There are many things I can determine. Her reaction to such a revelation is not one of them.”

“You owe her,” she said, barely able to get the words out.

Shaking his head, he said, “I owe nothing to anyone or anything except as it pertains to this planet’s future. That is where my priorities lie, not with you or anyone else here. Not even with my own daughter.”

“You do owe it to Esther. She’s given you everything.”

“If she gave me everything, she would be dead.”

“Some things are worse, like having your heart ripped to shreds every single day. Not knowing if someone you love is dead or not. That’s killing her, and it’s not right.”

His face was still flushed. “What is all this to you? How did you get this information?”

The last thing she wanted to do was implicate Ju`bajai. It was best if Antipov didn’t know where she’d gotten this from.

“The Ithini,” he snarled.

Busted.

“I will ring her skinny neck.”

“Esther and Ju`bajai have a kinship. I guess kind of like sisters.” That was as good a way of explaining it that could make sense. “You’re not going to hurt Ju`bajai because we need her. And you’re going to tell Esther the truth because you care about her.”

At that, he laughed. “How you overestimate.”

“You do. You can’t tell me you don’t. Esther has been there for you, time and time again. She’s busted her tail for you, she’s given you every ounce of courage and trust she could possibly give. That’s worth something.”

“And if she chooses not to partake? If she chooses to abandon this whole effort? What use would that be?”

Natalie threw her hands out. “If she leaves, she leaves. If she abandons us, so be it. But I don’t think she will.”

“Timmons is dead. How do you think she will react?”

“She’ll bawl her eyes out. She’ll react like any widow. But don’t count her out. You can’t not tell her out of fear that she’ll leave—her leaving is a chance you have to take.”

Once more, he shook his head. “No, it is not.”

This was more than about grief—it was about Esther’s character. And that, Natalie would defend. “You need to let her make the choice. You need to trust her like she trusts you.”

“She does not trust me.”

“Yeah, well, you know what? I don’t either. I guess that’s the downside of being the leader of a spy agency.” None of that mattered. “Esther has done everything you’ve ever asked of her. She busted a Ceratopian out of Cairo, for God’s sake.” She leaned closer. “Give her a chance to make the right decision. Give her a chance to make you proud for reasons you never expected.”

For what it was worth, he seemed to be calming down. Several seconds passed before he spoke again. “You need to understand that for what lies ahead, I need everyone at their absolute best.”

She did understand. “Esther will give you that.”

“Will she?”

“Yes.” In truth, there was no way to tell. “But even if she doesn’t, you have us. You have the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk. You have Falcon Platoon and the captain of the Caracals. We got this.” As she came down herself, she felt her own breathing slow. “Tell Esther. Tell her, and let her make her choice. She’s a better person than you think.”

“In my experience with people, Miss Rockwell, I’ve found they are rarely better than I think they are.”

She’d give him that one—so long as he gave Esther a chance. “You never know until you try.”

“That much, I will give you, is true.”

“So you’ll tell her?”

He hesitated. “I will consider the ramifications of telling her.”

“Come on, you can give me better than that.”

“It is best if you leave.”

Best if she left. It wasn’t the answer or the closing she was hoping for, but at least the conversation had gotten that far. That was a good thing considering how it’d begun. “Yes, sir.” Taking a step back, she turned to walk away from him, only to stop and turn back again. “Hey, look, about that video—”

“It is best…if you leave.”

All she was going to say was that she understood. That was it. “I’m sorry I questioned you.” She wasn’t, but it was a better note to end on than, “you’re a lying sack of scum.”

After a short pause, he dipped his head in acknowledgment. Turning from her, he reopened the conference room door and stepped inside.

Back in the conference room, Antipov lowered himself down into the chair. Of everyone in the room, only Saretok dared smirk in his direction. “Is there a problem with your experiment, Iosif?”

Staring ahead in what looked like deep thought, Antipov asked, “Which one?”

Saretok laughed boisterously. “I told you long ago, you make a mistake including women in your plans. They are good for nothing but trouble.”

“Some have served me well.”

“All the women who served me well were in bed!” When he laughed, several of the fulcrums did, too, a tad hesitantly. When it became apparent that Antipov wasn’t laughing with them, Saretok leaned forward against the table and looked the general’s way. “Women make men weak. Look at him,” he said, pointing at Valentin. “Look at how much stronger he became when his wife died.”

On the other end of the table, Valentin looked Saretok’s way. He didn’t say a word.

“When you remove such an emotional burden, you become so much stronger. That is what women are. They drag us to the ground. There should be no place for them in the Nightmen.”

All the while Saretok spoke, Antipov said nothing. He simply stared ahead at the table as if in deep, distant thought.

Angling his head, Saretok asked, “Are you all right, Iosif?”

“Tell me,” he said to Saretok without looking, “what do you feel you owe your most loyal fulcrums? What lengths would you go to be good to them?”

“There is no length I would not go,” he answered. “A fearsome warrior is a great asset. I owe them much.” His eyes narrowed. “But I know when you ask the question, you are thinking of the woman.”

Still, Antipov stared ahead. “The woman.”

“That helped you in Cairo.” He harrumphed. “Let her run away and cry. You will be better off for it.”

“Is that how you would handle this situation?”

He nodded. “It is.”

For several seconds, Antipov made no reaction, until finally, he nodded his head. “Thank you, Grigori. Knowing that makes my decision clearer.”

“Glad I could help,” he said loudly, slamming his massive fist on the table. “Now let us return to work! There is much to discuss.”

“There is,” Antipov said. Breaking his stare from the void, he looked at the gathering again. “Yes, there certainly is.”

* * *

It was the weakest Natalie had felt in a very long time. As she walked away from the briefing room and toward the elevator, the only thought that came to her was, he just totally owned me. The emerald-eyed captain was never one to back down from a fight, yet all it took was a slap in the face from Iosif Antipov to throw her entirely off balance, righteous anger and all. It’d shocked her. It’d frazzled her. Even though she’d managed to get her point across in the end, the confidence with which she’d done so left much to be desired.

She felt defeated.

I didn’t even fight back. I just took what he dished out like I deserved it. That’s not me.

It begged the question, who was she, exactly? “Fulcrum Rockwell” had a ring to it—one dark and dangerous. And what woman didn’t want to feel that to some extent? But what did it mean to be Fulcrum Rockwell? If it meant total subservience to her Nightman masters, well, she was fitting that bill just fine.

Stop overthinking. Muster up some confidence and get your head on straight. After clearing her throat as she tried to do just that, she sucked in a breath and stepped into the elevator.

For as many things as she could knock Antipov for, she couldn’t hit him for a lack of thinking things through. His rationale for not releasing Lilan’s video message and for keeping Jayden’s death from Esther made a measure of sense, even if she didn’t particularly care for them. She understood where he was coming from; she just happened to disagree.

Which left her…conflicted. About what he was doing. About what she would have done. About the way she’d approached it and how she’d approach those same topics moving forward, namely the one of Jayden’s death. She wanted to give Antipov a chance to tell the scout the truth, but what if he didn’t? Would she take it upon herself to tell her? How would that conversation go? She didn’t want to think about it.

The elevator door opened, and Natalie stepped onto Level-4, the living quarters. Sliding her hands into the pockets of her black, Nightman uniform, she lowered her head a bit and walked down the hall. About halfway down it, she looked up again. Far ahead, someone was being taken into the medical bay. By the look of it, it was just a worker—but it wasn’t the worker that’d caught her attention. It was who she’d seen farther inside the medical bay, oh so briefly, as the door had been opened.

Lisa Tiffin.

The captured Vector was still sitting in her cell, and though Natalie’s eyes had found her in the distance, it didn’t appear as if Lisa had seen Natalie. For a moment, Natalie stood there, watching the younger woman sitting with her back against the cell glass, much as Natalie herself had not so long ago.

What has she been doing all this time? Has anyone gone to see her? Surely, Antipov must have.

How the Vector must have felt. Natalie could certainly relate, having sat in that same glass cell, her hatred for Scott and his outlaws stewing until they’d finally begun to chip away at her and show her who they were and what they were doing, and then to extend that olive branch to her and say, “we don’t want to fight you, we want you to join us.” Natalie had tried that with Lisa in Japan. It hadn’t worked so well.

Was it worth trying again?

Her gut said yes, and she soon found herself walking toward the medical bay to give altruism another try. If Antipov visited her, surely he must’ve played for her that recording. It seemed such an obvious course of action, but then again, so did releasing Lilan’s video testimony to the world. There was always something ulterior with Antipov. There was always another angle being played. She couldn’t assume that he’d told Lisa anything.

Entering the room, she saw that Marina, Antipov’s daughter, was the nurse on duty. Marina seemed far too busy with the injured worker to pay Natalie any real mind, which was fine by her. As she approached the quarantine cell that Lisa was in, she saw that the soldier’s shoulder was bandaged where she’d been shot by Youko. It looked like a standard wound treatment, which told Natalie that the wound was nothing serious. As Lisa caught sight of her, the Vector’s eyes narrowed; she rose from the floor. Before Natalie could speak, the ponytailed brunette addressed her. “Nice outfit. I see your true colors are showing.”

Natalie wasn’t getting sucked into a tit-for-tat. “Did you hear the recording?” she asked, getting right to the point.

“The recording?” Lisa asked, expression unchanged.

“With Archer. And the Ceratopians. The evidence we went to Japan for.”

Feigning surprise, Lisa said, “Oh yes, that.”

“So you did hear it.”

“No. I’m afraid I actually have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Trying her hardest to maintain her composure, Natalie said, “We have the audio recording of Archer conspiring with Ceratopians. It’s him, as plain as day. I could get Antipov to play it for you.”

Lisa cocked her head. “Are you really still trying to make that sell?”

“Make what sell?”

“Your conspiracy rubbish.”

Placing her palm against the cell glass, Natalie leaned against it. “It’s not rubbish. When you hear it, you’ll know.”

“Nothing can justify what you’ve done—nothing,” the Vector sneered. “You’ve allied with a sadistic murder cult, you’ve killed innocent people everywhere you’ve gone, and oh yeah, you’re actively working with extraterrestrials of every bloody make and model. I don’t care what kind of fabricated recording you play for me. I won’t believe it.”

“I was like you, you know.”

“Remarkably talented?”

Natalie pressed her lips together. She felt them quiver with frustration. Inhaling a calming breath, she continued. “I was so angry at Scott Remington and his comrades that I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. I couldn’t see the truth, even when I was presented with the evidence. The fact that Lilan and the Falcons were alive should have been enough. The only fabrications going on here are the ones of EDEN’s creation.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Does anyone here strike you as delusional?”

Her lips curled. “You have to ask?”

Natalie’s eyes shifted to regard a photograph taped to the wall. It was one of the pictures from Jayden and Esther’s wedding. Marching to it, Natalie pulled it off the wall then pressed it against the glass. “Look at this. This was from Esther’s wedding, right here in this room. Does this look like a group of delusional people?”

Forced to look at the photo, Lisa’s initial reaction was to glare at it. Then slowly, she leaned in curiously. “That’s her wedding?”

“Yeah, that’s her wedding. It was as normal as normal could be. It was beautiful.”

Lisa’s lips formed the “wh” sound, the expression lingering on her face as she eyed the photo suspiciously. “What is she holding?”

“What?” Pulling back the photo, Natalie looked at it. Oh, come on, don’t focus on the must—

“Is that mustard?”

Of course she’d focus on it. “Yeah, it’s mustard. But the whole point of this is—”

“Was it like, an advertisement?” Angling her head, she looked at it again.

“It was supposed to be…” Pressing her lips together, she half-shook her head. “So the woman she wanted as her maid of honor wasn’t there…”

Lisa’s eyes widened. “So she used a jar of mustard?”

“…yeah.”

“You’re using this picture to show off your normalcy, and Esther’s maid of honor is a jar of bloody mustard?”

Natalie growled. “Okay, enough about the mustard!”

“Did mayonnaise have other obligations?”

So much for relatability. Natalie pulled the picture away. “The whole point I’m trying to make is that this isn’t a group of crazies. Mustard aside, forget the mustard, I’m talking about the way they carry themselves, the way they live. This isn’t a terrorist hate group, they’re real people who were sucked into a situation that wasn’t of their making, but once they got into it, they couldn’t turn a blind eye. They’re people just like me.” If Lisa would just listen for a minute. If she’d just hear what Natalie was actually telling her instead of spouting off. “What I’m showing you are pieces of a bigger picture. Are you even aware of why Remington got involved in this at all?”

“Would it make a difference?”

“He encountered a Ceratopian at the Interspecies Conflict. That Ceratopian talked to him in German.”

At that, Lisa raised an eyebrow.

“That Ceratopian was trying to relay a message to your boss, Captain Faerber. He knew Faerber was the most renown soldier on the planet, so he tried to send him a message. Do you know what that message was?”

Lisa narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

“It was, ‘The Archer betrays you.’ As in Benjamin Archer. There are apparently factions within the Ceratopians—one is conspiring with Archer, one is trying to warn us. The Ceratopian that talked to Scott—his name was H`laar—was with the faction trying to warn us. He did the only thing he knew how to do: contact Earth’s greatest warrior. The leader of Vector Squad.”

For what it was worth, Lisa seemed to be listening.

“That’s why I want you to hear the recording. I want to get it from Antipov, I want you to hear it. I turned even before I heard it, because everything else was just starting to add up. Falcon Platoon’s survival, Lilan’s testimony. These things painted a bigger picture that I couldn’t ignore if I wanted to, and let me assure you, I wanted to. There was no love lost for anyone in the Fourteenth after plucking me out of Cairo the way they did. But I couldn’t ignore the truth, regardless of how inconvenient it happened to be for me.

“Then I heard the recording. And boy, is it a recording. You need to hear it. It will validate every single thing I’ve told you. It’ll make you see this from an entirely different angle. Just put yourself in their shoes. What if you knew a truth that no one else knew? What if it was a truth that changed everything? Your ideals, what you believed to be right, the fate of humankind, everything. If you can believe that, if you’re even willing to entertain the possibility, then you can start to understand the completely unenviable situation that the Fourteenth and Falcon Platoon were put in. Then, you can start to turn around.”

It was a mouthful, and it’d all come out in a blazing, stream-of-consciousness avalanche. She hoped it made sense. Allowing herself to take a breath, Natalie watched to see if she’d get any reaction from Lisa. Any at all.

Lisa’s eyes narrowed.

Fantastic.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

Natalie already knew.

Lisa leaned her head closer. “I think you’re all proper fools. I think you’ve been manipulated and you’re too idiotic to see it. How else could you justify what you did at Hami Station? In Japan?”

“See the bigger picture. I’m going to get you the recording.”

“To hell with the bloody recording. It’s 0012, do you think recordings can’t be fabricated?”

Stubborn. This girl was so stubborn. “It wasn’t.”

“And you know this how?”

“I just know it. You didn’t see how EDEN was on the train. I wish I had a recording of that. They used Scott’s little brother as leverage. They were going to kill him if Scott didn’t turn himself in.” God, she was so frustrated. “What would it take, Tiffin? What would it take for you to soften your heart for just one second and give me the benefit of the doubt? You don’t like this uniform I’m wearing, but do you know what? The Nightmen are the only ones who’ve been telling the truth.” Except for all the lies. “They’re terrible in their own right, yes. But not in this fight. In this fight, they’re—”

Interrupting, Lisa asked, “They’re what? The lesser of two evils? Does that make them good?” Making a scrunched face, she nodded at Natalie’s black outfit. “Does wearing that make you proud? The uniform of a military cult that made people commit murder to join their ranks? Do you not see the slippery slope you’re on?”

“They’re not murdering anymore. That part’s going away.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that after Japan? You killed innocent police officers.”

Infuriating. “They were going to kill us. It was life or death, we had to pull the triggers or die. For what it was worth, I tried my best not to shoot anyone.”

Lisa cocked her head, her ponytail dangling to the side. “I’m sure that’ll make their families feel so much better.”

Setting her hands on her hips, Natalie looked down, closed her eyes, and sighed. “You’re just not going to listen.”

“Finally,” said the Vector, her voice lowering. “Something we both agree on.”

There was nothing else to talk about. Nothing else to try. Lisa wouldn’t listen to personal testimonies. She wouldn’t consider the validity of the recording. The Vector was set in her ways and that was that. Turning from the quarantine cell, Natalie pinned the photograph back to the wall. Looking back at the cell, she said, “If you decide to reconsider, you know how to get in touch with me.” As Natalie walked toward the door to leave, Lisa addressed her from behind.

“Before you go. There is something I want to tell you, sincerely.”

Natalie turned around.

“I hope you die slowly.”

No expression came to Natalie when Lisa said the words. Only the thoughts, I understand now, Esther. I understand why you mocked her when she failed. Turning away, she walked out of the medical bay back into the hall.

What an incredibly frustrating afternoon. The revelation from Ju`bajai. The bomb of a confrontation with Antipov. The back and forth with Lisa. It was like she’d scheduled all her weekly disappointments for one day.

Esther…God, how is Esther going to react?

She couldn’t imagine it, had she been in the scout’s shoes. The last thing she wanted was to have to deliver the news herself—but if that was what she was called upon to do, so be it. She felt she and Esther had grown close enough to make such a conversation possible. Still, if Antipov was willing to alleviate that burden from her—if her pitifully prepared chat with him had borne any fruit whatsoever—all the better. It would be one less awful thing she’d have to do.

When Natalie opened the door to her room and stepped inside, any hope she had of resuming her yoga workout was abandoned when she saw Mark Remington standing along the far wall. With all of the survivors crammed into a single room, it was rare that someone else wasn’t present. The cadet, damp-haired from what must’ve been a shower, flinched as soon as she entered. Upon facing her, he snapped to an uncomfortable attention. “Ma’am.”

The softest of laughs escaped Natalie’s lips. This poor kid. Waving her hand nonchalantly, she said, “At ease. You don’t have to do all that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said nervously, only partially relaxing his posture.

“Seriously. Loosen up.”

Swallowing, Mark nodded his head. “Yes, ma’am—I mean, o-kay.”

There was nothing okay about the way he said okay. The boy was wound up like a clock. Not that she could blame him, what with all he’d been through.

Out of everyone who’d returned from Japan, Natalie had probably seen Mark the most while simultaneously talking to him the least. That’s because he was always there, standing awkwardly in the background while everyone else chattered away or discussed business. At times, it broke her heart to see someone so wanting to be involved and present in case someone needed him, yet not being needed at all. He wasn’t up to snuff on the battlefield. He wasn’t experienced enough to be a part of the planning process. So what exactly was he?

Terrified. In Japan. At Northern Forge. Everywhere. How could she not feel brokenhearted to see it? Lowering herself on the edge of a bottom bunk—one of three bunk beds crammed into the room—she sighed and let her eyes roam. “They got us packed in here like sardines, right?” Though the Fourteenth had been given decent accommodations next to the medical bay, Natalie, Mark, and the survivors of Falcon Platoon had been forced to crash together like everyone else at the base. Javon and Tom were bunked together, as were Natalie and Catalina—the wheelchair-bound Canadian forced to claim a bottom bunk. Mark was in a bunk alone. At least Logan hadn’t opted to sleep with them. The Australian was living like a hermit, sleeping in various corners of the base outside the flow of traffic. Appropriate for such a recluse as him.

Smiling timidly at her comment, Mark nodded his head. “Yeah, it’s not so bad, I guess.”

“Yes, it is.” There was no way to sugarcoat it. Offering him a smile as she leaned forward against her knees, she asked, “How you doing, Remington?” No need to beat around the bush. Someone needed to check on this kid.

“I’m doing good,” he answered. “Been…keeping busy.”

God, that hurt so much to hear. It hurt because none of it was true. “Thanks for answering—now let me ask you another question.” She dipped her head a bit to peer into him. Tone lowering, she asked again, “How are you doing, Remington?”

The look on Mark’s face changed. Slowly, the fake smile melted away. The flat-lined lips and blank stare of a scared cadet took its place.

Natalie found herself sadly smiling, herself. “That’s what I thought.” Nodding at the bunk in front of her, she said, “Come sit down. Talk to me.” She was a decade older than him. Surely, she could impart wisdom. Perhaps it was her maternal instincts finally getting a chance to be put to use. Maybe she just wanted something good to come out of today. After the smallest of hesitations, Mark walked over to the bunk in front of her and sat, propping his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward, just like her. “You must be so…” What was the right word? Tired? Lost? Sick to his stomach? She sought his eyes for the right answer. “You must be so dizzy.”

He looked at her oddly. “Dizzy, ma’am?”

“You’ve been spinning around so much. Philadelphia, then EDEN Command, then Japan. Now you’re here, and just…out of place.”

Looking down, Mark blew out a breath. It was acknowledgment. “I don’t know what to do here. Everywhere I go, I’m…” Like her, he seemed at a loss to put a word on it.

“In the way?”

“Ma’am, am I in the way?”

That, she could answer honestly. “Yeah.” Laughing softly, she nodded. “Yeah, you are. Just like I am. Just like everyone else in this room is. Just like I imagine everyone at Northern Forge is feeling right now. So if your question is if you’re in the way, then it may not be the answer you want. But if you’re asking if you’re alone…Remington, you’re anything but.”

It seemed to bring him little solace. “I’m trying, ma’am. I’m trying so hard. Before EDEN picked me up from Philadelphia, I was just learning how to use my analyzer. Now I’m…” He shook his head. “I’m just failing. I killed Colonel Lilan, and—”

“You did not kill Colonel Lilan.”

“He died because I couldn’t save him.”

What unfair guilt to live with. “You were put in a situation you should have never been put into. No one could have expected to save someone under those circumstances, with that little real-world experience.”

Mark’s face hardened, a tinge of determination setting in. “I want to get better. I want to be useful, an asset. I mean, I went into EDEN to be a medic. I still want to be one.”

“You’re not combat ready.”

“I know, I—” He made a fist, reaching out with it as if he was trying to clench the right word as it floated by. But he came up empty. “What do I have to do, ma’am? If you tell me what I have to do, if you show me…” He didn’t know where to go with it. “If you just tell me to do something, I will try my absolute hardest to do it.”

She believed him. “Well, you’ve got that Remington gusto, so that’s a plus.” Even saying the comment, she knew it wasn’t helpful. He was looking for something tangible from her. She just didn’t know what to give him. “Look, I’m not a medic. I don’t know the first thing about patching someone up, or using an analyzer, or anything like that. But I imagine that if you want to get better at those things, you could swing over to the medical bay and just volunteer. Or ask to shadow. They’ve been up to their necks in all kinds of problems since we showed up, an extra set of hands might be useful.”

“But it’s not just that, ma’am. When we were in those woods, and everything was happening…”

He was talking about Atami.

“…it felt like everything I knew, what little it was, just went out the window. I couldn’t think, I could barely move. Quinton was yelling at me to save Lilan, and I just—”

An ugh escaped from her. “Forget that. Wash it from your memory. I promise you, Javon doesn’t hold it against you.” She’d heard plenty about the situation from Javon—enough to know that the specific topic of Mark’s failure wasn’t a focal point. “You were flustered, he was flustered. Come to find out, when people are getting thrust into new and terrifying situations while simultaneously being shot at, they get a little bit flustered.”

His frown deepened. “I don’t see that happening to you, ma’am.”

“Ha!” She stretched her arms back and leaned against her palms. “Cadet, I’ve been in more flustering situations than you can even imagine. Cairo was one massive fluster. Your big brother flustered me a time or two.” In some ways she wouldn’t mention. “We’ve all had the rug swept out from under our feet, usually at the worst possible times. The question is whether or not you let those situations defeat you. You know the old adage: you get knocked off the horse, you get right back on.” Her grin widened a bit. “You just happen to be rolling with wild mustangs.” She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Surely the Fourteenth has reached out to you?”

“They have, yes, ma’am.”

She angled her head. “I saw Esther spending time with you back in Japan. Did that translate at all over here?”

“Yeah,” he answered quickly, “she’s been great. Every now and then she’s come and talked to me, but…it just…it just seems like she’s dealing with a lot.”

“She is.” And she was about to be dealing with even more. “But still, that should have made you feel a little bit good, right? Then there’s David, Max, William, Boris…I mean, some of them must have reached out to you, right?” They better have.

Thankfully, he answered quickly. “They did. The Fourteenth has been great. They always invite me places, they try to, you know…make me feel included.”

Arching an eyebrow, she asked, “That’s a good thing, right?”

“It just feels like they think I’m just a kid.”

You are just a kid. Despite the statement’s truth, she knew it wasn’t the right thing to say. “They’re probably just not used to having someone so young around.” Which was a polite way of saying…he was just a kid. “And by young, I mean—”

Mark sighed and looked down. “I know what you mean, ma’am.”

“Augh!” She couldn’t help it. The sad puppy eyes were starting to kill her. “Mark, listen to me.” Reaching out, she put her hand against his chin to force him to look at her. “I feel sorry for you. And that’s okay, okay? But you cannot feel sorry for yourself. Right now, you’ve got self-pity plastered all over you. That’s not going to get you anywhere. So stop it; that’s an order.”

His face paled; his pupils widened. He looked genuinely mortified.

“Okay, see,” she said, leaning away so she could point at him. “That’s not going to cut it. You look completely terrified. You look like you need a hug. Well I’m sorry, that’s your momma’s job, and I ain’t her.” Oh crap, his mother is dead. Roll with it anyway. “Whatever microscopic granules of confidence you can muster, it’s time to start doing it.”

Despite her words—despite her urging for confidence—Mark’s eyes started to shimmer. Struggling to speak, he finally managed the words, “I want to be good enough to get my brother.”

And it was that statement—those shakily uttered words—that crumbled her posturing. That caused her own eyes to suddenly feel tight.

“All my life, Scott’s been the one to take care of me. He looked out for me when my parents weren’t there. I was never as good as him. I was never as strong, or fast—I was never as heroic.” Faintly, his face twisted. The cadet fought to restrain it. “If he’s in trouble, I need to go save him. I need to be good enough to save him.” And right there, that was it. Mark could hold it no more. He lowered his head and closed his eyes as his body shook. “I can’t lose my brother.” The words were barely discernable—but he’d made them.

All pretense of fearlessness and composure from Natalie fell, as for the first time, she understood. This wasn’t about not fitting in. It wasn’t about not having friends, or even about not being a certified combat medic. This was so much simpler. This was about brothers. It was about love. Shoulders releasing the tension of manufactured bravado, she reached out to put her hand atop his head. “Oh, Mark,” she whispered. Lowering her own head, she fought—truly fought—for the right thing to say. Perhaps there was no such thing. Nodding as much for herself as for him, she settled for just, “Okay.”

He wasn’t good enough for the mission that awaited. He could never be. Not for something so great, not with so little time. So what was he to do?

The best that he could. That was all he wanted. Perhaps that’s all that was needed. Sighing softly, she slid her hand from atop his air-dried scalp. Every piece of officer training in her screamed not to entertain this. Not to humor emotions as they came into play. To keep her distance. But she wasn’t sitting across from an EDEN cadet in training to be a combat medic. She was sitting across from a boy who wanted to save his big brother. The big brother who’d always looked out for him. In a period of time where everything had become so rigid and process-driven, to consider the scene before her in this new and vulnerable way felt so…human. Reaching out, she slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him against her shoulder. Like she would have her own son. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s all right. I get it.”

“I can do this,” he said firmly, forcing the words through his tears. “I can do this.”

“I know you can.”

Pulling away from her, he looked her straight in the eyes. “I have to do this.” Drawing in a breath, he steadied himself. “So what do I have to do?”

It was no easy question. It was no simple answer. Staring into his hazel eyes—eyes that in that moment looked just as intense as Scott’s—she said, “You’re a combat medic.” Slowly, she shook her head. “But not for this. You don’t know enough, and you can’t learn what you need to know in what little time we have left. So what you need to do is get in fighting shape.” Even reaching that would be a stretch, but she’d give him that chance. “I can tell you’re not used to combat. What you need to do is acclimate yourself as much as you possibly can to everything you could potentially use. The forge level has a small shooting range on it—it’s a little sweltering, but that’s good for you, too. Get firing. Get reloading. Time yourself reloading, then try to beat that time—again, and again, and again. The forge master keeps some EDEN armor there—if you can’t find a set of Nightman armor that fits you, wear what you can find. He might even custom-fit you a set if you tell him I sent you down there. Then move, move, move. Drop, roll, spin, kneel. Know your full range of motion and what you can do. Program your muscles. The more muscle memory you have, the less you have to think. The less you have to think during combat, the more likely you are to survive it.” Lifting her eyebrows a bit, she asked, “You got it?” It was so much to get.

“Yeah,” he said, a tad uncertainly. “Yeah, I think so.”

Half-frowning, she asked, “What’d I tell you about thinking?” He looked instantly disappointed. “Okay,” she said, lowering her head briefly before looking at him again. “How about this? I can’t imagine we’ve rusted too much what with all we’ve been through, but what say we head to the forge now and shake off whatever rust we do have, together? I’ll show you some pointers, we’ll get a good training session in, we’ll sweat off about ten pounds apiece, it’ll be great. And if it goes well…I’ll keep working with you for what little time we have left before the mission.” The thought of training someone actually felt good. “And in return, you’re going to bust your tail. You’re going to give me everything you’ve got every time I ask for it. No excuses.” She extended her hand. “Does that sound like a deal?”

This time, there was no hesitation. He met her hand firmly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Mm.” She pressed her lips together and half-shook her head. “I am gonna ask you to do me one little favor, though.”

Mark nodded. “Whatever you want, ma’am.”

“Please call me Vee.”

Slowly, the cadet smiled. “Yes, ma’—” He cleared his throat. “Yes, Vee.”

How could she not laugh a bit? “My goodness, if I just had a little sister. You’re adorable.” When his cheeks tinged red, she smirked. “For an indestructible war machine, of course. In training.” As she rose from the cot, he did the same. “Okay, Mini-Rem. Let’s go break a sweat.” Turning, she made her way toward the door.

Stopping behind her after a single step, Mark said, “Hey, Vee?”

Okay, he’s getting better at it. Turning around, she lifted an eyebrow.

“EDEN’s going to get better, right?” Staring at her expectantly, he added, “After we do whatever it is we’re gonna do?”

As the question sunk in, Natalie found her mouth opening, but without sound coming out. She felt a pang within her. Like something deep inside was cutting her. For several seconds, she just stared—until at long last and blinking, she managed a response. “Yeah.” As if snapping out of something, she briefly nodded her head. “Of course.” Of course. Drawing a deep breath, she exhaled and said, “Let’s go.”

For the next several hours, Natalie trained Mark Remington with relentless repetition. They fired at targets. They did timed reloading. They practiced hand-to-hand combat, all the while with her serving as guide. By the end of it, they were dripping both with sweat and the bottles of water they’d poured over their heads to escape the heat. With skin glistening and body odor that could curdle cheese, the exhausted pair called it quits just before they would’ve lost the ability to walk.

For what it was worth—to her at least—she’d seen improvement in Mark during their time together. Though he was far from her level, or anyone’s at Northern Forge, really, he was at least nailing down some of the basic aspects of combat. These were the things that would have been drilled into him during his final year at the Academy, had things worked out differently. She should have felt pride in being able to show him those ropes herself. To tangibly make a difference in his battlefield ability. A difference that could possibly save his life.

But she didn’t.

Truth be told, Natalie didn’t know how she felt. From when she first set foot into the forge with him all the way until she’d sweated so much, she could slick back her hair, that pang in her stomach remained. That hurt that he’d caused, without even realizing.

EDEN’s going to get better, right?

That question—that assumption on his part—was eating her from the inside. One of the first things she’d done when arriving at the forge was seek out Artur to get Mark a set of EDEN armor. To get him fully acclimated to fighting while wearing it. But there was a set of armor waiting for her, too. One sleek, and black, and with dark, curved horns. One remolded just for her. She needed time in that armor, too. To try it out, to test its boundaries. It only made sense that she’d wear it while she trained him. But she didn’t. With all her talk of mustering granules of courage, she’d mustered none herself. For the courage it would have taken to wear that armor in front of that young cadet was just too much to bear. Was it even a lack of courage at all? No. No, it wasn’t. It was something much heavier. Much more oppressive.

It was shame.

Yet she had nothing to be ashamed of. The silver and blue of EDEN had begun to lose its luster after Krasnoyarsk. There was no reason to hide her misgivings about that. So why had she?

This is who I am now. This is the choice that I’ve made. Anyone else in my shoes would have made the same one. Those thoughts, like mantras, were repeated over and over until she started to believe them. Until those feelings she was starting to hate were forced aside. There was no room for such doubt. Not in a situation such as this. Not in a war that had to be won. Failure was not an option.

Natalie had no intention of training Mark again—one session in that fiery jungle was enough for one day. Rather, she went to the forge master’s office to inspect her new armor and to try it on again. To remind herself how good it felt. How much better it was than that set of EDEN armor in the corner. How wearing it did nothing to compromise her ideals. After all, it was just a set of armor. Just a set of armor. What could it possibly say about the woman inside it?

She couldn’t—she wouldn’t—think of a thing.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

Date unknown

Time unknown

Ban-Hezikal, Kalar

THERE WAS NO fanfare. There was no ceremonial fire. There was no procession. There was only a circle of mesmerized onlookers and the chill of wet runa legras beneath Svetlana’s feet. The Daystar had only begun its descent toward the distant, carnation-pink horizon. There was still plenty of daylight to go.

Kraash-nagun was standing almost ten meters away, crouched down with his head angled as if he was listening closely for any sounds other than the howling winds around the Ban-Hezikal structure. Off to the side, standing just before the Kalarael that encircled the designated arena, was Ei`dorinthal. The Ithini’s gaze was fixed, yet distant. Focused, yet all-encompassing. Attuned—and on lend.

The time had come.

Never had Svetlana felt more prepared for a task than she did this one, despite seeing Kraash-nagun’s prowess against Toro-shun earlier that day. Now that the dual of dominance had finally arrived, there was little doubt in her mind she would come through as victor. She was sure there was little doubt in Kraash-nagun’s, too. But such blusters, be they outward or personal, would soon have no influence. Soon, nothing would be left to conjecture.

Far behind Svetlana, like a pair of coaches, stood Tauthin and Akàziendi. With no extra Ithini available to connect them, there was nothing the two could say to one another to alleviate whatever fears they had—and no advice Akàziendi could freely offer to the Earthae she’d spent so much time training. Tauthin, for what it was worth, had said little himself. But both watched Svetlana keenly.

There were no designated rules for this affair; there was only the mutual agreement that at its conclusion, only one leader would remain standing. Whether or not that meant death to the loser was undetermined. Svetlana had no intention of killing Kraash-nagun. If Kraash-nagun was smart, he would dare not take the life of the Incarnate before an audience of zealous Kalarael. Whether he would be led by wisdom or principle was yet to be determined.

The build-up to the event was nearly nonexistent. The hour came, and the participants gathered. There were almost two dozen Kalarael around the arena—the full complement of Ban-Hezikal’s staff. No one would dare miss a battle between a deity and her insubordinate.

Standing near to Ed was Yigôzien, the counsel’s eyes dark yellow with apprehension—the sole color displayed by the one-sided audience. The only one cheering for Kraash-Nagun was himself.

Casting a brief look at Yigôzien, Svetlana saw that her fox-eared friend’s gaze was on her. Her whiskers and ears were pushed back like a worried animal. If Svetlana was honest with herself, she was worried, too. But this was no time for honesty.

“Kraash-nagun!” she shouted, loud enough for all those in attendance to hear. When the Bakma pushed up slowly to his feet, Svetlana removed her shock staff from her back. Upon mutual agreement, the lowest stun setting was to be used.

Holding his shock staff in one hand, one end buried in the pink mud beneath him, Kraash-nagun said, “I hear you.”

His tone was confident. So, too, would hers be. “Are you prepared to battle for dominance?”

There was a pause—one longer than Svetlana expected. “Yes,” the Bakma finally answered.

“And will you respect the results?”

Slowly, he angled his head. “Will you?”

Svetlana’s eyes narrowed. She tightened her ponytail then readied her staff in both hands. For a moment, she thought about praying.

“I am ready,” Kraash-nagun said.

Firming up her stance, she gripped the shock staff with white knuckles. He would strike fast. She would need to be ready. “Then let us begin.”

The Bakma elite wasted no time. Dropping out of his fighting stance—out of any semblance of a readied stance whatsoever—he tromped through the runa legras in her direction. His shock staff was gripped in both hands like he was holding a maul.

Brow furrowing, Svetlana shuffled several steps backward. What was this?

In as much time as it took for Svetlana to register the total change of fighting styles, the gap had closed. Kraash-nagun hoisted the staff up by its end, sending it screaming down in her direction. Dropping down, she lifted her staff to block. The end of Kraash-nagun’s staff hit the dead center of hers with thundering force. Svetlana’s feet faltered—she fell to her knees, eyes wide as he rose his staff again. For a second time in as many seconds, he slammed it down at her staff.

Pow!

This time, the blow was too great. Her left hand lost its grip, her staff slipping from it. By the time she reached down to grab it again, Kraash-nagun had already raised his weapon a third time.

She wasn’t going to regrip her staff in time. With only her right hand still with a firm hold, she abandoned all efforts at regaining a defensive stance and dove to the side. The end of Kraash-nagun’s staff smashed into the wet runa legras just as she cleared its path.

From far behind her, Tauthin and Akàziendi held their breaths.

After pushing herself up frantically with one hand and with half her body caked in pink, Svetlana scrambled away from the Bakma warrior as he strode unwaveringly toward her. There was no time to regain her fighting stance from her position. After a single twirl of the staff—the lone effort of finesse Kraash-nagun displayed, he took hold of the staff’s end with both hands; he swung it at her head like a claymore.

Once more, Svetlana lifted her weapon to parry, clinging to the staff as tightly as she could to brace for the blow. The Bakma’s staff smashed into hers with so much force, she lost her grip on it. As her palms surrendered and she toppled backward onto her rear, her staff flew across the runa legras, where it landed in the mud. She stared up at him wide-eyed. Panic set in.

This was not a battle of skill. It was not a test of weapon against weapon. This was a hammer in search of a nail. Kraash-nagun wasn’t attempting to outperform her—he was trying to destroy her.

Once more, Svetlana leapt out of the way to avoid a strike. Rolling across the mud, she scampered backward and away from him as quickly as she could.

For the briefest of moments, Kraash-nagun froze.

Svetlana stopped crawling backward; she cocked her head. He wasn’t advancing. He wasn’t attacking. It was like he suddenly didn’t know where she was.

Ed…

It came to her like a light bulb turning on. She could no longer see Ei`dorinthal on the sideline—Kraash-nagun was blocking her view of him. Which meant Kraash-nagun, who was using Ed’s vision to see, was now blocking his own view of her.

A weakness.

Whipping her head to the side, Svetlana sought out her shock staff. She could see it where it’d landed, sticking almost straight up out of the runa legras. But it was so far away—the moment she would try to run for it, she’d eliminate Kraash-nagun’s visual disadvantage.

A second later, he eliminated it anyway. Leaping sideways, Kraash-nagun removed himself from his own obstructed view. With Ed’s vision once again unhindered, the Bakma elite found her instantly.

Run!

There was nothing else Svetlana could do. She was closer to the shock staff than Kraash-nagun was. Leaping to her feet, she tore through the pink muck toward it. Only when she got close enough to reach out and snag it with one hand did she look back. Kraash-nagun was exactly where he’d been before. He hadn’t attempted to advance at all.

Svetlana reached down to wipe the mud from her hands, only to realize that her entire body was covered in it, anyway. Running her hands back over her hair instead, she wiped them as best she could before regripping the staff. Chest heaving, she watched as the Bakma warrior stalked toward her.

Kraash-nagun swung the weapon from side to side like a pendulum. Whipping the staff around his body, he slapped it under his armpit, where it held. Gripping one end with one hand, he opened his other hand and held it outward—an obvious fighting stance of some kind.

He was shifting gears, abandoning brute power for something more nuanced. Heart beating like a drum, Svetlana assumed the only fighting stance she—and apparently Nagogg—knew. Slowly, cautiously, Kraash-nagun maneuvered her way.

Get in front of him! Keep him between me and Ed. Svetlana sidestepped in an effort to do so, only to have Kraash-nagun match the motion. He was onto the tactic.

Closing the gap, Kraash-nagun snapped the staff around, sending its tip upward toward her like an uppercut. Bringing her staff down hard, she knocked the tip of his to the ground. Kraash-nagun quickly pulled it back then countered with several fast strikes, one after the other. Backstepping, Svetlana parried each attack with less and less effectiveness. He was fast. One strike came after another, after another, after another, each one increasing in velocity as if the kinetic energy of every parry added to the weapon’s momentum. Before she knew it, her defense was overwhelmed. The end of his staff struck her in the chest, the strength of the hit far greater than the low-voltage shock that resonated. Svetlana buckled forward and stumbled back, aimlessly raising her staff just to show some semblance of a defensive effort. The Bakma was having none of it, and with another lightning-fast strike, her staff was knocked from her grasp, landing several meters away in the runa legras. Yet again, Svetlana found herself diving not only to avoid a strike, but to reclaim her weapon for a second time.

Whack!

Twirling around, Kraash-nagun brought his staff spinning all the way around, smashing into Svetlana’s shins just as she made her move. The force nearly flipped her—she landed face-first in the pink mud. She whipped her head around just quickly enough to see the rough form of Kraash-nagun preparing for a jab. With her vision impaired by mud, she could only roll and hope to avoid the strike. Snapping the lower end of his staff sideways, Kraash-nagun popped her on the side of the face, hitting her mask squarely. Though it stayed in place, it left her sprawled out on her back and seeing stars.

She had no choice now. As he positioned himself above her, there was no rolling out of the way or making a dive for her weapon. Her only option—all she could do—was survive the attack. Tucking in her arms and legs, she prepared for the blows. A hit smashed into her ribs. Another hit her on the hip. The impacts struck her one after the other, the culmination of the shock causing her whole body to spasm. There was no question in her mind that, were he seeing with his own eyes, he would have delivered a finishing blow by then. As fate had it, she was imprinted so deeply in the runa legras, he likely couldn’t see her at all from Ed’s vantage point. Once more, it was the only advantage she possessed. Before the pops of voltage could totally incapacitate her, Svetlana grabbed a handful of wet runa legras and flung it as hard as she could toward Kraash-nagun’s face.

Impact! The glob struck him squarely in the side of the face, and he rasped and stepped backward. Though it wouldn’t impair his vision or do any real damage, it distracted him enough for Svetlana to propel herself backward on her back while he slung the mud down. Svetlana scampered to her feet and went for her staff. The moment she had it, she turned back around to face him. Wiping her hand across her eyes to smear away the mess, she heaved heavy breaths as she watched Kraash-nagun assume another stance—one more traditional.

Everything felt awful. Svetlana’s ribs and hips hurt where she’d been struck, her nerves were frayed by the pops of electricity. Even her hair was an impediment now, her ponytail so caked in pink mud that it felt like a five-pound weight was hanging from her head. The only thing she had going for her was that she was still able to fight.

It was right then, in her third faceoff against him, that a thought emerged in her brain. She’d just distracted Kraash-nagun by hitting him in the face with mud. Beyond the fortuity of actually connecting with such a sling for once, there came a recollection.

I don’t have to take out Kraash-nagun. I only have to take out Ed. All she had to do—the only thing she had to pull off—was to get close enough to Ed to hit him squarely in the face with mud. Just enough to affect his vision or sever their connection. Just enough to make Kraash-nagun blind again.

From the side of the arena and unbeknownst to Svetlana, Ed’s focus-wide eyes shifted to her.

They were right. Tauthin and Akàziendi were right.

Ahead of her, Kraash-nagun made his approach.

Crouching down, she picked up a scoop of wet runa legras. She clenched it in her fist.

Her spirit churned. Everything in her soul screamed out that this was wrong. That the ends didn’t justify these means. That it was better to lose fairly than win wrongly. That she was the one who had gotten herself into this—not her Ithini counterpart and friend.

Her spirit was right.

Svetlana’s hand opened; she left the wet mud on the ground. Regripping her staff, she prepared to defend herself once more.

Ed’s eyes remained on Svetlana for several seconds before their focus shifted back to Kraash-nagun. The Ithini went still.

The surge came suddenly. Lurching forward with his staff, Kraash-nagun thrust it toward Svetlana’s head. She leaned back and parried to the side. Kraash-nagun pulled back and swung for her legs. She angled her weapon to block.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Strikes and blocks came in rapid succession. Though she backtracked with every step, Svetlana felt the slightest hint of a battle rhythm coming on. It was the first semblance of an answer to Kraash-nagun’s aggression that she’d found. It also didn’t last long.

Ducking down, Kraash-nagun extended his staff at full length and spun, sending the tip of the weapon screaming for Svetlana’s legs. She leapt just in time to avoid the strike—but not quickly enough to avoid the follow-through. Using the momentum of his spin to make a second pass, Kraash-nagun whipped the staff around and up at a forty-five-degree angle, where it collided against the lower jaw of her mask with a violent pop. Her vision flashed as she caught air, landing a full meter away and flat on her back.

Svetlana couldn’t even writhe. Moaning dizzily from the mud, she blinked several times to stop the stars in her vision. By the time her head stopped spinning, Kraash-nagun was above her. Her eyes bulged as he pressed the staff down across her throat. Her airflow suddenly cut off, she gripped his staff as hard as she could in an effort to push it off of her. It wouldn’t budge.

From the side of the arena, Tauthin’s eyes widened. He took a single step forward, as if preparing to enter the arena. Beside him, Akàziendi did the same.

Head depressed into the runa legras, Svetlana frantically tried to lift the staff. It moved not a millimeter. She swiped at his head with her hands, trying to claw at him. He stayed just out of reach. Tauthin was right. He was going to kill her. As her entire head was pushed beneath the mud, her consciousness threatened to fade.

Kraash-nagun suddenly flinched. His head and hands jolted, as if experiencing something unexpected in the midst of his triumph. His downward push relented.

It was all the relenting she needed. Desperately shoving upward, Svetlana was able to push the staff off her neck just enough to suck in a breath through her mask—the only part of her head not beneath the runa legras. Gasping for air loudly, she reared back with her hand and swung it wildly where Kraash-nagun’s head had last been. Almost to her shock, it connected. The Bakma was rocked sideways, and his downward pressure on her disappeared. As he stumbled briefly to the side, she rolled over to crawl hurriedly away.

Every part of Svetlana’s head was caked. Wiping her eyes, she desperately sought out her attacker. When her eyes were finally cleared enough to see, what she saw stunned her. Kraash-nagun was standing where he’d been moments before, having risen from his stumble. One hand outstretched, he looked frantically in every direction, as if he was trying to find her. As if he couldn’t see at all. In that same instant, a thought emerged in her mind.

Kill him, master.

Ed. He had severed the visual connection on his own. Kraash-nagun was blind.

Svetlana looked where her staff had fallen. It was lying in the runa legras not far from the Bakma elite’s feet. No effort was made to move quietly. With Kraash-nagun discombobulated, Svetlana dashed as fast as she could.

He swung his staff wildly in her direction, at what would have been chest level. Leaping into a roll, Svetlana avoided the attack completely. Her hand latched onto the middle of her shock staff. Jerking it toward her, she managed to get both hands on it just as Kraash-nagun sent his staff screaming down at her. In a response of more instinct than true readiness, Svetlana raised her staff to block. Twisting her legs, she kicked at Kraash-nagun’s ankles with every ounce of her rapidly diminishing strength. While it wasn’t enough to knock him off his feet, it was enough to force him to regain his balance. Kicking away from him, Svetlana staggered to a stand. In the same second that she came to her feet, he came at her again, whipping his weapon wildly in her direction.

Dropping straight down as Kraash-nagun swung high, Svetlana jabbed at his neck with the end of her staff. Though her aim wasn’t perfect, it was close enough to hit him in the chest. The staff discharged, and Kraash-nagun was knocked backward. Though he didn’t fall completely, the blow was solid enough to drop him to a knee. Face twisting in rage, he hopped up, turned his head in Ed’s direction, and screamed in Bakmanese, “Traitor!”

Surging forward, Svetlana struck out at Kraash-nagun’s head. To her utter astonishment, he managed to parry it. Her next attack, however, was true. Bringing the staff around sideways, she smacked it hard into the side of the Bakma’s chest. Clutching the point of impact, Kraash-nagun attempted to one-hand his staff into a defensive position. It was too little, too late.

Thrust after thrust, Svetlana’s attacks hit true, pushing the Bakma backward. All the while, he attempted to move his staff into a parry position—occasionally, and quite shockingly, managing to do so. Svetlana knew she couldn’t afford to let him acclimate to his blindness. He was certainly skilled enough to. She needed a decisive blow now.

She swung at his hip—it connected. A follow-through to the other side of his body—it was blocked. With every second that passed, her efforts were being staved off more and more. But she needed that opening. She needed that one moment when she could land a haymaker. That one opening to fully exploit.

At long last, she had it. Striking at his legs twice back to back, Svetlana forced Kraash-nagun to place all of his focus on protecting his lower half. In doing so—for that one, single second—he left his upper body exposed. Knockout time. Thrusting her arms around in a snapping motion, she sent the tip of her staff screaming for Kraash-nagun’s chin.

Crack!

The tip of her shock staff hit him solidly, the combination of the hit and the discharge rocking his head backward and lifting his feet from the ground. For the first time that fight, the Bakma elite was down. Landing flat on his back in the wet runa legras, Kraash-nagun went still.

Svetlana couldn’t believe it. Almost stumbling as her body attempted to recover, she locked her eyes onto Kraash-nagun’s chest to see if it was still heaving. It was.

Kill him.

It was not Ed’s thoughts in her mind now, but her own. He was defenseless. His own staff was strewn to the side. As she staggered toward him, she switched the staff to the kill setting.

Kill him!

She towered over him, as he had towered over her. Raising her staff, she prepared to end him for good. Then, she paused.

He was down. His weapon was out of his grasp. He might have even been unconscious. There was no need for Svetlana to push this any further. All she had to do was declare herself the victor. All she had to do was deem the fight over. With Kraash-nagun’s life there for the taking, she did the one thing she was sure he wouldn’t have. Removing her hand from the power toggle, she took several steps backward and away. Bending down, she retrieved his discarded weapon even as he woozily began moving his head.

Thrusting both staffs into the air, she swiveled her gaze to the gathered Kalarael. As if their thoughts were attuned, they erupted with acclamation.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw the Bakma elite rise. Turning back to him, she readied herself to defend.

Snarling loudly, Kraash-nagun said, “This was no victory. I was betrayed!”

“I have defeated you. Whatever circumstances caused you to lose, they were not ordained by me!” It was true. “Do you defy these results?”

“I defy any notion that suggests you are in any way superior to me! This was a farce and you know it. You were defeated.”

Holding her staffs out each to a side, she said, “Yet here I am.”

The rage on Kraash-nagun’s face was more fervent than any expression she’d seen on a Bakma. He was completely incensed. But her words were true—she had done nothing to cause this turn of events. Whatever issue he had, it was with Ed.

“I will not accept this ruling,” Kraash-nagun seethed. “Not now, not ever!”

“Then live your life blind,” she spat back, throwing his staff in the mud at his feet. “I am Ei`dorinthal’s master, not you. If I tell him you are never to see again, then rest assured, you never will.”

Of all the things she’d spoken to him, it was that threat that made him go quiet.

“I will give you a choice now, Kraash-nagun. Accept this defeat with what little dignity you still possess, and I will allow you to see once more. But if you defy it—if you deny my victory this day—then blackness is all you will ever behold, I swear it. Now make your choice.”

Despite the fact that none of the Kalarael around them could understand the dialogue taking place, their fox ears were perked. As if waiting to hear—waiting to see—what the one who defied the Incarnate would do.

For several seconds, he did absolutely nothing. He simply stared in her direction as the winds howled past the Ban-Hezikal structure. She knew as well as he did that this fight had been skewed in her favor. She knew that in his heart, he would never accept this. She also knew that he wanted to see. In the end, it was clear what won out.

Growling dangerously, Kraash-nagun lowered himself to one knee. Not for any moment during the gesture did his empty eye sockets leave her direction. It was as if he wanted her to see them. In a voice laced with pure hatred, he said, “I accept my defeat.”

There was no hesitation from Svetlana. Thrusting her staff into the air, she pivoted around for the Kalarael crowd. For a second time, their voices erupted.

Yigôzien ran toward her through the wet runa legras. As Svetlana faced her, she felt Ed’s connection link them. The invoker’s voice emerged. “Are you victorious, my goddess?” The enthusiasm in her voice indicated she already knew the answer.

“I am,” Svetlana said. The blue in Yigôzien’s eyes brightened further. “Kraash-nagun has accepted his defeat. The duel of dominance is finished!”

Clasping her hands together, Yigôzien said, “I shall announce it to the crowd!” Turning, she addressed the circle of Kalarael.

Svetlana had no interest in hearing any proclamations about her success. Her eyes were already seeking Tauthin and Akàziendi. Both were watching her from the same places they’d stood all fight long. Though she couldn’t see their expressions at such a distance, she knew they must have been proud. In front of her, Kraash-nagun pushed up from his knee. Despite the rage on his face, he made no effort to retrieve the staff she’d thrown in the mud before him. Turning from her, he trudged away in defeat.

Her address finished, Yigôzien faced Svetlana again. “What shall we do now, my goddess? Shall we have a celebration?”

That was the last thing she wanted to do. “The only thing I want right now is to get clean.” She was a pink wreck, yet again. “Explain to them that once a duel is finished, it is finished. There is no celebration.”

“As custom dictates,” Yigôzien said.

“I wish now to go to my chambers to clean. I request privacy during this time—the only one I wish to accompany me is Tauthinilaas.”

Yigôzien bowed. “As you wish, my goddess.”

Stepping away from her fox-eared counsel and with her staff still in hand, she called out to Tauthin as she walked toward the structure. “Tauthin! Come with me, please!” Her endorphins were surging. She almost couldn’t believe it. She’d come so close to being defeated—so close to utter humiliation. Ed saved me. By cutting off Kraash-nagun’s eyesight, he allowed me to win. Why? Turning her head, she sought him out in the dispersing crowd. He was standing in the distance, getting an earful from Kraash-nagun. Svetlana was unconcerned. There was zero chance that Kraash-nagun would harm Ed with his vision hanging in the balance. Ed would endure the sore loser’s tirade then move on. What a good friend I have in him. For whatever reason he helped me, I will forever be grateful.

After turning her head back to the structure, she trudged inside with Tauthin in tow.

As soon as she was in the elevator and moving up, she let her emotions loose. Beaming behind her half-mask, she spun to face Tauthin. “Did you see that? Did you see it?” No time was afforded him to answer. She carried right along. “He was so incredibly good! Every time I thought he would fight one way, he fought in another. At first he was like, this machine, just pounding at me, then he did this like…I don’t know what it was, I’d never seen it before, but it was crazy!” Her heart was pounding as if she was still in the fight. The elevator door opened and she stepped inside the suite.

Tauthin followed in silence.

“I don’t know if you could tell, but there was a point where he suddenly lost his vision. It was so funny, because I actually thought about doing what you and Akàziendi said and taking out Ed to get the same result!” She gasped. “Wait a minute, was that why he helped me? Did he know what I was thinking of doing and did he repay me for not going on with it? Could that have been it?” Maybe he’d been in her mind the whole while and she hadn’t known. Toward the cleansing pool she went, tossing both the staff and her half-mask on the floor as she waded into it. Wincing, she said, “God, this water’s cold! Could they not like, keep it heated up?”

Behind her, Tauthin bent down to pick up a bucket.

“Anyway, then it was like bam, suddenly he had no vision, and I was able to smack him, like this.” She gesticulated wildly with her hands as if wielding the staff right then and there. “He couldn’t believe it! He was so caught off guard. But I am telling you, he was still so good! Even blind, I mean, obviously I was better, but he would still block some of the attacks.” Her pantomiming continued. “And then when he least expected it,” she said, whipping her arms up to mimic the winning shot, “it was like, boom!” She turned to face Tauthin.

It hit her in the face right when she did. An enveloping wave of cold water—a veritable tidal wave. Mouth agape as she sucked in a breath, she immediately bent forward and gasped as water invaded her nasal cavities. Coughing as she shook her wet head, she wiped her eyes and strained to see through the newfound blurriness.

Tauthin was standing there, dripping bucket in hand—and glaring.

“Tauthinilaas!” Forced to wipe her eyes as the now dripping runa legras literally melted over her head, she coughed once more. Sucking in a chunk of the pink muck from one of her cavities, she spit it out of her mouth and into the pool. “Why did you—”

A second blast hit her, dead in the face and sending her sputtering. Nearly stumbling backwards, she erupted into a waterlogged, hacking fit. Wiping her eyes and covering her cavities, she cried, “Stop it!”

“You arrogant fool,” Tauthin said.

Jaw set like a stone, Svetlana wrung out her ponytail with vehemence. Beneath dripping lashes, she listened as he spoke.

“Do you have any idea what you have done?”

Running her hands over her hair—which was at least partially cleaned—she drew in breaths of ire.

“Any creature with eyes could plainly see who the superior warrior was in that battle!” Tauthin shouted. “That you were victorious is irrelevant. He excelled in every capacity!”

“But I did win!” she shouted back.

Pointing toward the outer window, Tauthin asked, “In whose eyes? Do you think you won in Kraash-nagun’s? Do you think you won in Wuteel’s? All you have done is prove to them that you are inferior!”

Now she’d had enough. “I won!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. Her face flushed deep red. “I was the victor! I won the duel of dominance! What more is there to prove?”

Tauthin matched her tone in kind. “The whole point of the duel was to prove yourself to them! To the other Bakma, not to the Kalarael! The Kalarael already adore you!” Throwing the bucket to the floor, he raged on. “Setana, do you not realize what you have done? You have gone in a complete circle! All of this practice, all of this foolish pursuit of a made-up custom, was to prove to Kraash-nagun that you were worthy to be followed. Not only did you do the opposite, but you undid whatever strength you held in Wuteel’s eyes, as well! Now you have two Bakma who believe you are unfit to lead.”

She cocked her head. “Did Wuteel say that?”

“He did not need to! You were clearly inferior! The moment you are back in the Zone Runner, they will string you up and flay you. You have affirmed their every suspicion!” Reaching down, he grabbed the bucket again and filled it up.

“Tauthin…” she said warningly.

He rose with it filled to the brim. “And now you stand here, basking in your own imaginary glory as if you achieved some great feat!”

As he readied the bucket again, her volume intensified. “Tauthin…”

“You…achieved…nothing!” Rearing back, he slung the contents of the bucket in her direction again.

Lowering her head, Svetlana took the douse, then screamed. After whipping her sopping ponytail from her face, she marched in his direction. As he reached down to fill the bucket again, she reached out to snag it. “Give me that!”

He yanked it back. “You have wasted all of our time with your needless quest for validation!”

Growling, Svetlana jerked the bucket back in her direction as hard as she could. When he released it, she went toppling back under the water. Rising with mouth gaping, she wiped her hands over her head and glared at him.

Tauthin knelt down at the edge of the pool. “You are an idiot.”

It wasn’t the word that made her pause; she had been called far worse. But the conviction with which he’d said it struck her. Heaving heavily with her hands on her hips, Svetlana stared at him.

How could he say that? How could he call her that after all that she’d done? After all she’d accomplished? She had removed Nagogg from leadership. She had freed them from the grasp of the Khuladi. She had established them as her very own on this strange, alien planet. And she had proven to them—undoubtedly, unequivocally—that she deserved to be their leader. It didn’t matter how she’d won. It mattered that she’d won. She had won. She was the victor. In this instance, the ends wholeheartedly justified the means. They justified it in the same way they had when she was deemed a goddess, and it put her in a position of influence. They justified it in the same way they had when she’d agreed to let the Kalareim help her steal the Zone Runner, for the purpose of her and her friends getting home. They justified it in the same way they had…

…when she’d struck Tauthin with her staff, lied about the intent behind it, then called him a slave. Because it satisfied her lust for dominance. Because it provided her with a feeling of power. Of validation—just like he’d said.

Oh my God.

Deep within her, like the distant rumble of thunder, there emerged a throbbing hurt. A horrible, realized guilt. It was exactly as Tauthin had said, what felt like so long ago. She had become the hunter she’d sought to escape. She’d become Nagogg. She’d become the Khuladi. She’d become General Thoor.

A justifier.

Turning away from him, she raised her hands from the water to place atop her scalp, where they came to rest. What have I done? What have I been doing? Tauthin had been right in proclaiming her a hunter of validation. He’d been right in calling her an idiot. She was willing to go on an entire needless side quest for the sole purpose of convincing—no, forcing—those under her to respect her. She’d been willing to delay the mission to return to Earth to achieve it. She’d been willing to expel every ounce of energy she had every single day, to trundle back to the structures covered from head to toe in pink mud, for it. To risk humiliating defeat, not only to the detriment of herself, but to the detriment of everyone in her party. But it was necessary. To have all hands on deck was necessary. But not this way.

Not this way.

What have I done?

An idiot. An interstellar ambassador. An idiot. The Fury of Shanras—the Incarnate.

An idiot.

She realized in that dreadful, stomach-turning moment, the extent of her folly. It was much more than a folly of pride. It was a betrayal of not only who she’d always been, but who she had striven so hard to become. The kind of petty pursuit she would have formerly condemned, yet that she’d now embraced because it benefited her. And for all of that time, for all of that dedication, she had gained…nothing. In fact, she had lost ground.

In that instant, with her only true friend on that side of the galaxy glaring down at her like a displeased parent, her aura of invincibility shimmered. Teeth still clenched, but now trembling, Svetlana continued to look away from him—the goddess unable to look at the slave.

Tauthin’s bony, narrowed brow softened. His fists slowly unclenched. As Svetlana closed her eyes, raising a fist to her forehead as she shook, he rose to his feet and stepped into the pool. “Setana.”

And now, it came out. For so long, she’d staved off those tears. For so long, she’d pretended that that wasn’t her anymore. Who had she been kidding? As her face twisted, the façade fell. She was no goddess. She was no war maiden.

She was Svetlana.

“Forgive me,” Tauthin said. “My words were untrue. I do not know why I spoke them.”

That statement—that declaration of misspoken intent—was the only untruth from his lips. Everything else had been spot on.

Who am I? What have I become? What am I becoming? For as much as she’d despised the woman she once was, she now realized the one she’d become was worse. One for whom a once humble demeanor had been replaced by a demand for recognition. One for whom a servant’s heart had been replaced by a thirst for position and power. One for whom a once tender, healing touch had been replaced by the strike of a staff. She’d achieved tangible victory through moral necrosis. And she’d been okay with it.

But she wasn’t okay now.

I’ve failed You.

What a mess. What a disjointed, irreparable mess. She was a free captive, believed to be a goddess, playing both sides in a species’ blood feud, thousands of light-years from home. She felt totally alone. “I am sorry, Tauthin,” she said, tears falling. “I am so sorry for this.”

His talons squeezed her shoulder. “You do not need to apologize.”

“I do.” Moist eyes averted, she nodded her head a single time. “My faithful friend, I do. You were right about everything.”

The Bakma remained silent.

There was something to be said for hitting rock bottom. Svetlana had thought that rock bottom was being chained to a brig wall without a nose, or being forced to perpetually kneel next to Nagogg’s chair while Mishka christened her with urine and drool. But there was no rock bottom like this. There was nothing like knowing that failure was not due to some unforeseen or outside circumstance, but solely the result of one’s own moral insufficiency. Solely due to who they were. But if there was one good thing about rock bottom, it was that only one direction served as a viable option. And so, Svetlana looked up—not to her own wisdom or cleverness, not to how she could impact her situation or crawl out of the mire under her own strength, but to the One Who had put her there in the first place. The One Who had allowed her to fail for the purpose of reaching that very moment. Class had been in session for some time now. It was time to finally pay attention.

You delivered me from Nagogg. You made my weakness my strength. You allowed me to put myself in this unwinnable situation. My God…I need a way to win. I need a way to escape this world. I need a way to get out of this war between the Kalarael and Kalareim. I need a way to win the hearts of my comrades. And none of it…none of it…I can do on my own. I have tried. God, how I’ve tried. But I know now that I need You.

It was the first time she had prayed those words since being Nagogg’s prisoner. Once more, they came when she was in need of help. When the stakes were down. When there seemed no path forward. How much different might her situation be had they come every day?

There was only one way to find out.

I need You today. I need You tomorrow. And the day after that…and the day after that. There will come mornings when I forget to say it, but it will always be true. Remember my words now. Remember when I refused to deny You, even as I was tortured. Remember that and not who I have been since—for that woman is never who I have striven to be. You have allowed me to be put here for a purpose.

Forgive me and use me for it.

There was so much that came along with that statement. To be used by God was rarely to be put in a position of comfort. More often than not, it came with the opposite. The question was—it always was—was a child of God willing to endure it? Were they willing to endure the trial to receive the reward? Were they willing to trust that all things worked for the good of those who believed? Were they willing to relinquish control?

All the while that Svetlana sorted out her feelings, Tauthin held her. Neither spoke during that time, the understanding seemingly shared between them that no words were needed. Svetlana was going through something that Tauthin didn’t understand. She, on the other hand, understood it all too well. She understood the hurt. She also understood the hope. And it was the latter she would choose to cling to. Though unwinnable by her, she was yet to encounter a situation that was unwinnable for God. Even amid the waves in her heart, she felt that something bigger was brewing. Some purpose beyond winning an insignificant duel of dominance. Bigger than her failures. Bigger even than hitting rock bottom.

The rest of that evening was spent in emotional solitude in her chamber. Eventually, after her cleansing, she was joined by the various other lifeforms with whom she shared the structures at Ban-Hezikal. Yigôzien came to heap praise. Akàziendi came to distantly observe. Kraash-nagun came, perhaps rightfully, to cast visible ire. As for Tauthin—Tauthin stayed by her side the whole of the evening, his vigilance unmatched even by the former darishu assigned to protect her. For as much as she was feeling, she sensed he was feeling something, too. Perhaps, in some small, but not insignificant way, he was beginning to feel how it felt to be human. She hoped he was ready for that journey. Though worthwhile, it was rarely smooth.

As evening set over Ban-Hezikal, the vibrant, pastel hues succumbed to darkness—and to the beauty of a billion stars shining behind a set of planetary rings. From her window in the suite, Svetlana watched it with reverence. Even there, God’s artwork shone. She was ready to see what His artist’s hand could do with the mess she’d made of herself.

She was finally ready.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Thirty-one

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.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-two

Date unknown

Time unknown

Winduster, Kalar

BEAUTY. HOW IT had a way of fading over time. How it had a way of disguising cold reality.

As the familiar pink hues of runa legras began their rolling transition into the turquoise, mossy hills that led into Winduster, Svetlana watched from the train window with what was, for the first time, an air of indifference. Wearing the same stone blue outfit she’d worn so many days, she found herself not enjoying the ride, but longing for it to end. She could say that now about a great many things. Long departed was the exhilaration of going to new places and making new discoveries. The only thing she wanted was to go home.

No one—not among her party or the Kalarael—made mention of the duel of dominance that had taken place the previous day. They seemed content to have simply observed an alien custom in action. That was just as well for Svetlana. In light of the duel’s aftermath, she wanted nothing more than to pretend like it’d never happened at all.

This particular journey to Winduster revolved around the Zone Runner’s damaged rift generator—a subject of sudden urgency after the Kalareim’s offer to help Svetlana and her counterparts escape on the spacecraft. Though the ship’s drives were not operating at full power, they would work well enough to get the ship off the ground and into orbit. What mattered most was the ability to disappear. Svetlana opted to include everyone in their party for this visit, from Tauthin, to Kraash-nagun, to Mishka. She wanted them all there. The time for division had ended. What they needed now was togetherness.

In the time that’d passed since the duel’s conclusion, Svetlana had come to realize that the whole idea had been a terrible misstep. Rather than having spent her time at Ban-Hezikal trying to cultivate a healthy relationship with Kraash-nagun, she’d instead tried to win him over by defeating him. The Kalarael may have accepted the results of the duel, but there was zero chance Kraash-nagun would. He was probably more determined than ever to usurp her command, feeling that her victory had been accomplished by trickery. He wouldn’t be wrong. She wanted to talk to him. She wanted to apologize to him. She wanted to speak to him with the same freedom that she could with Tauthin. But Kraash-nagun was not Tauthin, and such an opportunity to speak freely could not be forced. It would have to come to her. She hoped that inviting him to go along with them would go a small way in terms of reconciliation. She feared, however, it would do nothing at all.

Yigôzien settled into the empty seat beside Svetlana as she continued to stare out the window. After Ed’s connection kicked in, Yigôzien said, “You must be pleased with the result of your duel with the Bakma.”

Looking at Yigôzien briefly, Svetlana returned her reflective gaze outward. “Must I?”

“Surely, you must. To have settled a dispute in such a convincing manner—you have left no question as to your dominance. As an invoker who has shared with you many of our customs, to observe a custom of yours was an honor.”

“A custom of ours,” Svetlana murmured to herself, more out of disgust than anything else. Shaking her head a single time, she drew in a breath and said, “That was…not a custom of significance.” She paused. “If a custom at all.”

Even without looking, Svetlana could sense Yigôzien’s confusion through the connection. “I am unsure what you mean.”

“Yigôzien…” Looking ahead in the train, Svetlana couldn’t quite bring herself to look her alien friend in the eyes. She looked outward again. “I hope you understand that I am not perfect. And that I am no goddess.”

Once more, confusion. “Your words confound me. I was under the impression that you had accepted your incarnation. Have your feelings changed?”

“The point I am making,” Svetlana said, ignoring the question, “is that not all of the decisions I make are good. The decision to duel Kraash-nagun is among them. It is not something I should have done.”

“But in doing so, you cemented your dominance over him.”

If she only understood how untrue that statement was. “No,” Svetlana answered. “It may seem that way to you, but I did not.”

Her eyes shifted dark yellow. “But he must adhere to custom.”

“Yigôzien, what custom?” Svetlana asked, looking at her fox-eared friend for the first time. “How do Earthae and Bakma share customs? I was a prisoner on their ship. They took me from my homeworld. If it was a Bakma or Khuladi custom, how would I know of it? If it was an Earthae custom, why would he agree to it? My God, do…” Biting her lip behind her mask, she looked away again, briefly. She wanted to ask, “Do you think at all?” But she couldn’t quite bring such curtness to form. Instead, she settled for, “What matters is that the whole idea of the duel was foolish. I was warned not to do it. I did not listen.”

“Yours is not to listen. Yours is to command.”

Yigôzien would never understand. She couldn’t. Her dogma was too ingrained.

The alien’s focus returned forward. “We draw near to Winduster.”

So they had. Svetlana could see the small military compound approaching. The train began to decelerate. But she wasn’t quite through with Yigôzien yet. “My friend,” she said, turning Yigôzien’s way as she placed a hand on her knee—a gesture that made the Kalarael blink. “I need you to forgive me.”

Yigôzien canted her head.

“Forgive me if I do not turn out to be who, or…or what you think I am.” She needed to get that request for forgiveness out—just in case their course couldn’t be altered. Just in case she and the Kalareim stole that ship.

As the train drew to a stop, Yigôzien looked at Svetlana strangely. “Are things well with you, my goddess?”

Closing her eyes in disgust, Svetlana said, “Yigôzien, I swear to you, I am not your goddess.”

“Your unbelief is not mine. You are mired in confusion. Have faith it will pass.”

Mired in confusion. If there was a better way to explain the condition of Svetlana’s soul, she didn’t know what it was.

“If you wish to confide in me about things, it is my duty as counsel to listen—and my privilege.”

“I just need to hear that you will forgive me, if I ever disappoint you. If I ever fail to live up to the pedestal your people have placed me upon.”

The bewilderment remained. “I cannot forgive what is not sin. You are where you are because you deserve to be there.”

Truer words were never spoken—just not in the way Yigôzien was aware of. The hum of the train ceased; its forward movement stopped completely. Seconds later, the side door opened. Svetlana rose to her feet immediately. She didn’t wish to discuss this with Yigôzien anymore. What she wished, more than anything, was to just go away.

Slipping past Yigôzien as she dutifully stepped aside, Svetlana padded out onto the mossy, turquoise earth. Casting the briefest of looks to her counterparts, she motioned for them to follow her out. They complied, following her to an area far from the Kalaraels’ ears.

Wasting no time, she looked at Wuteel first. “Wuteel, I need you to do everything in your power to repair that ship. When the Kalareim are ready to strike, whenever that may be, we must be able to shift. Take full advantage of the time we still have.”

Several seconds passed before Wuteel dipped his head. “As you wish, my lady.” His gaze lingered on Svetlana longer than she felt it should’ve, and then he turned to walk toward his Kalarael escorts.

Svetlana’s eyes narrowed. There was a hesitation from Wuteel—perhaps even, a reluctance to obey. Deep within her, a slow anger boiled. She directed it at herself. Tauthin was right—he sees me differently now. Well done, Sveta. She turned to Tauthin next. “Have Toro-shun accompany you to the prison cells. Continue your questioning of the Bakma there to see who could be sympathetic to our cause. There must be no doubt in your mind who among them we can trust.” The last thing she wanted was to add another doubter like Kraash-nagun or Wuteel to the team.

“As you command,” Tauthin said.

At least there was no hesitation there. Svetlana turned to Ed. “Go relay to Toro-shun his assignment, then come back to me.” The Ithini relayed compliance before walking away.

Svetlana was alone with Kraash-nagun and Mishka, the latter of whom had lumbered to her side and was gently nuzzling against her. Her focus shifting to the blinded elite, she watched him in scrutiny. His eye sockets stared blankly ahead.

Closing her eyes, she thought the briefest of prayers in her head—more a series of unspoken desires than actual formed words. She just wanted this animosity to end. Opening them again, she beheld the silent warrior. “Kraash-nagun, may we talk?”

A moment passed before he answered. “Of course, my goddess.”

Now that got her mad. “Oh, stop it.”

Angling his head slightly toward her, he fell silent and listened.

“I want you to know it was not I who told Ed to sever your vision.” As soon as she said it, she regretted it. It felt like she was throwing the Ithini under the bus. She reframed her argument. “The point I am making is that I know it was unfair.”

“May I tell you something?” he asked.

She sighed. “If you wish.”

“I do not care. If a point was to be proven, it was proven. You are not comparable to those you presume to rule.”

Presume to rule. She’d caught that intentional word.

“I will never believe you would have abided by the rules of your so-called ‘duel of dominance’ had the Ithini not intervened. I believe it is more likely you would have had the Kalarael kill me.”

“I would have never done that,” Svetlana said.

“I find that hard to believe. Your lust for power has grown larger by the day. It is clear you once shared a mind with Nagogg. You are nearly indistinguishable.”

“What must I do to earn your trust?” As she spoke, Mishka settled down on his haunches beside her.

Turning his head her way, Kraash-nagun bared his teeth and seethed. “You must actually earn it.”

“And what more must I do to earn it? Have I not done enough?”

“All you have done is replace one master with another. Instead of subservience to Nagogg, we are subservient to you.”

His stubbornness was infuriating. “I am not your master. You are not my slaves.” Despite what she’d slipped up and said to Tauthin.

“Nagogg referred to himself as a lord. You insisted on our using the female equivalent. Clearly, your intent was for us to view you as we viewed him.”

“But you are not,” she said, pointing at him. “You were not challenging his leadership as you have challenged mine from the moment I assumed it—and yes, I assumed leadership. I am not afraid to say it after what I did to free you. What is so wrong with that? It is exactly what you would do.”

The elite angled his head. “The reason I did not challenge Nagogg is because he earned his position as rider and chieftain. You were the beneficiary of a single, fortuitous occurrence—and you used it to justify a position a lifetime in the making.”

Opening her mouth to reply, she found herself at a loss for rebuttal. Kraash-nagun’s accusation replayed in her head. She used a single occurrence to justify the others’ life work. Jaw tightening behind her mask, she looked off to the side in thought. Was that it? Was that truly it? Was it really a matter of her not having earned it, not in that one, single moment, but over the course of her life?

It was then that she realized a similarity she’d never considered before. Kraash-nagun was looking at her the exact same way she’d looked at Scott when he’d arrived at Novosibirsk. She and her Russian counterparts had worked for years to get where they were, yet they were instantly usurped—if not literally, symbolically—by this Golden Lion from America. Svetlana herself had enjoyed seeing Max put him to the ground in that sparring match. She’d even confessed to Scott in their fateful lounge meeting that she’d wished Max would have sent him home on a rolling bed.

Oh my God…I am the Golden Lion. She was playing Scott’s role. Kraash-nagun was playing hers. In that one instant—in light of that single comment Kraash-nagun made—everything began to make sense. It made sense why Kraash-nagun despised her. It made sense why even after her accomplishments, she was yet to earn his trust. They only knew each other as stalwart and encroacher. Their “lounge meeting” had yet to take place.

“Have you nothing to say?” Kraash-nagun asked, oblivious to her thoughts.

She did have something to say—something she hadn’t fathomed saying until then. Something her pride had stood in the way of since she’d removed Nagogg. She turned her head slowly to him. Where her jaw had once been tight, it now hung open. “You were right.”

After the elite stared at her for several seconds with his empty eye sockets, he tilted his head.

“Kraash-nagun, you were right. I have done this all wrong.” The words were more like self-revelation than confession—though both descriptors qualified. As much as her mistake was her lust for power, it was also her failure to properly regard those she wanted to command. In her desperation to be respected, she’d disrespected them. No wonder Kraash-nagun didn’t accept her.

Upon lifting her hands to her face, she pressed them against her eyes then pushed them back through her hair. How had she gotten this so wrong? How had it taken so long to realize it? It was as plain as…

…as the nose on her face.

“I…did not ask for this,” she said. “I did not ask to be taken into the Zone Runner by Tauthin, I did not ask to be Nagogg’s captive. I did not ask for the siphon to do what it did. All I have done—all I could ever do—is make the best of the situations I was in.” Once more, she found herself talking more to herself than to him. “All I did was do all I could do.” And now, he was in her sights. Beholding him as he listened in total silence, she shook her head slowly and said, “Kraash-nagun, I am so sorry. I realize now what I have done. It was not what I intended.”

If she had been aiming to throw him off, she’d succeeded. As it was, all she was doing was telling him the truth as she realized it. It was likely too little, too late—but it was all she had left. It was where she should have started in the first place.

* * *

WUTEEL RAN HIS gnarled fingers over the guardrail of the Zone Runner’s engine room—the one that separated the room’s occupants from the quartz crystal that controlled the rift generator. The crystal, pulsing with bright light, reflected in the engineer’s dark eyes. For almost a full minute, he observed it, until he finally turned to a console along the wall—engineering’s primary station. As a pair of darishu watched from behind, he sat down at the station. Slowly, Wuteel focused on a series of buttons.

* * *

“I WAS WRONG to lead you the way I did,” Svetlana said, eyes and voice distant, though she still looked Kraash-nagun’s way. “A good leader sees the qualities of those around them. I saw only the qualities of myself.”

As Kraash-nagun listened in silence, Akàziendi and Ed approached from the train.

“I do not deserve to be your leader.”

* * *

HESITATING FOR a second, Wuteel reached his hand out toward the buttons. With the deftest of taps, he pressed them in sequence. Withdrawing his hand, he returned his focus to the rest of the console. Manipulating the controls there, he sent the metal arms spinning around the crystal.

On the other side of the console, the last of the three buttons he’d pressed began to blink.

* * *

THE FAMILIAR CLICK of an Ithini connection emerged in Svetlana’s mind. Seconds later, a swell of confusion emanated from it. Ed was detecting her emotions. Is something wrong, master?

She looked at him. That he’d even asked was a sign of respect. He could have pulled from her mind whatever he wanted. Shaking her head a single time, she said aloud, “Ei`dorinthal…I am not your master.”

A strange feeling came from the Ithini: realization, fear, understanding, and sadness all wrapped into one. The grasping of a full circle, in the instantaneous way that only an Ithini could. The feeling lingered in the connection, before Ed dutifully said, Akàziendi wishes to speak with you.

“You may connect us,” said Svetlana.

Akàziendi’s presence emerged in Svetlana’s mind. Dipping her head in reverence, the raspy-voiced tasharin said, “You have troubled Yigôzien.”

“Troubled her, how?” Svetlana asked, though she well knew the answer.

Eyes dark, Akàziendi strode past Svetlana until her back was completely to her. “You must not share your doubts with her so liberally. She will not take well to them.”

“Truth is truth,” Svetlana said, turning away from Ed and Kraash-nagun to approach Akàziendi’s side, the two staring off into the turquoise landscape together. “I cannot partake in this masquerade any longer. It makes me sick to my stomach.”

“Be that as it may, you must remember who it is you speak with. Yigôzien is an invoker of custom. They are among the most zealous of all Kalarael.”

Angling her head away from Akàziendi, Svetlana asked, “Why does it matter? If we will be stealing their Zone Runner soon, then what Yigôzien thinks will be insignificant.”

Akàziendi turned her head in Svetlana’s direction—the motion so purposeful, it prompted Svetlana to look back at her. The tasharin’s eyes were pitch black. “It matters because the time has not come. To fill her head with doubt now is to test her allegiance. It is foolish.”

“Calm down.” The Kalareim looked as terrified as when Yigôzien’s eyes had darkened on the Zone Runner. “Yigôzien will not turn on me, no matter what doubts I share with her—invoker of custom or not. She understands that my species views things differently. She told me as much.”

“You do not know the Kalarael as we do. Their religious fervor knows no bounds. If you are somehow able to convince her that you are not an Incarnate, it will invoke a righteous wrath the likes of which you have never seen.”

Almost scoffing, Svetlana said, “I have seen her wrath up close already. I saw it on the Zone Runner, when one of her friends was killed by Nagogg. Her eyes shined red like laser beams.”

Still black eyed, Akàziendi stared at Svetlana for several seconds before her gaze returned to the landscape. “I am merely requesting that you keep your confiding to a minimum.”

“Don’t be so scared. I know how to play the part when I must.”

“I am not scared.”

Svetlana scoffed. “That’s not what your eyes tell me.”

For a second time, Akàziendi turned her head to look at Svetlana, who in turn looked back at her. Bewilderment crossed the tasharin’s face. “I do not understand.”

“Your eyes.” She gestured with a head nod. “They scream of fear.”

For almost five full seconds, Akàziendi stared at her in silence—until at long last, she drew in a hushed, albeit sharp breath. “Svetlana…I am not afraid.”

Svetlana squinted in confusion. All sound around them seemed to disappear. “What do you mean?”

“What color are my eyes?” Akàziendi asked quickly, shooting a glance in the direction of the train before looking back at Svetlana.

And it was right then that Svetlana’s heart lodged itself in her throat. Her breathing, too, began to amplify. “Black. They are pitch black.”

Akàziendi pushed her hands up through her purple down feathers. Mouth agape, she looked away from the train—away from any Kalarael in the area.

Svetlana knew what was happening before the tasharin had to say it. Oh…no.

“It has begun.”

“Do you mean the thing?” Svetlana asked, her voice hushed, but growing in urgency. “The cure? Is it fading away?”

“Yes.” Walking forward quickly, Akàziendi began looking in every direction—checking her six in paranoia. “It is happening now.”

From behind them, Kraash-nagun angled his head at the sudden shift in their tones.

“You have another cure, right?” Svetlana asked. She hurried behind Akàziendi and grabbed her by the arm. “Is it in the train? I can go get it if you tell me where!”

Black eyes flashing to her, Akàziendi said through bared teeth, “Yes, I have another cure…at Ban-Hezikal.”

The bottom dropped out of Svetlana’s stomach.

“I did not think to bring it,” Akàziendi said, her tone growing panicked. “I did not think it would happen right now!”

A sense of warning emerged in the pair’s minds. It was from Ed. Yigôzien is approaching.

Whipping her head behind them, Svetlana looked in the direction of the train. Indeed, the invoker was walking straight toward them—it was the worst possible timing. “Okay…” she said, eyes on Yigôzien as she touched Akàziendi’s arm.

Akàziendi was already preparing. “You must deny me. At all costs, when I am discovered.”

“Will you stop it?” Svetlana seethed back. Head whipping between the two, she had no choice but to commit to looking at Yigôzien as she came upon them. “Keep your head away from her,” she whispered at the last possible second.

Master, what should I do? Ed asked.

There was only one thing he could do. Connect us. To not would instantly arouse suspicion. Several seconds later, Yigôzien’s presence emerged in their minds.

“Might I speak with you, my goddess?”

Quickly, Svetlana answered, “Yes.” Anything to get them away from Akàziendi, at least long enough for them to figure something out.

The invoker smiled cordially. “Akàziendi, I would like you to be a part of this, as well.”

No! Though the thought wasn’t relayed to anyone, it was the one that came to Svetlana’s mind. She watched helplessly as Yigôzien approached Akàziendi from behind. As Yigôzien altered her course to come beside her, Akàziendi turned her head another way.

“I have come to a conclusion in light of my conversation with the Incarnate,” Yigôzien said to her christened sister. “I would like to share it with you, as well.” Stepping once again to move into Akàziendi’s view, Yigôzien’s effort was stifled a second time by a quick move of the tasharin’s head. This time, Yigôzien reacted. Blinking, she asked, “Sister? Is something the matter?”

Turning her body completely around in as natural a way she could likely pull off, Akàziendi revolved until she faced Svetlana—though her head was still shied. “I will listen to you.”

“That you are turning from me causes concern,” Yigôzien said. “Have I angered you in some way?”

Oh God, she’s going to press it. Svetlana’s heart pounded.

“Of course not,” answered Akàziendi. “Something has blown in my eyes.”

Yigôzien tilted her head curiously. “May I look at them? Perhaps I can—”

“—no,” said the tasharin sharply. “I will be fine, please forgive me.”

Blinking, Yigôzien’s focus shifted to Svetlana. Her blue eyes lingered…then subtly darkened. “My goddess, you appear afraid.”

“I am not afraid. I am—” She was what? Concerned for Akàziendi’s eyes? She needed to draw attention away from them, not toward them. “I am very interested in what you have to tell me.”

Kraash-nagun, still silent, was fully attuned to the escalating conversation.

Svetlana’s gaze settled solely on Yigôzien, giving the invoker her undivided attention. All she wanted to see—the only thing that mattered to her—was the blue in Yigôzien’s eyes. It needed to brighten. It needed to radiate Shanras. It needed to return to form.

Instead, it darkened.

Oh no…

“I sense a desire between the two of you to keep something secret,” Yigôzien said.

Akàziendi interjected, still looking away. “You are imagining things.”

“I do not believe that I am.”

Of course she didn’t. Akàziendi refused to look at her, and Svetlana was heaving like she was having a heart attack. Everything about this screamed that something was up.

Eyes narrowing—something they never did—Yigôzien turned her feathered head Akàziendi’s way. “Look at me, sister.”

There was no getting out of this. There was going to be no shifting of the course of conversation. The invoker of custom was keyed into very uncustomary behavior. Even Ed’s anxiety now pulsed through the connection. Her hand inching toward her back, Svetlana prepared to grab her shock staff. She didn’t even know what she would do with it.

Akàziendi held her breath, then slowly angled her head to Svetlana, where their gazes, still out of Yigôzien’s view, locked. Where their final form of unspoken communication could manifest. Despite a connection existing between them, there was no need to communicate through one. The look Akàziendi was giving her was plain and clear.

Get ready.

Akàziendi spoke no words when she turned to behold Yigôzien. When she chose to reveal her identity.

Yigôzien reacted exactly as Svetlana feared. Gasping, she leapt back. Her dark blue eyes exploded bright red. “Why does Ophareim speak through you?” she demanded.

“She is ill!” It was all Svetlana could say—a desperate attempt to insert some sort of reasoning into the situation.

“If she was ill, it would be Istéres that spoke. I only see darkness!”

Svetlana looked behind her. There were numerous darishu still near the train. The moment Yigôzien proclaimed what she was seeing, every single darishu would make a beeline for Akàziendi. Some were already looking that direction with aroused interest.

“There is nothing to indicate something is in your eyes,” Yigôzien said, her own breaths intensifying. “There is only one conclusion I can draw, and I dare not say it, for I do not understand how it is possible! I have seen the Purities speak through you, yet what I see now is impossible!”

“You should lower your voice, Yigôzien,” said Akàziendi, whose own voice was growing more threatening.

Yigôzien stepped back. “You appear as a Kalareim! How is this so?”

“How do you think it is so?”

And there it was: the unavoidable truth. It struck like a hammer. Yigôzien’s eyes shot wide as plates—the down feathers atop her head stood on end. “You are Kalareim!” Frantic, she turned to Svetlana.

Svetlana was already holding her hand out. “Yigôzien, it is not what you think!” It was exactly what she thought.

“Did you know this?” Yigôzien asked, the fury in her voice directed at Svetlana. Hissing, she bared her teeth.

Akàziendi would have wanted Svetlana to play the innocent—to save herself while sacrificing the tasharin. But Svetlana wasn’t innocent. And she was through playing roles. “Yigôzien, you need to listen!”

I am having trouble holding the connection together, Ed relayed. The rage in Yigôzien is beyond any I have encountered.

“You have done this,” Yigôzien said, now positioning herself away from both Akàziendi and Svetlana—her gaze spread between both, her words directed at her goddess. “You have experienced Kukira and the Purities! How could you willfully ally with Ophareim?”

“I have not allied with Ophareim! That is what you must understand!”

There was a pop in the connection—a forceful ejection. In the same second that Yigôzien turned to the darishu by the train, Ed’s connection was forcefully ejected by the sheer power of the invoker’s anger. Toppling backward, Ei`dorinthal fell. “Darishu!” shouted Yigôzien in the Kalarael language.

Akàziendi reached for her shock staff. With a press of the finger, she extended it.

This was it. The moment it all unraveled. The moment when all of Svetlana’s efforts—all of the goodwill she’d curried with the Kalarael—crumbled to dust. Kukira’s Incarnate had just betrayed her own.

And it was then that it happened. Something far worse than the drama unfolding on the ground. Something that drove the confrontation to a screeching halt. Crackles of electricity erupted in the heavens. Everyone on the ground looked skyward.

They appeared one after the other, each preceded by a flash of lightning. One, then two. Three, then four. Behind Svetlana’s mask, her mouth fell open, as beside her, Akàziendi dropped her staff and stumbled backward.

Zone Runners.

The four spacecraft opened fire. Their white plasma blasts rocketed into the grounds of Winduster, sending pillars of fire skyward. The train itself was struck, the resulting explosion sending darishu flying in all directions.

Holding his hands out as if to brace for some unseen impact, Kraash-nagun asked, “What is happening?”

Rearing up on his haunches, Mishka roared.

It took several seconds before Svetlana could muster a response. “Zone Runners!” How was this possible? How had Zone Runners arrived at Winduster? The spacecraft strafed the base, cratering its grounds with a relentless bombardment.

“How have they found this place?” Kraash-nagun shouted.

“I do not know!” Svetlana answered.

Beside them, Akàziendi knelt and removed a small device from her garments. She shouted into it as farther behind her, Yigôzien stared at the spacecraft slack-jawed.

* * *

THE FOUNDATION of the research center shook; Tauthin reached out to brace himself against one of the cylindrical tanks. The Bakma prisoners in the tanks did the same.

Toro-shun, standing several meters away from Tauthin, reached for his shock staff as a shrilly alarm resonated from the walls.

* * *

THE FIRST OF THE Zone Runners touched down in the center of Winduster, scorching the turquoise fauna with its thrusters. As Kalarael ran in every direction to escape, its antechamber door opened. Step after terrible step, the towering monstrosity within emerged.

It was armored almost entirely from head to toe in bronze-colored battle gear. Its four legs, each a massive bone spike that stabbed into the ground with every step, carried it into the panicked fray. Staring out of the eyeholes in its helmet, the towering, green-scaled warrior—the mighty Nerifinn—raised a fist into the air and bellowed. Bakma poured from the Zone Runner behind it, plasma rifles firing as Kalarael were felled.

Behind the lead spacecraft, the other three Zone Runners touched down.

* * *

SVETLANA WAS ALREADY mounting Mishka when the Zone Runners landed. Even at a distance, she could see the Nerifinn and the swarm of Bakma emerge. Wide-eyed and heart pounding, she grabbed hold of Mishka’s reins with one hand as she extended her shock staff with the other.

Tauthin and Wuteel. They were both right there where the Zone Runners had touched down—right where the assault was taking place. In that instant, the whys and hows of the situation disappeared from her consciousness. The only thing that mattered was rescuing her comrades.

The presences of Akàziendi and Yigôzien reemerged in her mind, connected once more by Ed. She sensed Kraash-nagun, too. Whipping her head back to them, she said, “We must get Tauthin and Wuteel!”

Yigôzien, now black-eyed in terror herself, stood frozen.

Akàziendi, on the other hand, came alive. Turning to Yigôzien, she pointed at her and hollered, “Contact Sélestere and tell them what has occurred! I will muster the darishu!”

That wasn’t going to work. “Your eyes will give you away!” Svetlana said.

“Not anymore,” Akàziendi said. “Ophareim now speaks loudly through all Kalarael here!” Looking back at Yigôzien, she snapped, “Did you hear my command?”

Blinking, Yigôzien turned her focus back to Akàziendi—all former animosities suddenly thrown out the window. After a stutter, she said, “Yes! I will do it!” Reaching down, she pulled out her communicator.

Akàziendi looked at Svetlana. “I have contacted Tributurian. The Kalareim will come, but I do not know how quickly!” Turning her focus to the battlefield, she said, “I must go.”

“Go,” Svetlana said. If Akàziendi could rally the darishu, Svetlana wasn’t going to stop her. Turning to Ed, she pointed in Kraash-nagun’s direction. “Give him your sight!”

As the connection with Akàziendi and Yigôzien was broken, the Ithini looked at Kraash-nagun with focus. A second later, Kraash-nagun flinched—a telltale sign of restored vision.

“Get to the Zone Runner and see if Wuteel can lift off!” Svetlana said. “I will try and find Tauthin. The time to leave has come.”

Though there was no verbal acknowledgment from Kraash-nagun, a swell of understanding came from the connection. Without another word, he and Ed ran in the direction of the distant hangar.

* * *

IN THE CENTER OF Winduster, the assaulting force of Bakma and Nerifinn—the latter of which there now numbered four—laid waste to all Kalarael in their paths. The towering, four-legged monsters propelled themselves across the battlefield on their spiked legs like spiders, their plasma rifles unleashing hell.

The attacking marauders met resistance as Kalarael security forces and darishu engaged them. Their projectile rifles sent pulsing, blue streaks across the battlefield, striking some of the Bakma on the front line as they made their advance. But there were far more invaders than Kalarael, and in less than a minute, the defenders were being pushed into cover behind various buildings.

At the forefront of the Kalarael defensive was Tauthin. Differentiated from the attacking Bakma only by his silver jumpsuit, he had emerged from the Research Center right into a close-quarters fracas. With the help of Toro-shun and other nearby Kalarael, the Bakma in the immediate vicinity were dropped. Having claimed a plasma rifle from a fallen Bakma adversary, Tauthin positioned himself alongside the Kalarael. Engaged in active combat for the first time since the Assault on Novosibirsk—since his one-on-one brawl with Scott Remington that rendered him a prisoner of war—he fired his weapon with the fervent bloodlust of a starving animal. With outright, unforgotten savagery.

There was no immediate indication as to where the Bakma or Nerifinn were going. They were spreading out in all directions, casing the whole of Winduster.

Unable to communicate with any of the Kalarael around him, Tauthin unleashed bolt after bolt of plasma-charged energy, singlehandedly dropping more Bakma than any of the Kalarael around him. Only when his weapon ran out of charge did his hand release the trigger—and only long enough to claim another strewn weapon from the ground.

* * *

SLIDING BEHIND A parked Kalarael vehicle, Kraash-nagun motioned for Ed to look around it to the hangar ahead. The Ithini complied, and the Zone Runner came into view. “There!” the blinded elite said, pointing. “We must find a route to it that does not place us—”

Suddenly, there came a loud emanation from the Zone Runner—a pulsating hum from the vessel’s core. Kraash-nagun’s body tensed as he ducked behind the vehicle. Ed did the same.

The explosion sent shockwaves in every direction. In the span of a second, the Zone Runner and the entire hangar were disintegrated by fire. The vehicle that Ed and Kraash-nagun hid behind launched through the air, crashing to the ground far behind them and flipping end over end. As for Ed and Kraash-nagun themselves, they were tossed to the ground like rag dolls, rolling repeatedly across the turquoise surface of Winduster. Ed’s connection with Kraash-nagun was severed.

Even from a distance, Kraash-nagun could feel the heat from the fire on his face. Turning his head in the flames’ direction, the blinded elite stared into darkness. Turning from side to side as if that would make any difference, he listened for any sound of his Ithini companion. He heard only the roaring inferno.

“Ei`dorinthal!”

There came no response—no sound of movement in any direction. Whipping his head from side to side, he screamed the Ithini’s name again.

* * *

SVETLANA WAS halfway to the Research Center when Winduster’s hangar exploded. Mishka halted, rearing up and roaring as she tugged at the reins to keep him steady. Turning her head to the smoldering hangar, she stared at the wreckage. The wreck that had once housed their means of escape. Where she’d sent Wuteel.

She hadn’t seen whatever attack had struck the Zone Runner, but whatever its cause, there was no way that Wuteel could have survived it. There was no reason to believe he was alive.

Yanking Mishka’s reins, she pointed his nose back toward the Research Center. She ordered him ahead.

* * *

THE RESEARCH CENTER was almost entirely abandoned. The majority of its staff had made their way up the corridors to the surface, where the Nerifinn and Bakma were assaulting. Only a single scientist remained, hurriedly moving from console to console as she monitored the power levels of the facility. A single Kalarael left to safeguard it all.

A single obstacle in Wuteel’s way.

The scientist never heard Wuteel approach behind her, the engineer having snuck into the facility through a back doorway. By the time she registered his presence, it was too late. Upon whipping her head around, she found herself grabbed by the throat and slammed back against a wall. Over and over, Wuteel pounded her against it, until her eyes were pitch black in fear. Only then did he cease.

From their cylindrical tank prisons, the captured Bakma watched the unfolding scene. From his own cell nearby, Caragbuul rose to his feet.

Pointing back to the cells behind him, Wuteel issued his order—a single command, untranslated but understood. Her down feathers bristled.

Wuteel spoke a second time, this time lifting a sharp piece of metal to the Kalarael’s neck. He pressed it into her throat until it penetrated her skin enough to bleed. After yanking her from the wall, he led her to a console near the center of the room and shoved her down over it.

After a hesitation, the Kalarael’s hands went to the console. Several taps later, the command was inputted. The doors to the Bakma prisoners’ cylindrical tanks opened.

Releasing the scientist, Wuteel approached the cylinder that held Caragbuul. As the Khuladi stepped from the tank, he turned his head Wuteel’s way. He observed as the engineer knelt—then his eyes went to the back wall. Right to the deep, violet armor atop the table there. Right to the colors of Vasvuul. Walking toward the table, the Khuladi ran his fingers over the cold battle gauntlets. Claiming one, he slid it down over his wrist. As soon as it was in place, it constricted to grip his skin.

The Khuladi’s brow lowered.

* * *

EJECTING A SPENT charge pack, Tauthin darted into the open to snag a new one from the ground. Plasma bolts whizzed past his head, passing so close he could feel their heat. Sliding, he grabbed the fresh pack, plugged it into place, then lifted his plasma rifle to fire.

He was attacked before he could pull the trigger. A squad of Bakma emerged from the front corner of the Research Center, not far from where he and the Kalarael were holding position. Bolts of plasma streaked past his head, forcing him to abandon his efforts to fire and instead attempt to dive back to cover. Though the plasma rifle stayed in his grasp, he had little chance to use it before the gap was closed. The wave of attacking Bakma and Kalarael collided, and all were thrust into close-quarters combat.

There were two other darishu along with Toro-shun, and all met the attackers with shock staffs on maximum. Though the Bakma attacked with light plasma pistols and drawn blades, the darishu made short work of them, their staffs twirling and striking their targets like a choreographed reenactment.

The whizz of plasma fire slowed—there were too many in hand-to-hand combat. Holding his plasma rifle like a double-sided scimitar, Tauthin thrust it upward at the chin of a Bakma running past him. The strike connected, and the Bakma was flipped end over end.

The act did not go unnoticed, as a pair of nearby Bakma caught sight of Tauthin’s treachery. As one charged to engage hand to hand, the other lifted his plasma pistol to fire. The bolt of energy whizzed past Tauthin’s head as he swung his weapon at the nearest assailant. Though the attack missed, it caused the targeted Bakma to lean back and stumble. Tauthin repositioned his plasma rifle, and with the extra second granted him, took aim at the Bakma with it. He pulled the trigger, knocking the Bakma off his feet.

A sudden ruckus came from the other direction—from inside the Research Center itself. Turning his head toward it, Tauthin’s eyes widened when he saw the jailbreak. A throng of Bakma captives—enough to fill an entire Zone Runner—charged forward, shouting as they collided into the Kalarael defenders from behind. Blindsided, the fox-eared aliens adjusted their efforts to face a threat that now came from two directions.

Tauthin was right there with them.

* * *

SVETLANA SAW THE Bakma emerge from the Research Center far ahead. With Mishka running at full gallop and her blue eyes searching for Tauthin in the fray, she readied her shock staff and prepared to engage.

The Nerifinn appeared before she could, intercepting her on its four spiked legs. The towering monster almost appeared out of nowhere to cut her off.

Mishka’s claws dug in and the canrassi skidded, its gaping maw opening to roar at the new enemy before it. The Nerifinn raised its weapon to fire.

Mishka’s momentum had already been carrying Svetlana forward. Leaping clear off of Mishka’s back, she allowed his momentum to throw her right at the Nerifinn. As she flew toward it, shock staff raised and ready to strike, the giant, reptilian warrior swiveled its weapon from Mishka to her.

Svetlana got there first. Swinging her staff as she came down, she brought its end crashing down atop the Nerifinn’s weapon. There was an eruption of sparks, and the weapon exploded out of the monster’s hands, the burst from the shock staff destroying it. As the Nerifinn reared back in startlement, Svetlana landed on the ground in front of it. Twirling her staff, she held out her forearm and activated the force shield on her gauntlet.

The Nerifinn lurched forward, its bone spikes striking the ground as Svetlana dove out of the way. Swinging her staff around, she aimed it at the Nerifinn’s torso, but one of the monstrosity’s back legs moved to intercept. The tip of her staff struck bone, its shocking effects rendered moot as the Nerifinn jutted its leg out to push her aside. The spiked leg smacked Svetlana in the chest, and she caught air before landing in a roll.

Mishka surged forward, his gaping maw clamping down on one of the Nerifinn’s front knees. The Nerifinn roared and raised its other front leg to try and impale the canrassi. Mishka tugged backward like a giant, frenzied dog, ripping out a chunk of the Nerifinn’s flesh and backpedaling just as the leg spike came down. The Nerifinn roared in pain, pouncing forward with its two front bone spikes raised. There was nothing Mishka could do to avoid the strike—one of the spikes sliced through the side of his back thigh. Mishka yelped, then stumbled back and fell.

“No!” Svetlana yelled in Bakmanese, extending her hand as if it could reach her beloved beast.

The Nerifinn’s head swung to face her. Through its shielded crocodilian jaws, it asked, “Do you speak the tongue of the god-chosen, sub-creature?”

She didn’t care that its focus was now on her—she just wanted it off Mishka. Readying her staff, she narrowed her eyes. “The Khuladi are no god-chosen.”

“You blaspheme in ignorance. Your judgment awaits!” Pouncing forward, its spiked legs followed Svetlana, strike after strike, as she dove and dodged out of the way. Bringing her staff around, she struck at the monster’s legs—once again, its bone spikes deflected the blow. With a hard kick, the Nerifinn struck Svetlana in her side, sending her flying backward a second time. This time, the monster followed through. Reaching behind its back, it pulled a second plasma rifle over and into its arms. With a quick pull of the trigger, a plasma bolt was sent toward Svetlana.

Engaging the force shield on one of her gauntlets, Svetlana raised the shield in front of her body. The energy’s impact was forceful—it knocked her back several feet—but it didn’t take her out. The shield faded, its energy momentarily depleted, just as a second bolt was released. Diving to avoid the blast, Svetlana rolled to a crouched position then readied her staff for an attack.

Behind the Nerifinn, Mishka staggered to a stand.

Svetlana didn’t wait to see what her companion would do. Jabbing forward with the staff, she forced the Nerifinn to lift its spiked feet to deflect. Though the beast continued to fire its plasma weapon, none of the shots came near to her, the Nerifinn clearly taking care to not inadvertently shoot its own legs. Just the same, Svetlana was making no progress. Every swing of her staff was met with bone.

She had to get inside the monster’s perimeter—she had to get past those massive, spiked feet, so she could strike actual flesh. After twirling her staff, she sent it once again swinging into the Nerifinn’s bone spike—but this time, she followed through with what was essentially a tactical pirouette. With her back following the curvature of the spike, she retracted the staff back to its carry size. She wanted nothing in the way of her getting inside.

As luck had it, she had help from the other side. Lurching forward as best it was able, Mishka latched onto one of the Nerifinn’s back, spiked legs. Though the canrassi’s teeth met solid bone, it was enough to cause the Nerifinn to glance back.

It was all the time Svetlana needed. Upon finishing her maneuver, she found herself within the perimeter of the monster’s defenses—right between the leftmost back and front legs. There was only one thing for her to do. With a solid jab, she shoved the tip of the retracted staff into the side of the Nerifinn’s torso. Her fingers moved quickly on the switches, and she pressed the button to extend it in its spear-tipped form.

The two sides of the staff jetted outward with lightning speed, one side passing harmlessly by Svetlana’s side, while the other pierced straight through the Nerifinn’s flesh, disappearing deep inside. As the Nerifinn reared back and roared, Svetlana retracted the staff again. The Nerifinn stumbled backward, its bloodcurdling shrieks loud as its feet lost their footing. In the next second, it toppled and fell—right by Mishka’s head.

It took no command from Svetlana. The canrassi’s jaws opened wide as the Nerifinn tried to rise. Before it could get one foot upright, Mishka enveloped its head. The Nerifinn’s body spasmed as Mishka twisted sideways and pulled, its razor-sharp teeth slicing deep into the monster’s neck. In a final yank, what little flesh remained between head and body was severed. The top of the Nerifinn’s spine snapped; Mishka shook his head from side to side, sending the Nerifinn’s decapitated head flying.

Svetlana fell to her knees, exhaling and pushing her hair out from her face. She allowed herself only a moment of recuperation before pushing up again. Rushing past the dead Nerifinn’s body, she came to Mishka’s side. The canrassi took a step backwards then fell. “Mishka!”

The injury was great—she could only hope it wasn’t grave. The Nerifinn’s bone spike had sliced into the side of the canrassi’s thigh deeply. Laying down, Mishka reached around with his neck to lick at the wound.

Svetlana wanted to care. How she desperately wanted to. But the sound of warfare pulled her out of nurturing mode. There was no way she could spend time at Mishka’s side now. But at least she could keep him safe.

“You stay,” she said, pressing her hand deep into the beast’s fur. “You stay here, you good boy. I will be back, I promise.”

Mishka nuzzled his head against her hand.

Rising to her feet, Svetlana turned to look at the Research Center. Plasma bolts and the blue streaks of Kalarael weapons fire soared back and forth, begging her to intervene. Holding the shock staff out, she once again extended it fully. Flicking her finger on the button, she switched out its pointed tips for its shockers—maximum voltage. Sucking in a preparatory breath, she took off in the direction of the Research Center.

* * *

THE RESEARCH CENTER was a maelstrom of warfare. Beyond the projectile and energy weaponry streaking back and forth across the battlefield, there was a flurry of melee combat taking place right by the building’s entrance, where the Bakma escapees had turned on the Kalarael, supplemented by a force of Bakma warriors from the Zone Runners. In the middle of it all was Tauthin.

The Bakma leader was holding on with a small team of security personnel and darishu, Toro-shun among them. There were only seven warriors remaining on their side, but between their combination of projectile weapons fire and shock staff whirling, they had proven far more stalwart a defense than their numbers would have indicated.

As for Tauthin himself, he had personally taken out four more Bakma assailants with a fighting style that couldn’t have been more diametrically opposed to the Kalarael around him. Whereas the Kalarael flowed like water, their attacks and defenses seeming more synchronized routine than combat, Tauthin staved off his adversaries with all the finesse of a pit fighter. Two of his kills had come at point-blank range with a plasma weapon, while the others had come in old-fashioned, bare-knuckled brawling. It was just the right amount of savagery to perfectly complement the elegance of the Kalarael—an X-factor the opposing Bakma had no choice but to account for. With every second that passed, it seemed like the numbers were drawing more even.

Then, in a blink, everything changed.

Tauthin caught the sudden, new movement briefly—just out of the corners of his eyes as he was body-slamming an escaped Bakma captive to the ground. It was a blue-black blur that appeared like a shadow. As Tauthin’s knee came crashing down on the escapee’s exposed neck, cementing his seventh kill, he whipped his head in the direction of the new arrival. Eyes widening, the Bakma leader held his breath as he saw its attack unleashed.

It was the kind of attack—the kind of kill—that Tauthin had not seen in a very long time. Ruthless. Cold. Quick. Divine judgment in the form of two split, protruding blades. He saw a darishu, impaled twice right through the chest, then sliced cleanly in two by a crisscross so violent, blood spatter sprinkled Tauthin’s face. This new threat, far superior to anything else on the battlefield, was about to change everything.

Caragbuul.

The Khuladi was free.

Three darishu had been nearby when their brethren’s corpse had been torn asunder, and all three immediately switched their focus from the Bakma to the Khuladi. Clad in its violet battle armor, the dark destroyer leapt toward one of the darishu as split blades from both battle gauntlets went slicing. Even had the darishu had time to assume a defensive posture, it would have mattered little. The first split blade knocked the darishu’s staff clear out of his hands. The second sliced his head in two clean down the middle.

The Bakma in the vicinity withdrew and rushed for the Zone Runners. Tauthin recognized this not as cowardice, but as not wanting to get in the way—for the Khuladi as a species cared as little for the well-being of their slaves as they did the suffering of their adversaries.

It gave Caragbuul an open playground. As the darishu whirled their weapons around to strike, Caragbuul struck out on his own, his blades quickly retracting, replaced by wrist-mounted plasma blasters that were fired in two directions, felling two darishu in a single, multidirectional attack. Rolling to avoid a staff strike by Toro-shun, Caragbuul emerged in a crouch with one wrist pointed at him and the other at one of his few remaining counterparts. The split blades struck out again, Toro-shun narrowly avoiding the kill strike, though the other darishu was not so lucky. The blades penetrated his neck before being retracted so Caragbuul could fire his blaster.

Toro-shun whirled around, sending the tip of his shock staff toward Caragbuul’s torso. The Khuladi brought his split blades up, around, and down with lightning speed, catching the staff right between the split. With a flick of the wrist, the staff was snapped in two. Toro-shun had barely taken a step back when Caragbuul spun around backward, brought his other hand around, and jetted its blade out like a striking spear. It impaled the darishu two times, back to back in the chest before the blades were retracted, replaced once more by blasters. As Toro-shun fell dead, Caragbuul focused on the lone darishu that remained.

Tauthin knew the last darishu would fall within seconds. He also knew that he would be Caragbuul’s next target. Diving for a plasma rifle strewn on the ground, Tauthin rolled up and aimed the weapon where Caragbuul had been standing. By the time his opaque eyes had gone there, the Khuladi was already gone.

The next thing Tauthin registered was the barrel of his plasma rifle being cut in two. In that quick span of time—barely two seconds—the Khuladi had killed the final darishu, dashed to Tauthin’s blind side, and disarmed him. Hand releasing the butt of the useless weapon, Tauthin stumbled backward out of sheer surprise.

Caragbuul stood motionless. His black, bulging eyes were solely on the Bakma defector. The Khuladi’s split blades retracted into his battle gauntlets, no plasma blasters emerging to replace them. He wanted this kill with his bare hands.

Caragbuul leapt forward, hitting Tauthin with a midair kick so hard that it nearly knocked the wind out of him. Tauthin rolled several times on the ground before he stopped, lifting his head to regard the Khuladi as it marched slowly toward him.

So far as Bakma warriors went, only elites—those trained in hand-to-hand combat by the Khuladi themselves—surpassed the prowess of designated leaders like Tauthin. But versus a Khuladi, Bakma leaders were completely outmatched. Wincing with his hand clutching his chest, Tauthin struggled to crawl away on the ground. Caragbuul slowly walked behind him. Summoning his strength—and at long last, catching his breath—he pushed up to a stand and backed away until he could raise his fists.

Suddenly, Caragbuul’s head whipped to the side. The Khuladi’s body tensed, and he quickly extended his battle gauntlet in Tauthin’s direction and sent the split blade streaking out. Eyes widening, Tauthin pivoted to avoid the strike. The dodge only partially worked. The blades struck through Tauthin’s shoulder, a burning pain searing up his arm and into his chest before the blade was yanked out as quickly as it’d been inserted, and Caragbuul leapt backward. But now, his eyes were no longer on Tauthin. Through grunts of pain, Tauthin turned to look in the direction of Caragbuul’s new focus.

Akàziendi.

The tasharin was backed by four darishu, all of whom had their shock staffs at the ready. Unlike the darishu that Caragbuul had ambushed, these were well aware of the Khuladi’s presence—and well positioned to fight. The purple-feathered tasharin—the sole warrior without a helmet—stared down Caragbuul with black-eyed hatred. Caragbuul wasted no time. With both split blades fully extended, he leapt into their midst.

For the first time, Tauthin watched one of the Khuladi’s attacks parried, not by Akàziendi, but by one of the darishu fighting alongside her. Though the defensive effort was short-lived, as the darishu was eviscerated by a close-range plasma blast from Caragbuul’s battle gauntlet, it still offered a glimmer of hope that the Khuladi’s attacks could be staved. Akàziendi was the next to attack, her staff aiming for Caragbuul’s backside and actually impacting his armor, though no part of the hit touched flesh to deliver a stun. Akàziendi deftly leapt back before a split blade could strike her.

Two darishu attacked simultaneously, both their attacks deflected by a battle gauntlet blade—though the distraction was enough to offer Akàziendi a chance to engage from behind. She thrust forward with her staff; the Khuladi attempted to dodge. After lowering his body and twisting his shoulder around, he shoved both darishus’ staffs aside as he tried to whip around to counter-strike Akàziendi. Her staff made contact. Though not a solid hit, it touched enough skin to send the Khuladi airborne. Rolling on the turquoise surface, Caragbuul grabbed the ground with a hand to stop his momentum. From his elongated, two-slit mouth, he hissed in pain.

Now was Tauthin’s chance—and possibly his only one. Leaping toward the momentarily downed Caragbuul, he raised his hands to slam them down on the Khuladi’s back, fighting through the excruciating pain in his shoulder and allowing adrenaline to carry him through. Caragbuul was slammed against the ground, hard. Climbing atop him, Tauthin wrapped his forearm around the Khuladi’s neck from behind in a chokehold. His muscles tensed. He strained with all he could muster. It wasn’t enough.

Caragbuul raised his wrist, pointing it straight at Tauthin’s head. Tauthin released the Khuladi and leaned out of the way just before the split blade could protrude and impale him through the brain. Caragbuul twisted sideways and kicked Tauthin square in the chest. For a second time, the Bakma felt the wind ejected from his lungs as he toppled backward.

Akàziendi and the three darishu had already begun their attacks by the time Caragbuul had rid himself of Tauthin, their staffs swinging toward him. Caragbuul leapt backward and out of their reach. Immediately, Akàziendi and the darishu maneuvered their staffs in a position to defend.

Upon aiming his fists in their direction, Caragbuul unleashed his fury in the form of plasma bolts. They struck two of the darishu and Akàziendi, only the latter managing to get her force shield up in time. Though it prevented a kill shot on her, the force sent her flying backward against the side of the Research Center wall.

The final darishu stood little chance against a Khuladi one-on-one. Just the same, he attacked Caragbuul with pure aggression. After angling his body sideways, Caragbuul protruded his blades and deflected the darishu’s first strike, then the second, then the third. Dropping to the ground, Caragbuul leaned his body backward, one hand stopping his downward fall while the other aimed straight at the darishu’s face. The wrist blaster reemerged. As the plasma bolt tore through the darishu’s helmet, ending with an eruption of blood and brains, the darishu’s hand released his shock staff, which was in spear mode. After snatching it out of midair with the same hand he’d blasted with, Caragbuul spun around to gain momentum, then hurled the spear where Akàziendi had fallen. The tip went straight through the side of the tasharin’s shoulder, pinning her to the wall. Rearing her feathered head back, she screamed in agony.

All of this had taken place before Tauthin had even caught his breath. Turning in the Bakma’s direction, Caragbuul stared him down a second time.

Suddenly, the sky erupted with a chorus of ear-piercing shrieks. Both Tauthin and Caragbuul flinched, their gazes turning skyward as they watched a squadron of arrow-shaped aircraft scream low overhead. Orange flashes erupted from their wings, headed straight for the Zone Runners on the ground.

The entire center of Winduster erupted with fire, as Zone Runner after Zone Runner was engulfed. The attacking Kalarael fighters peeled off to set up a second run.

Caragbuul took off in an all-out sprint, his legs propelling him toward the explosions—toward where his means of escape were dwindling away.

Spared a second time from death, Tauthin clutched his chest and struggled to stand. Across the bloodied battle zone by the Research Center, he heard a loud, tormented scream. Focusing his gaze its way, he saw Akàziendi slowly pulling herself free from the staff that impaled her, dragging her entire body through it until she came out the other end. After she collapsed to the ground, she lifted her head to look at him. Teeth bared, she and Tauthin locked eyes.

* * *

SVETLANA WAS IN the middle of a battle at the front of the Research Center when the explosions came. Turning toward them, she watched as every Zone Runner except one was obliterated. The combatants around her—Kalarael, Bakma, and Nerifinn alike—watched the Kalarael fighters streak past and loop around. The aircrafts’ guns fired a second time, and the last Zone Runner exploded with such power, it sent a shockwave across the battlefield.

There was a sizzle in the air—a shimmer and spark of electricity. Right behind the streaking Kalarael fighters, a lone Zone Runner materialized. Before the fighters could alter their courses, the Zone Runner’s plasma cannons erupted, sending streaks of white tearing through the two aircraft. Bursting into fiery death spirals, both aircraft plummeted toward the far end of Winduster, their final resting place christened by a pair of earth-shaking, orange plumes.

Its landing thrusters engaging, the Zone Runner angled itself for a hard, fast descent.

The melee resumed, Uladek’s faithful urgent in their fervency as their last means of escape touched down. Svetlana activated her force shield to deflect a plasma bolt then spun around with her shock staff to strike at the attacker. The Bakma was caught in the arm, the staff’s voltage erupting with a powerful discharge that launched the purple-skinned warrior backward.

The nearest Nerifinn turned its attention to her, aiming its plasma rifle to send a bolt her way. Her shield not yet recharged enough to absorb another blow, Svetlana dove to avoid the strike, coming out of the maneuver in a crouch. Her eyes locked onto a plasma rifle on the ground, then quickly returned to the Nerifinn. Extending the points of her staff, she hurled it like a javelin toward the lumbering monster. The four-legged beast snarled, leaned its torso sideways, then snatched the staff in mid-air with its claws. By the time its focus returned to Svetlana, its fate was sealed. Svetlana was already aiming the plasma rifle right for its head. The last thing the Nerifinn saw was a single flash of white. As the Nerifinn fell, its head concaved and twisted where the bolt had struck, Svetlana took aim at several Bakma nearby and fired.

Behind Svetlana, the Zone Runner rocked to a landing. Its side door burst open, and a squad of Bakma fired their weapons from within.

It was right then, just as the new combatants emerged, that she saw it—beyond the skirmish of Bakma, behind the darishu and the Nerifinn. Caragbuul.

The Khuladi captive had emerged from around the corner of the Research Center, intercepted by a small force of Kalarael security that it was now eviscerating with its blades. The last of the Nerifinn, apparently, saw it, too.

“The god-chosen!” the beast bellowed, pointing one of its black talons in the Khuladi’s direction. “We must retrieve him!” For the first time, the motivation behind the attack came to light. They’d come to rescue the Khuladi.

The battle around Svetlana had been slowly tilting in the Kalaraels’ favor, but with the addition of Bakma forces from the Zone Runner, those scales were rapidly shifting. Even worse, the proclamation that they’d found the god-chosen seemed to elevate the slaves’ fervor. Whereas darishu were ably handling single Bakma before, now the Bakma were attacking with rabid ferocity. The lone Nerifinn was dropping Kalarael by the second. When its immediate threats were eliminated, it turned toward Caragbuul.

“Clear the way, consummated ones!” the Nerifinn roared. “The god-chosen must be saved!”

The seconds that followed were the most savage and frenetic that Svetlana had experienced. The Bakma were leaping at the darishu like kamikazes, seeming to possess little to no regard for their own safety as what remained of the Kalarael forces was pummeled from all directions. Svetlana, having dashed to the Nerifinn she’d killed to retrieve her staff, was now whirling it with every ounce of speed she possessed. A plasma weapon served no purpose now—the enemy was too close. They were leaping at her like necrilids.

Fall back.

If she stayed where she was, she was going to die. Even the Kalarael around her were trying desperately to escape what was turning into a slaughter. As the last of the Bakma in her vicinity fell, she spun around to sprint away.

Far ahead, she could see Mishka on his feet, stomping and grunting through whatever pain he must have been enduring. Plasma bolts whizzed past Svetlana from the Bakma in the Zone Runner. At one point, she’d been forced to block one with her force shield, though the effort took her off balance so much that she deemed future attempts futile. It was better to run and hope she’d make it.

Mishka, having caught sight of her running toward him, proceeded to run at full speed toward her. Though the beast’s gait was clearly affected, he was nonetheless much faster than she was, and within seconds, she was in range to quickly mount him.

It was all coming undone. The Kalarael were scattering. Plasma bolts outnumbered the blue streaks of Kalarael weaponry. Fire consumed half of Winduster. The whole place was on the verge of total destruction.

Svetlana’s stare locked onto Caragbuul from far across the battlefield. His adversaries vanquished, he was now running for the Zone Runner as the Bakma and Nerifinn fought what little Kalarael forces remained. There was nothing between him and freedom. Between him and a personal message to Khuldaris declaring that Kalar was ripe for the picking.

Nothing between the Kalarael and subjugation.

Yanking on the reins, Svetlana tugged Mishka’s nose in the Zone Runner’s direction. Kicking her feet and shouting, she gave him the order to charge. In the next second, the beast was romping across the battlefield, moving to intercept.

Heart pounding in her chest, Svetlana’s eyes locked onto Caragbuul as he ran across what remained of Winduster. No mind was given to her fear, nor to the simple truth that she stood no chance against this creature. Only one thing—only one outcome—was present in her mind. She could not allow Caragbuul to escape.

Blond tendrils windswept behind her, she tightened her grip on Mishka’s reins as she zeroed in. The Bakmas’ firing from the Zone Runner was concentrated in other directions. No one was paying attention to her. One-handing her staff, she tried to activate its shock charges only to find that the toggle was jammed, right where the Nerifinn she’d killed had clutched it mid-air. The monstrosity’s hard grip must have locked the staff into spear form. Mishka’s massive paws dug into the mossy ground as he neared the intersection—a small, open area directly between Caragbuul and the Zone Runner. A point of inevitability.

Svetlana ordered Mishka to stop. She focused her eyes on the rapidly approaching Khuladi. Caragbuul, too, locked his knees and slid to a halt, his bulging eyes settling on the woman who was now leaping off her steed to stand in his path. The woman who’d just made herself his last obstacle.

Svetlana snapped the staff into a readied position in front of her chest. Without looking at Mishka, she yelled, “Go!” When the beast didn’t comply, she turned to him again, issuing the command harder. Huffing a loud, guttural sound, the canrassi turned and ran away.

Once more, she tried to work the toggle switch, to no avail. Of all the possible bad times to lose the staff’s shock capability, this was the worst. It was par for the course.

Caragbuul angled his head as he watched her. The Nerifinn and Bakma were still fighting the Kalarael far behind him. The plasma fire from the Zone Runner was focused on what few clusters of Kalarael were still in the vicinity. She had Caragbuul all to herself.

And he had her. Upon jolting his arms forward, he extended the split blades from his gauntlets. Silent and still, he observed. He waited—until at long last, he marched her direction.

Had she a moment to rationalize the situation, she might have wondered what chance she—a woman who’d scarcely beaten a Kalarael trainer and a blind Bakma—could possibly have against a Khuladi. But she had no such moment to take the situation in. She had only time to react.

Raising his arms, Caragbuul dashed toward her, sending the split blades screaming upon her from above. Side-stepping one split blade, she crashed her staff into the second with as much strength as she could muster—just enough to knock it aside. She’d seen this same Khuladi dispatching trained Kalarael on the other side of the battlefield with ruthless efficiency. Compared to those kills, this was a basic effort. A test strike. Moving quickly away from him, she repositioned her staff for an offensive strike—then she hesitated.

Caragbuul did not. Thrusting his weapons toward her, he forced her out of position and into a quick defense. Svetlana swung her staff down hard, knocking one of the split blades into the ground but leaving her backside open for attack. The Khuladi spun backward, his other blade smacking her broadside squarely in the back. She was knocked to the ground. Shuffling backward, she scrambled into a defensive position again. For a second time, the Khuladi merely observed.

Holding the staff like a spear, Svetlana thrust it forward, shuffling quickly in Caragbuul’s direction as the Khuladi backed up and parried.

Thrust high, thrust low, thrust high, sweep. Thrust high, thrust low, thrust high, sweep.

Svetlana repeated the pattern twice, each attack brushed aside by Caragbuul’s split blades like he was going through technique drills. She shifted gears, sped up her attacks, reversed them. All led to the same result—until Caragbuul suddenly became the aggressor. Pressing in between her thrusts, the Khuladi leaned back and kicked his foot straight into her chest—a move more for attaining distance than injuring. The moment that distance was established, his real attacks came. The Khuladi’s split blades sliced through the air, their whipping velocity mere inches from contact as Svetlana deflected them with all she was worth, all while steadily being pushed backward. In a final lightning-quick move, Caragbuul caught the middle of her staff between one of the split blades and wrenched it away with a twist. As the staff flew off, Svetlana leapt back to get out of close proximity. She wasn’t fast enough. Spinning around, Caragbuul sent the other split blade whipping toward her head with a backhanded strike. The impact came hard, the blade sparking as it struck her metal mask. The mask flew from her face to the ground, and she stumbled and fell. Looking quickly to where the mask had fallen, she saw that it was completely wrecked. Had she not been wearing it, it would have been her face sliced to pieces on the ground. Turning back to Caragbuul, she saw him stand over her with expectation.

This was all this was going to be for him: an opportunity to test a new species. Caragbuul wasn’t taking this fight seriously. By the look of it, he didn’t need to.

Turning his back to her, Caragbuul began walking away from her. Pushing up from the ground, Svetlana dashed toward her staff, literally diving to reach it with hand outstretched. And it was right then, right as her hand curled around the weapon, that she saw something in front of her, a good ten or so meters in the distance: the unmistakable silhouette of a slender, crouched Bakma, motionless against the burning backdrop of Winduster. A Bakma who looked like he desperately wanted to react to his surroundings, but lacked the ability to do so. One in the middle of the fight, but not part of it.

Kraash-nagun.

He was oblivious to her presence. He wasn’t even looking in her direction. Instantly, the idea sprouted in her mind.

I cannot defeat Caragbuul alone—I cannot even touch him. But if I fight with Kraash-nagun, maybe we have a chance.

Screaming his name at the top of her lungs, she waited to see if he would turn. Indeed, almost as if startled by the sound, he did. “Connect us, Ed!” she shouted, though she didn’t see the Ithini at all.

Turning away from her, Kraash-nagun hunched down over something on the ground. A small lump, about the size of…

…of a child.

Oh no.

Turning her head back to Caragbuul, she saw that the Khuladi was still waiting. He hadn’t even moved. Looking back at Kraash-nagun, she saw him doing something over the lump—over what she knew had to be Ed. At long last, the weak pinprick of a connection emerged.

…master…

There was no time to waste. “Connect me with Kraash-nagun!” she shouted from the ground. Seconds later, she felt the connection widen. “Kraash-nagun, I am fighting the Khuladi—he escaped! If you can help me, we can defeat him.” Looking back, her heart jumped. No longer was Caragbuul standing there. He was striding toward her with both blades poised to strike. Rolling onto her back, she skedaddled backward then stood, lifting her staff to block his attack with nary a second to spare.

Dashing away from Caragbuul like a boxer dancing around the ring, she continued her plea. “You can help me, Kraash-nagun! Ed, give him your eyes!” Spinning her staff, she struck out hard at Caragbuul’s upper body. After parrying it with one blade, he brought his other blade thrusting forward. Though she tried to dodge, the strike impacted, and an incision was made clean across her stomach, right through her stone blue jumpsuit. Clutching the wound, she stumbled but maintained her footing. Had that strike been a few inches closer, her guts would have poured out. Through tears of pain, she cried out again. “Help me, Ed!”

I am unable to move, the Ithini relayed. Kraash-nagun would not benefit from my vision.

Unable to move? Had he broken his spine?

Kraash-nagun’s thoughts emerged. The hangar exploded as we were sent to it! He was injured. I cannot see to what extent.

All deeply concerning—and not for discussion right now. “Kraash-nagun, I need your help.” Hand clutching her stomach, which was bleeding profusely, she limped in a circle around Caragbuul, who was readying his weapons for another attack. “Please! If we work together, we can do it!”

Ed cannot see where you are. If I approached a Khuladi blind, I would be dissected in a second! I cannot help you.

“You must! Please!” The attack came, Caragbuul spinning toward her like a bladed whirling dervish. Putting both hands on her staff to steady it, she was able to deflect the first two strikes before the third knocked her entirely off her form. She activated her force shield in a last-ditch effort to defend herself; Caragbuul’s blades slammed into the shield with hammering force. She was thrown entirely off her feet, the staff once again flying as she rolled to a stop. Pushing hair out of her face, she winced and shuffled backward. Through clenched teeth, she grimaced and said the only thing that came to her mind. The only thing that, at this stage, could make any difference. “Ed, give him my eyes!”

Even embroiled in the fight, she felt curiosity swell in the connection. Then, her eyes throbbed. The Ithini had complied. Kraash-nagun was seeing what she saw.

Yes. That was the answer! Pushing up with a hand covering her stomach, she staggered toward the staff, dropping to her knees to grab it. But this time, instead of spinning to face Caragbuul, she reared back with her hand and threw it with all of her strength…straight for Kraash-nagun’s feet.

“I submit to you,” she said, breathlessly. “Kraash-nagun, I cannot defeat you—not in a fair fight. I never could.” Lowering her head, she grimaced as she felt her stomach bleed. She turned back to look at Caragbuul—to put the Khuladi dead in her sights. “I have been terrified to lose control. I confess that sin now. I have wanted to hold onto power, but I do not deserve it.” Caragbuul was hesitating—staring at her. Like he was wondering who she was talking to.

“I wanted you to respect me, but I tried to do it in the wrong way. I was wrong to do it, and I was wrong to expect you to submit to it. And so I submit myself to you, Kraash-nagun. Tauthin gave up his chair for me. I now give it to you.” Caragbuul would only wait so long. “Please. We can do this. You can do this!”

Something swelled in the connection—an emotion she couldn’t quite define, somewhere between eagerness and doubt. It was barely discernable, but it was there.

“Use my eyes, take my weapon, and together, we will kill this vecking thing.”

Caragbuul had waited enough. He charged at her with surprising speed—far more than he’d exhibited in their prior clashes. Leaping toward her with his blades lifted, he sent them flying down toward her.

Svetlana had no choice but to use her force shields. Activating them in her gauntlets, she lifted them to each deflect one of the blows. The shields flashed to life as the split blades crashed into them, serving their purpose in preventing them from penetrating, but at an exhausting cost. Even with his strength stunted, he was powerful enough to push her back. But unlike against the plasma bolts, the shields held.

Darting backward, Caragbuul crisscrossed his blades and swung low at her—a sweeping, scissoring strike that nearly removed her ankles. Leaping backward, Svetlana lifted the force shields to defend against a new, invigorated assault. With every blow against the shields, she was pushed farther and farther back.

“Kraash-nagun!” she screamed. The Khuladi pressed harder. A spinning strike, a straight spear, a combination high, low attack. Over and over, the dark destroyer struck with his weapon. Over and over, she moved her shields to defend. But this would not last. “We can do this! Together, we can do it!”

Spinning through the air backward and toward her, Caragbuul sent the full force of both blades slicing at her upper body. Svetlana clamped both shields together, their energy combined into a single, strengthened point of defense. The blades struck them at a force not yet experienced. The shields flashed vibrantly; she was pushed to her knees. Screaming as she pushed back with every fiber of strength she had left, she tried to form words with which to cry out again. But she couldn’t. Through the flickering shield, she stared up at Caragbuul’s bulging, black eyes. She stared into the heartless gaze of the god-chosen. The Khuladi was straining—pushing himself through her defenses with sheer will. Driving her to the ground. With a final flex of might, he knocked her flat on her back. Her shields flickered then faded, their energy depleted. As Caragbuul prepared to deliver the kill-strike, Svetlana moved her powerless gauntlets in front of her face. An act of pure instinct. It would make no difference at all.

Look at me!

The words came to her urgently—just as Caragbuul raised his weapons.

Look at me!

She sensed a presence behind her. The world shifted into slow motion. She turned her head to look back.

Adjusting the angle of his sprint from mere meters away, Kraash-nagun leapt through the air toward Svetlana, twisting his body sideways with staff in hand. She kept him in her vision until both he and Caragbuul came into view above her. The Khuladi’s downward driving blades hit the staff with no time to spare.

Clang!

Metal struck metal, the blades and staff sparking upon contact. His blow deflected, the startled Khuladi stepped back.

The extra second was all Kraash-nagun needed. Spinning up from the ground where he’d dived to block the kill-strike, the blinded elite turned to face Caragbuul with weapon ready.

Caragbuul stepped backward—his aggression staved for the first time. His opaque lenses zeroed in on the eyeless Bakma.

“Give me an angle!” Kraash-nagun bellowed.

Wasting no time, Svetlana rolled to the side, eyes focusing immediately on both Kraash-nagun and Caragbuul. Keeping both combatants plainly in sight. In her peripherals—peripherals she dared not focus on, lest she wreck Kraash-nagun’s focus—she saw the attacking Bakma and Nerifinn gather around. None of them were advancing. They all stood to watch the duel.

Svetlana’s eyes locked solely on Kraash-nagun, knowing her field of vision was all he had to work with. She was afraid to even blink.

Angling his head with calculation, Caragbuul observed Kraash-nagun before making his move. Raising a single split blade, he took a step toward the blinded elite and swung the weapon at medium speed—an attack that gave all the indications of a test. Kraash-nagun didn’t hold back. Swinging the staff sideways, he knocked Caragbuul’s split blade to the side before backstepping and assuming another defensive posture. Once more, the Khuladi stared curiously.

He sees Kraash-nagun has no eyes, Svetlana thought. He is trying to figure out how this is possible.

Kraash-nagun struck. Whipping the staff around, he dashed at Caragbuul, the staff’s pointed tip coming within a hair of the Khuladi’s head before he leapt back and parried the follow-through. For a second time, after once again putting some distance between them, Caragbuul hesitated.

But only for a moment.

The Khuladi leapt toward Kraash-nagun, one split blade cocked back to jab while the other was positioned sideways in front of him for defense. Side-stepping the attack, Kraash-nagun knocked the jab out of the way, quickly shifting his feet and bringing the tip of the staff down to deflect a follow-through with the second blade. Flipping the staff in his hands, the Bakma swung it at Caragbuul’s head. The attack was blocked, and with a hard shove, Kraash-nagun was forced backward.

No time was allotted for curiosity now. His split blades slicing furiously through the air, Caragbuul surged at Kraash-nagun like a tornadic switchblade. Each attack, each wind-slicing maneuver, was parried by the blinded elite. For every jab, Kraash-nagun blocked. For every swipe, he leapt out of reach. For every dual strike, he deflected, ducked, and countered. As Svetlana slowly turned her head to follow the battle, she found herself caught up in the mere sight of it. This was Kraash-nagun like she had never seen him—faster even than when he’d dueled her at Ban-Hezikal. Then, at long last, the Bakma got in his lick. As Caragbuul came around with what would have been a chopping blow, rather than bothering to deflect it, Kraash-nagun planted the tip of the staff into the turquoise earth like a pole vaulter, leapt clear over the slice, twisted his body, and planted his foot squarely against the Khuladi’s jaw. Caragbuul’s head was rocked back, and he stumbled.

Behind the two combatants, the Nerifinn and Bakma collectively gasped.

Whirling his staff, Kraash-nagun weaved and struck, his staff a blur against the fiery backdrop of Winduster. Every deflection from Caragbuul, every dodge, was pushing him farther and farther back—and one step closer to falling on his knees.

Catching her breath, Svetlana watched Kraash-nagun with a locked stare. Every body movement, every spin of his staff, every plant of his foot, was done with conviction—with unabolished hatred. This went far beyond any animosity he’d felt toward her. This was righteous rage. Pure vitriol. He swung his staff upward from the ground. Caragbuul swiped the attack aside and tried to follow through; his split blade was deflected before the attack could even develop. Spinning around and dropping low, Kraash-nagun swung the staff at Caragbuul’s feet; the Khuladi barely leapt over it. A quick thrust, a narrow dodge. A twirling follow-through, an off-balance counter. Every attack Kraash-nagun made came closer and closer to landing—until at long last, the Khuladi was stung. Leaping toward Caragbuul, who was reeling from another awkward deflection, Kraash-nagun struck with his staff like a Spartan warrior. The tip pierced Caragbuul just off from where his rib cage would be. Caragbuul hammered at Kraash-nagun broadside with his split blade, the force of the blow—his last, desperate defense—enough to force Kraash-nagun back. But Caragbuul did not follow through. Instead, he covered his wound and hobbled back. With one split blade retracting as to not slice himself open, he pressed his hand against the injury and looked up at the recovering elite. Once more, for a span of what felt like several seconds, he stared at his eyeless adversary. He stared like a being in search of an explanation. And then, ever so slowly, he turned his head to Svetlana.

Goose bumps rose on her arms. For the first time, her focus shifted solely to Caragbuul. The moment she did, Kraash-nagun froze, no longer in her line of sight.

And Caragbuul noticed.

…oh no…

The next seconds passed like a blur. Bolting up from the ground where he’d been kneeling, Caragbuul dashed toward Svetlana with lightning speed. Her eyes shot wide as she stared at him, all concentration on Kraash-nagun lost. Through the connection, she felt the blinded elite’s panic. The next thing she saw was Caragbuul leaping through the air toward her, split blades raised in preparation to kill. In what fleeting moments she had, she raised her force shield gauntlets to try and desperately block. She could only hope—she could only pray—that they’d had enough time to recharge.

Caragbuul’s blades crashed down upon the shields, the force knocking Svetlana to the ground as she strained to resist. She could feel the energy in them fluctuating—trying to hold back the attack. Screaming as if channeling power through it, she shoved back at Caragbuul with everything she had. The shields flashed in a single burst of brilliance—just enough to force him away. As Svetlana rolled to escape, she saw something land on the turquoise earth barely two meters in front of her. Her eyes fixated on it. It was her staff.

At the same time, a thought was relayed from her once Bakma rival.

Slay him!

Diving to where the staff had landed, Svetlana clenched it and scampered to her feet.

In the same second as she readied herself, Caragbuul charged. Hands white-knuckling the staff, she swung it upward to parry his blades. Following her own momentum with a backward spin, she sent the side of the staff hammering toward Caragbuul’s torso—right where Kraash-nagun had stuck him. Contorting his body, Caragbuul shifted one of the split blades to intercept.

Keep him on the defense!

The thought was from Kraash-nagun. He was still seeing through her eyes.

Keep him on the defense.

Blocking another attack, Svetlana rotated the staff and jabbed one of the spear tips at the Khuladi’s chest. Her effort was blocked, but she was still moving in. From the swell of affirmation that came to her mind, Kraash-nagun approved. Caragbuul struck again, this time with the intent of pinning her weapon between the split blades and wresting it away. The effort missed by a mere inch, and she quickly withdrew the weapon.

Stay close! Kraash-nagun relayed. Force an adjustment!

She adhered without hesitation. Spinning toward Caragbuul, she retracted her staff while keeping the tips out, effectively turning it into a pointed baton, which she sent toward his chest. For the first time in her battle with him, she forced him into pure defense mode. Unable to deflect such a close attack with his blades extended, Caragbuul instead crossed his arms in front of his body and slammed them down upon her staff. And right then, as her face was literally inches from his, she saw the opportunity. There was no need to wait for Kraash-nagun’s prompting. This strike, she would take on her own. Sending the crown of her forehead at Caragbuul’s face, she headbutted him right between his eyes. It was a barbaric move—one completely lacking in refinement.

And it connected.

Caragbuul’s head rocked back, and the Khuladi stutter-stepped away.

Close the gap!

Kraash-nagun’s urging was immediate, as was Svetlana’s compliance. As she charged in again, Caragbuul retracted his split blades to dagger length.

And Kraash-nagun altered the plan.

Back off! Go long-range!

Svetlana was already extending her staff. She understood now the game Kraash-nagun was playing. In a physical match, there was no chance that Svetlana could defeat a Khuladi. But in a mental one? In that, there might be hope.

The response from Caragbuul was immediate, as once again, his split blades extended fully. But that half-second of reaction time was a half-second more that Svetlana had stolen from him—and it made the difference. Leaning forward on one leg and jabbing the point of her staff forward, she managed to scratch his skin before he was able to slam his blades down and knock her staff away. Instead of yanking the staff back to her, she retracted it again and pressed in.

And it was right then, when she once again became the aggressor, that she saw the first chink in the Khuladi’s armor. It was barely a second long, but it was significant. Darting away from her, he retracted both split blades to dagger length, extended one fully, then quickly retracted it again.

He was guessing.

Extending her blade just when she’d drawn close, she ducked low and swung it at the Khuladi’s feet. Caragbuul leapt out of range, once again extending one, then both split blades in an effort to adjust.

He has never faced a weapon like the one you wield, nor has he faced force shield technology! Kraash-nagun quickly relayed. He is injured and out of his element, unaccustomed to a creature that does not fear him. Do not relent!

She had no intention to. Switching constantly between baton and fully extended staff lengths, Svetlana kept the pressure on Caragbuul as he adjusted back and forth. Each moment that Svetlana stole from him—each fraction of a second he had to dedicate to making a decision—was one that benefited her. And each second she was able to press in was one more that her force shields were able to recharge. But as those seconds passed for her, they also passed for Caragbuul—until at long last, he had mentally caught up. Extending both of his split blades halfway—a best of both worlds approach—Caragbuul parried the last of her strikes with so much force, it nearly knocked the staff out of her hands. As she fought to hold onto it, he moved in to attack. With one hand dedicated to keeping the staff, Svetlana had no choice but to rely on the force shield gauntlet on her other arm to save her. Upon activating it, she deflected one of his blows then quickly repositioned to deflect another.

Do not lose the edge!

The edge was already gone. Caragbuul had flipped his aggression on like a switch, whatever advantage of uncertainty that Svetlana possessed having vanished in a blink. She was forced to retract her staff and use both gauntlets to deflect his strikes, one after the other, after the other. Caragbuul swept low with one blade. She dropped to one knee, slamming down her shield to block it. He jabbed straight at her head with the other. She angled her head out of the way in the nick of time then parried his blade with her other shield. He lifted one blade high; she matched it. With the other, he swung to cleave her throat; she bent her forearm to block. All of her aggression, all of her offensive capability, had been extinguished. Caragbuul was attacking with lightning speed now, with complex, arcing strikes in rapid succession. Nothing Kraash-nagun could say could help her. The god-chosen was ready to make his kill. As he struck inward with both blades in a scissoring attack, Svetlana swung her forearms inside-out to halt them. The moment her torso was exposed, Caragbuul leaned back and sent the heel of his foot slamming into her chest at full strength. Unprepared for the setup, Svetlana was knocked backward, clean off her feet. She landed flat on her back on the turquoise earth.

Look at him!

The words came to Svetlana’s mind even as her head was jostled and the wind was knocked out of her. Blinking, she stared up at her adversary, who now towered over her to deliver the death-strike—a strike she was in no position to defend.

Keep looking!

She didn’t want to keep looking. She wanted to close her eyes. She wanted to tense her body before the blades went in—as if that would make any difference at all. But she held strong. She did exactly what the voice in her head told her to do. She locked her eyes on the dark form standing before her. And it was then—only then—that she saw what she was meant to see.

With himself squarely in her borrowed vision, Kraash-nagun sprinted straight at Caragbuul from behind. In that split second, as Caragbuul raised his blades and Kraash-nagun charged, the Bakma’s intentions became clear. He would distract Caragbuul. The Khuladi would hear him and turn to strike him, thus opening himself to attack from Svetlana. Opening himself to attack from the woman who was yet to score anything more than a glancing blow. To a woman outmatched in every way. Kraash-nagun was about to sacrifice himself—to be slain—for that woman to have another opportunity.

…no.

The impulse came to Svetlana immediately. She went with it. Gliding her arm upward, she tossed the baton-sized staff over Caragbuul’s head. Caragbuul halted his attack to watch the weapon fly above him. As he did, Svetlana shoved up to her feet with her palms, all the while keeping her eyes on the baton and Kraash-nagun. As a split second of panic emerged from Kraash-nagun through the connection, Svetlana relayed her assurance. She relayed what he needed to hear.

You’ve got this.

There was no time for the Bakma to do anything but react. Leaping into the air at full sprint, still meters away from Caragbuul’s backside, he reached out his hand to grab the baton. In that same second that his gnarled talons found the airborne staff—that perfectly thrown, God-guided staff—Svetlana opened her arms and collided into Caragbuul’s chest while he was distracted. No effort was made to knock him to the ground. That wasn’t what she wanted to do. Wrapping her arms around him with all of her strength, she held him in place.

Live, my friend.

Kraash-nagun repositioned the staff in mid-leap. With the push of a button, he extended it fully. Thrusting the staff downward, he drove its pointed tip into the Khuladi’s back. Only then, upon impact, did the blinded elite lose his vision. Only then, did Svetlana close her eyes.

Unable to evade with Svetlana clinging to him, Caragbuul was skewered from behind. The pointed staff went straight through him.

And straight through her.

As Caragbuul arched back in pain, releasing a bellowing groan from his mouth slits, Svetlana felt the staff impale her chest. Leaning her head back, she too screamed in agony. Pinned against the Khuladi with the very staff she’d been given by Yigôzien, Svetlana lifted her head to stare at Caragbuul’s face. The Khuladi, eye bulges protruding, stared back at her. Slowly, a dark blue liquid seeped from his slits.

The pain never left Svetlana. Even as she found herself staring into his dark abysses, her body trembled in excruciating agony. In the second worst agony she’d ever felt. But Caragbuul would never know it. She wouldn’t let him.

Eyes glossing over, she stared straight into Caragbuul’s face from two inches away. “We got you,” she whispered breathlessly.

“Setana!” Kraash-nagun bolted around the side of Caragbuul as the life seeped out of the Khuladi. When a final attempt was made by the dark warrior to attack from his pinned state, a quick twist of the neck by the blindly feeling Bakma put an end to the effort. The next person he felt for was Svetlana.

Svetlana turned her head to regard the Nerifinn and Bakma who’d been observing, but who were now being engaged from behind. She couldn’t make out what was going on. She could barely make out anything at all.

A rush of sound emerged from above, as if the skies themselves opened up. Turning her head skyward, she watched as streaks of gunfire lit up the ground around the Khuladi slave forces. Kalarael fighters? Her vision was blurry—she couldn’t tell.

“Setana!” Kraash-nagun said again. Severed from his connection to her, his trembling hands felt her body and the staff that’d gone through her.

More sound. More eruptions of chaos. Streaks of weapons fire were coming from all directions—both on the ground and in the sky. A new rush of warfare. And then…

…darkness.

Svetlana’s world fell to black, as the Fury of Shanras closed her eyes.

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Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-three

Date unknown

Time unknown

Kel-Calizer, Kalar

SVETLANA SUCKED IN a breath. Eyes shooting open, she found herself staring up at a white ceiling. Instinct kicked in, and she lifted her head.

A sharp pain stopped her cold.

Groaning, she laid her head back down on the cushion behind it. Trying to reach up, she found her hands restrained. Panic struck, until she saw the frightened, yellow eyes of a Kalarael looking at her.

The Kalarael spoke—words Svetlana couldn’t understand in the absence of a connection. Then, a bit frantically, she said the word, “Itsukae!” She hurried out of the room a second later, leaving Svetlana to try and figure out what was going on.

She was in a stark, white chamber, not dissimilar to the one she’d inhabited on the Kalarael space station. Looking at her hands, which were at her sides, she found that she was unable to move them despite no visible restraints. Something—maybe force shields—were holding them in place.

Looking around the room, Svetlana saw a myriad of consoles and devices. There were control panels on the walls, machines with lights, tubes, and holograms. A familiarity hit. These devices, these alien machines. She was in a hospital.

Closing her eyes, she groaned and leaned her head back. What had happened? How had she ended up here? She struggled to think of the last thing she could remember. Winduster. She’d been at Winduster. There’d been a fight, the Bakma had arrived. They’d arrived to…

She thought hard to recollect.

They’d arrived to free Caragbuul.

And it was right then, at the thought of the Khuladi, that the fog slowly lifted. Caragbuul. He had escaped imprisonment somehow. She had fought him—she and…

…she and Kraash-nagun.

The memories rushed back. Every detail, as if she was right there fighting Caragbuul again. As if she was getting impaled a second time.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. Pressing her chin to her neck, she looked at her chest. She could see nothing, her body covered by a silver sheet. But she felt something there. Something different, something tender. Something that hurt terribly.

A gentle prodding came to her mind. A small, cautious prick.

Ed.

The Ithini wasn’t in the room, but his presence was unmistakable—even to such a subtle degree. In the second that followed, Ed’s familiar voice emerged. Hello, master.

In spite of her state, there came a sigh of relief. Turning her head in one direction, as if that would possibly provide any context, she thought back with genuine relief, Ei`dorinthal. Where are you?

I am in the room next to yours. How are you feeling?

How was she feeling? Completely confused and in dull, aching pain. Afraid.

The Ithini must have sensed it. That is understandable, he relayed, given your condition.

“What is my condition?” she asked aloud.

Yigôzien is approaching your room. She will discuss all that has transpired in the days since your injury.

The days? Before she could ponder the thought further, the teal-streaked invoker stepped through the door. Her eyes, always an indicator as to the extent of her adoration for Svetlana, were not so blue as they once had been. There was a hesitance to her demeanor—an emotional caution. She stared at Svetlana for some time before finally speaking. “Good evening, Svetlana.”

Evening. As if she needed her internal clock to be thrown off further. “What happened?” Svetlana asked, even as she was remembering more and more.

Yigôzien dipped her head, eyes trailing to the floor. “There is much we must discuss.” Her words had an ominous sound to them. She lifted her eyes again. “You were badly injured at the Fall of Winduster.”

The Fall of Winduster? How purposeful those words sounded, like the Battle of Chicago or the Assault on Novosibirsk. Was Winduster now the equivalent of such impactful events?

“A shock staff wielded by Kraash-nagun penetrated your chest,” Yigôzien said. “You are fortunate to be alive. There was a puncture to your lungs, but that area has been reconstructed—as were several of your ribs, which were broken.”

“Reconstructed?” Svetlana asked. “How did you…?”

“We have had quite some time to process your anatomy in the time you have been with us. The data from our initial scan of you proved invaluable in understanding how your body functions. It is the reason we were able to save your life.”

It seemed impossible—that an alien civilization could so quickly understand the biology of what was, to them, an extraterrestrial species. But there was a time, too, when humans thought flight impossible—and here Svetlana was, halfway across the galaxy.

“You were also the recipient of a xenotransfusion in order to replace blood that was lost.”

At that, Svetlana raised an eyebrow. “Xenotransfusion?”

“It is when blood from one species is used to replace the blood of another. In your case, blood from one of your Bakma companions was used.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Closing her eyes, she angled her head away to try and process what she was hearing. When she couldn’t, she opened them and looked at Yigôzien again. “Even Earthae require a certain blood type from their own kind. Earthae and Bakma blood are not compatible at all.”

Approaching Svetlana’s bedside, the invoker looked down upon her. “As a natural occurrence, no, but there are biochemical procedures that allow such xenotransfusions to take place. I do not understand them, as I am not trained in the arts of science and healing, but I can attest that the brightest minds of Kalar were consulted in order to engineer Bakmanese blood to be compatible with the Earthae body, even if on a temporary basis. You must understand, with no other Earthae present on this world, we had no other choice. If you wish to know additional details, you must consult the healers who treated you.”

There was no if she wished to know additional details. She had to know. This level of technology was beyond anything she could comprehend. Bakma blood is in my veins. To what extent it was still “Bakma blood” was unknown. It was entirely possible that it had been transformed into some synthetic, all-purpose substance. Whatever the process, the result was miraculous. Blood from an extraterrestrial had been pumped into her. It had kept her alive. After having trailed off amidst her thoughts, her focus returned to Yigôzien. She had to ask. “Who was my donor?” There was only one Bakma she could imagine that would have signed up for that.

“Kraash-nagun.”

And it wasn’t him. Blinking in surprise, she asked, “Kraash-nagun?”

“He would not allow another Bakma to be considered.”

Resting her head back, Svetlana stared at the white ceiling above her. Kraash-nagun. Of all the Bakma she could have imagined would have lent her his lifeblood, she would have imagined it from him the least. Even Wuteel would have been more likely.

“Much has happened since Winduster,” Yigôzien said. “Some say it was judgment from Kukira for sins against her. Others believe that Ophareim has set out to destroy the faithful. All agree that whatever the reason, it was a turning point.” The blue in her eyes faded further. “I do not know how to feel.” For several seconds, she fell silent. When her irises shifted red, she quietly asked, “How long did you know that Akàziendi was a Kalareim, Svetlana?”

She found it striking that such a collected tone could be maintained despite the obvious emotions stirring within Yigôzien. Of equal interest was that she hadn’t referred to Svetlana as a deity. It was both relieving and sad. “Where is she?” Svetlana asked, deflecting a question with a question.

“She has returned to her people.”

At least she’d made it out of there alive.

“How long did you know?” the invoker asked again.

There was no reason to hide the truth—not when so much of it had already been revealed. “When the Kalareim visited Ban-Hezikal. When I met Tributurian. I know you are angry that I chose to keep my knowledge of her secret, but to reveal her would have been to betray her.”

“So instead, you betrayed me.”

“Your people would have killed her, Yigôzien.”

Eyes shifting between red and yellow, the invoker looked at Svetlana in silence. For almost ten seconds, nothing was said between them. At long last, drawing in a breath, Yigôzien continued. “I must tell you of the things that have transpired since your hospitalization.”

She and I will never be the same, Svetlana thought. She will never call me her goddess again. It was an end—a revelation—she’d always hoped for. She just didn’t like the way it’d occurred. Nodding her head silently, she prompted the invoker to continue.

Yigôzien’s down feathers stood on end. “The Kalareim have mustered at the gates of Sélestere. Tributurian has requested a meeting with the king.” Her interest piqued, Svetlana narrowed her eyes with curiosity. “We believe they wish to propose an armistice.”

“Do it,” Svetlana said with urgency. “Yigôzien, if Tributurian wishes to end hostilities, you must do it!”

“So lustily do you implore us to abandon our religion. I wonder how you reacted when you were implored by the Bakma to abandon yours.”

Her answer stung. Perhaps as it should’ve.

“The king will hear their proposal. The events of Winduster earned the Kalareim that much. What more they are given, I suppose we shall see together.”

“The events of Winduster?” Svetlana asked. “What did the Kalareim have to do with Winduster?”

“It was their forces that secured the victory. They arrived just as you and Kraash-nagun slayed Caragbuul.”

She remembered—vaguely—the arrival of forces before she lost consciousness. She assumed they must have been Kalarael. That assumption had been wrong.

The invoker closed her eyes solemnly. “There is a truth that must be faced by our people. Were it not for the arrival of the Kalareim, every Kalarael at Winduster would have been slain. Were it not for Akàziendi, who mustered a force of her own at battle’s end despite being injured, what few darishu remained would have been slaughtered. Instead of being destroyed, those few, scattered darishu followed her lead on the battlefield. They did not know she was Kalareim, but their awareness is not what matters. The point is that Akàziendi could have abandoned Winduster but chose not to for reasons few here can comprehend. She and your friend, Tauthinilaas, led this final defense effort together.”

The opportunity arose, and Svetlana grabbed it. Leaning her head up as much as she could, Svetlana bored deeply into her friend’s eyes. “Yigôzien, this conflict between your people must end. There is no better time than now. You are all of the same blood—you and the Kalareim. I know that you know this. You call yourselves different names, but you are all sons and daughters of Kalar. You are all Kalarians.”

“You imagine this situation to be far simpler than it is.”

“It is a medical condition,” Svetlana said. “Their eyes, the lack of the Purities within them. You are the most medically advanced species I have ever seen, I know this is not a mystery to you.”

Yigôzien’s expression remained stoic. “But who causes the condition? Kukira causes all things. If she has chosen them for exile, we are not to argue. She has given the Kalareim to Ophareim, be it a medical condition or not. Why would we fight to repossess such a thing?”

“Kukira is a myth, Yigôzien. She is not real.”

Eyes steadfast in yellowness, the invoker asked, “And your god is?”

And it was that sentiment, right there, that would forever be the impasse. That would forever divide her soul and Yigôzien’s. That she could not fairly rebut.

Entering the room behind Yigôzien was the same Kalarael who’d been there when Svetlana had awoken. Yigôzien turned her head, and the two engaged in a brief discussion, its meaning hidden from Svetlana in the connection. When the conversation was finished, Yigôzien turned to Svetlana again. “Your friends are on their way here. They have been eager to see you. More so than I have.”

At this stage, Svetlana knew better than to allow Kalarael honesty to sting—but in this instance, it was hard not to feel her words had intent. As Yigôzien turned to depart, Svetlana reached out her hand, wincing as she did, though the gesture served its purpose. Yigôzien paused and faced her fully. “I am sorry, Yigôzien. I am. At no point in all of this did I set out to deceive you.”

“And yet, it is precisely what you have done.”

“I would be heartbroken to think that we have come all this way only to become enemies.”

One of Yigôzien’s whiskers twitched. Her red orbs remained locked on Svetlana as she took her time to reply. “I thought you a gift from Shanras. I still believe you are a gift. I am just not so certain from whom.” She paused. “You, Akàziendi, and I were declared to be sisters. Such a ritual is among our most rare and revered—and you know well my reverence for such things.” Slowly, she stepped to the bed. “It is my opinion that Tributurian will be granted the armistice he seeks. One does not muster such a force and leave them in such a vulnerable position if they are unwilling to extend trust. The Khuladi represent a far greater threat to our world than the Kalareim. Only a fool would think otherwise. I believe that very soon, Kalarael and Kalareim will take up arms together out of necessity. If that belief holds true, then Akàziendi and I will be reunited. I do not know how I will feel that day. I do not wish to think of it. But my feelings do not change the fact that you are both now and forever my sisters. To believe otherwise would be to deny what Kukira has brought to fruition. I will do, as any invoker of custom would, as custom dictates. I just may not particularly enjoy it.”

The corners of Svetlana’s lips turned downward. That ritual of bonding sisterhood was a moment she would take with her for the rest of her life. She would now also take the sadness of that memory being sullied. But it was what it was. If ends justified means at all, then the fact that the Kalarael and Kalareim were on the verge of a truce meant something significant. How tragic that she felt only anguish. For a second time, Yigôzien turned to leave the room, and for a second time, Svetlana called on her to pause. “How do the Kalarael now view me, considering I knew Akàziendi’s secret and said nothing?”

Yigôzien remained facing away from her, her feathered head angled just enough to see Svetlana in her peripherals. Seconds passed in silence before she finally responded. “They do not know what you did.” Her head lowered; her eyes trailed to the floor. “I did not tell them.”

As the weight of Yigôzien’s words sank in, the hair on the back of Svetlana’s neck stood. She had seen many Kalarael fall at Winduster. Already, this conflict with the Khuladi and their forces had caused many casualties. But she would never forget the casualty she saw standing before her now. She would never forget that loss of innocence. That this was her fault was a bitter pill to swallow.

Yigôzien left without saying another word.

Svetlana stared at the ceiling in the minutes that passed, the totality of her journey running through her head. From her last memory on Earth—being with Max as Novosibirsk was attacked—to being Nagogg’s prisoner, to the rebellion, to all that’d transpired on Kalar, they flipped through her mind like images in a slide show. Like entirely different lives. In silence, she closed her eyes.

I do not know why You have taken me here. I do not know all the plans You have for me. But I trust You. I trust You, even in the midst of all of this. I do not understand the things that surround me. I do not understand what the Khuladi and Kukira have to do with You. If You are the God of all things, then you must also be the God of the Khuladi and the Kalarael. They must also be Your children, as are we. I have spent so much time on this world trying to validate the position to which I have been elevated. With whatever time I have left here, let me spend it validating You.

Footsteps emerged from beyond the doorway. She opened her eyes. At the very edge of the door, she could make out someone’s shoulder. Whoever was there had paused by the door’s precipice—as if something was keeping them from stepping inside. Lifting her head up just a bit, she asked, “Who is there?”

A strange silence arose—one she could hear, like the holding of a breath. When it ended, it did with solemn inflection. “It is Kraash-nagun.”

Kraash-nagun. Never had she heard the blinded elite’s voice in such a manner. For the first time she could recall, his tone was one of deference. The silence lingered until she finally spoke again. “You may come in if you wish.”

“I will,” he answered, “in a moment.”

With so few words, he’d captured her attention. Upon shifting her shoulders to try and sit up a little more, she ceased when the pain became intolerable. Gaze returning to the doorway, she dipped her head to listen.

He gently inhaled. “I have fought in many battles. I have taken many lives, from insubordinate slaves to members of your own species. I have yet to find an adversary who can match my skill—yourself included. Yet in all of my years of existence, I have never seen one of the god-chosen slain by one of their slaves. I have never seen one killed in defiance. I had imagined that if that day ever came, it would come at the hands of a superior specimen. Never did I imagine it would come in an act of self-sacrifice to save another. To save one considered an enemy.”

Deep within Svetlana, butterflies stirred.

“Tauthinilaas has told me many times that your strength lies not in your physiology, but in your spirit. I have never understood that until now. There is a truth that cannot be denied: though it was I who plunged the spear through Caragbuul’s chest, it was you who killed him. That you willfully took the blow of that same spear to save my life is something I cannot comprehend. But I wish to comprehend it. I wish to comprehend the strength required to make such a sacrifice to save the life of an enemy. It is a strength I do not possess. It is one capable of defeating a god-chosen.”

At the edge of the door, the blinded elite fidgeted. “I, too, have been in recovery here,” he said, “but it is a recovery very unlike yours. I have longed to visit you in the days that have passed, but I did not wish to do so until your eyes were opened. Though I have seen you through the eyes of others, in the distance, in fleeting glances at ever-changing angles, I have never looked into your eyes. I have never looked into the eyes that first lent me their sight. This moment is one I wish to remember forever.”

Slowly rounding the corner of the doorway, Kraash-nagun appeared. When he came into her view, she gasped. Plainly visible on his face, where there were once vacant sockets, there were now two small, metallic orbs. At the center of each, artificial pupils reflected blue from the light around them. Amazed, Svetlana exclaimed, “Kraash-nagun!”

“I was told you requested these be created for me the first time we visited Winduster,” he said as he slowly approached her. “You made the request despite my hostility toward you. At the height of our hatred, you sought to give me back what was taken from me. You sought to return me to form. I have returned, Setana. I have been given eyes like no Bakma before me. I have them because of you.” He paused. “My species knows little of beauty. We have few words for it. But I do know this—in this moment, you are the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld.”

For the first time, as he positioned his hands in front of his body, she noticed the Khuladi battle gauntlets attached to his wrists. They were the same ones worn by Caragbuul at Winduster. With the faintest of flicks, Kraash-nagun fully extended their blades. Crossing them like an X in front of his face, he bowed his head and dipped to one knee.

“I am unworthy to be called your master—for to be a master, one must be superior. But if you will have me, I will be your champion. I will stand at your side; I will not allow one hair on your head to be harmed. I will sacrifice my life for yours, as you sacrificed yours for mine. I ask only that you forgive me, my lady, for not seeing in you what Tauthinilaas did so long ago.”

Svetlana’s eyes shimmered. She couldn’t help it. This warrior—this being of power and strength—was giving itself to her. Pledging its allegiance. Unable to wipe her tears, they distorted her vision even as they trailed down her cheeks. Slowly, she shook her head. “Kraash-nagun, I cannot be your master.” The once-blinded elite—the one who could now see—lifted his head to regard her. “I am not superior to you. Or to Tauthin. Or to Ed. Instead of calling me master, I wish to be called your friend.”

Friendship. It was another concept the Bakma knew little of. Svetlana knew this because of her time spent with Tauthin. But it was friendship, not subservience, that had drawn her and Tauthin so close. It was a lesson the merit of which she was only recently beginning to recognize. Better late than never.

Kraash-nagun’s cybernetic eyes flitted and focused like real pupils. He remained on the floor. “It is only through that mindset that we have found victory—it is precisely for that mindset that our master must be you.”

I am in agreement. The emergent voice in her head was from Ed. She felt the Ithini’s reverence swell from whatever room he was in. We can call you both master and friend. There is no other master I wish to serve.

She listened to the words with solemnness—and for the first time, considered her role as leader with genuine humility, without emphasis on stature, power, or personal validation. Without a focus on enforcing her will in retribution for life’s perceived past misgivings. Being a leader wasn’t about that. It was about acting selflessly in the face of overwhelming odds. It was about not allowing pride to sit in the driver’s seat. Could she do that? Could she resist the urge to overcompensate? To make up for lost pride? No. She couldn’t. At least, not by herself.

I tried this once my way, and I failed. I do not want to fail again. Be with me, my God, as I set out on this journey a second time.

Returning her gaze to Kraash-nagun, she said, “If you wish to call me master—if you wish to call me lady of the Zone Runner—there is something you must understand.” She slowly shook her head. “I am not perfect, Kraash-nagun. I am not all-powerful. I am not incapable of fallacy. I must have your loyalty. I will need it—for those times when I stumble. For those times when I fall short of where I need to be. For those times when I am drowning, I will need my friends to reach beneath the waves to pull me up.” All the while she spoke, Kraash-nagun’s stare never wavered. “This experience on Kalar—on the Zone Runner, under Nagogg—has shown me both what I can and cannot do. I am afraid there is much more of the latter.”

“What you lack,” said Kraash-nagun, “the rest of us will provide. What we lack can only be provided by you. I have already seen it accomplish the impossible. It struck down a god-chosen. It made the blind to see. I wonder what else can it do?”

Her composure cracked—just a single, broken breath to accompany the tears. Sucking in through her nasal cavities, she allowed herself to smile. For so long, she had sought Kraash-nagun’s loyalty. She’d sought his belief in her. Never had she imagined she’d find it only when her belief in herself fell. What a massive weight from her shoulders it was. “Thank you, my friend. I will not let you down.”

“Of that, my lady,” he said, “I am now certain.”

How long had it been since Svetlana could declare herself certain? Of her future? Of her safety? Of herself? In the time since she’d been taken captive on the Zone Runner, she had only been certain of one thing: that she was not in control. How turbulent that battle for control had been. It’d been a battle fought in vain. But perhaps that was the way it was meant to be. Perhaps its unattainability was the point. She’d thought herself so steadfast in her faith back when Nagogg demanded she abandon it and submit. She’d thought herself so sure. It had taken everything since then to bring her to the place she was at now. A place of true realization. True acceptance. True submission. A place where she understood that she could never be strong enough on her own. That even the desire for strength itself was rooted in pride. That pride always came before a fall—but a prodigal daughter could always return home.

It was good to be home.

For the next hour, Svetlana received from Kraash-nagun the full update of what’d transpired between Winduster and that day. It was a full-fledged, bona fide status report. Something felt so wonderfully routine about that.

Injuries were at the top of the report. Though everyone in Svetlana’s party had endured a battle wound—ranging from Kraash-nagun’s minor lacerations to Ed having sustained a back injury—all were expected to fully recover, Mishka included. It was a combination of both the Kalarael’s advanced medical technology and old-fashioned luck. None were so lucky as Svetlana, considering the manner in which she’d been injured. Few who were impaled lived to tell the tale. Had the tip of the shock staff not entered her body at exactly the point that it had, she might have been killed instantly. So far as impalements were concerned, it was a rare, best-case scenario. She’d take one for a change.

Inevitably, the question arose as to how the Zone Runners had found Winduster in the first place—and it was that answer that proved the most shocking of all revelations. They’d found it because they’d been called to it. Because someone inside the Zone Runner had been sending out hidden signals. That someone was Wuteel.

There had been several instances where Wuteel had gone to Winduster to work on the Zone Runner alone. What no one knew was that he was using that opportunity to put a big, shiny beacon right on top of the facility. He must have wagered—correctly—that the Khuladi would send out a search party to try and locate their vessel that disappeared. To recover one of the god-chosen. With each signal, they must have homed in closer. It was their last visit that finally put the pin on the map.

Upon his capture after the attack, Wuteel was quickly identified by some of the Bakma prisoners as the one who’d freed Caragbuul. Svetlana listened to the story with fire in her veins. She wanted nothing more than to finally address Wuteel as the traitor that he was. But she’d never get that chance. The engineer was executed by the Kalarael shortly after his confession. It was an end result that left Svetlana both unsatisfied and brokenhearted. Why couldn’t he have just trusted her? Why couldn’t he have broken away from the vice grip of the Khuladi religion as Tauthin and Kraash-nagun had? She wondered if he begged for his life before his execution. She wondered if she would have spared him again. In the end, she could not argue with the Kalaraels’ decision. Because of him, hundreds of lives had been lost at Winduster. This, purely and simply, was justice.

It didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

The silver lining to all of this was that the loss of Wuteel would be countered by a bolstering of the ranks, courtesy of Tauthin. As it turned out, unlikely allies had assisted the Kalarael forces at the tail end of the battle: some of the formerly imprisoned Bakma that Tauthin had been trying to recruit, among which was an engineer. Six Bakma in all from the cells at Winduster had disavowed Uladek, officially defecting from the Khuladi slave army to become part of Tauthin’s newly formed resistance faction. They were all currently at Ban-Hezikal with Tauthin discussing the formulation of a free Bakma nation. Tauthin was apparently being sent word of Svetlana’s awakening, and the staff at the medical facility—which was in a small town roughly a dozen miles out of Sélestere—was awaiting his response. Svetlana was quick to insist they send a follow-up message instructing Tauthin to remain where he was—that the work he was doing was far more important and that she would be fine. When word finally did arrive from him, she was almost surprised to hear that he was going to listen to her. It told her that he understood the vast significance of what he was doing. That he recognized it was bigger than the welfare of a single Earthae. She was proud of him for that, and she eagerly awaited a reunion with him at Ban-Hezikal. At least, when she was cleared to leave the hospital.

That, unfortunately, would not be a fast process. Advanced medical technology or not, an injury the magnitude of Svetlana’s would not heal in a matter of days. There would be weeks—possibly over a month—to her recovery, and that was with thirty-three-hour days. At the very least, she would be aided by the development of a new serum that the Kalarael had discovered: unique natural antibodies with the remarkable ability to prevent infection and speed along healing. They were in Mishka’s saliva.

It was a small validation, but one just the same. It was a nice little freebie from Above—like a nod and a wink. She would take it.

And so the hours became days, the days became weeks, and the weeks came one after the other. Svetlana’s recovery progressed in similar fashion to any on Earth. She gradually worked herself from being on a floating medical cot, to slowly walking about the medical facility, to resuming light physical activity with the intent of returning to her prior form. It was never lost to her in all of that time just how close she’d come to death. She’d avoided it by mere inches in any direction.

That, of course, didn’t mean her recovery would be a cakewalk. In the first days since she’d awoken, her entire body ached with a strange, dull sensation. It was explained to her by the healers at the medical facility that this was a side effect of a processed xenotransfusion. Her blood had been momentarily replaced by an alien substance. Despite being synthesized to suit her, it was still not human blood. Until it was phased out of her system by the reproduction of her own red blood cells, there would be a slight rejection at play. It was normal, they assured her, and would pass.

So far as the actual entry and exit wounds in her chest and back, they healed with remarkable speed. Boosted by the antibodies from Mishka’s saliva, it was almost no time at all until all she had were scars to indicate where the staff had gone through her. By any human standard, her recovery process was impossibly fast. It was almost miraculous. It was a testament to the advanced science of the Kalarian species.

It was not the only miracle to take place.

Of all the turnarounds that Svetlana had experienced in her journey, none were so significant as that which transpired between the Kalarael and Kalareim. Tributurian’s bold decision to muster at the gates of Sélestere and request an audience with King Xi`qirian paid off. For the first time in as long as any could remember, the leaders of the two empires sat across from one another to discuss terms of an armistice. Svetlana herself was brought to the negotiation, even in her state of recovery, to serve as mediator. Thankfully, and perhaps surprisingly, she was scarcely needed at all.

There was a simple truth that could not be denied: the Khuladi posed an infinitely greater threat to Kalar than either supposed “species” inhabiting the planet. Though neither party was willing to sacrifice their identities as Kalarael or Kalareim, they agreed to unite under the singular banner of the name Kalarians. It was a name for which Svetlana was solely responsible. There was no question that, though her status had been diminished in the eyes of High Priestess Linjan and Darishukan Korlustus, the Kalarael at large still gazed upon her with yellow-eyed reverence. After the Kalareims’ actions at Winduster, there was simply no way the Kalarael citizens would buy into a state-sponsored genocide—especially if the Incarnate was staunchly against it. To her credit, Svetlana insisted to those present at the negotiation that she was merely an Earthae and not Kukira’s chosen vessel on Kalar. In doing so, she felt she’d washed her hands of any moral wrongdoing. She wasn’t to blame if most of them chose not to believe it.

The end result of the negotiation came to be called the Winduster Accords, and it clearly established—at Svetlana’s insistence—the Kalareims’ right to exist. There would always be a level of animosity between the Kalarael and Kalareim. Such was destined to be the case when one side believed the other to be children of the devil. But the arrival of a bigger devil in the form of the Khuladis’ forces at least gave the Kalarael pause to contemplate how correct they were in their predispositions. In fact, so great was the spiritual turmoil the Khuladi had caused, many Kalarael began to openly question their faith and religion. Svetlana demanded that they be given the right to do so, resulting in possibly the most significant aspect of the accords: the doubting of one’s faith would no longer be punished by governing authorities. It opened the gate for the Kalarael to freely question without fear of repercussion.

As would be expected, High Priestess Linjan was staunchly against this. Svetlana understood why. Such a statement would wrest power from her hands. But it was necessary. In Svetlana’s own words, if doubts are to be punished, then all Kalarael must be punished—for who would not be filled with doubts at such a time as this? Svetlana’s efforts were aided by an open admission from Queen Chechera that she herself had questioned the existence and will of Kukira after Winduster. It was this courageous confession that ultimately led King Xi`qirian to approve of that aspect of the accords. Svetlana knew that such a statement would pave the way for a rise of atheism. She also knew that without the freedom to not believe, true belief would never be attainable. While she herself did not ascribe to a belief in Kukira, she also knew how little she knew in the grand scheme of the universe. The faith of the Kalarael ultimately had little to do with her religion. Her God had been faithful to her, and that was all that mattered. Whatever path He had put the Kalarael on was between Him and them. Their journey of faith was their own.

The Winduster Accords were heralded as one of the most significant written documents in Kalar’s history. Not only did they unify a divided species, but they paved the way for true freedom of belief. They also became an alternative for the Kalareim seeking safe haven on Earth, as the accords would protect them on their home world. In fact, Winduster itself was declared to be the first joint rebuilding project between the two “species,” where it would serve as an embassy for both the Kalarael and Kalareim. Every year, leaders and representatives from both parties would meet for the “Winduster Summit,” whereupon they would discuss issues that affected both civilizations and seek amicable resolutions.

Svetlana was well aware, of course, that all of this could be pie in the sky. The Kalarael and Kalareim could scrap the accords the second Svetlana left for Earth. But she chose to believe that they wouldn’t. She chose to believe that they’d work out their differences, however hard a task that might be. She chose hope over fear.

She hoped she’d chosen correctly.

In addition to the honor of being part of the accords, Svetlana’s attendance also afforded her the opportunity to see Akàziendi again. It was fascinating to see the tasharin’s mannerisms now that no guises had to be maintained. She carried herself with an edge that reminded Svetlana of Esther—quick to speak her mind and quicker to disagree. The dark-eyed Kalareim viewed Svetlana not as an object of admiration, but as an equal in every sense of the word. No worse, and certainly no better.

Svetlana had been eagerly awaiting the reunion of Yigôzien and Akàziendi there, anxious to see if their proverbial hatchets could be buried. Unfortunately, the fantasy in Svetlana’s head was far more impactful than what actually transpired. Yigôzien and Akàziendi barely acknowledged each other. It was ironic, Svetlana thought, that of the two, it was Yigôzien who would feel a greater obligation to custom and therefore refuse to disavow Akàziendi as her sister, even though it was her that felt the greater degree of animosity. Akàziendi, quite simply, couldn’t have cared less what Yigôzien thought or felt. It was an interesting dynamic between the two that Svetlana wished she could have seen play out further. But the Winduster Accords eventually ended, and all parties returned home—Yigôzien to the medical facility to serve Svetlana for the remainder of her stay on Kalar, and Akàziendi to whatever part of the Kalareim territories Tributurian sent her. Perhaps one day, the sisterhood between them would reform. Or perhaps, it wouldn’t. Ultimately, she supposed it was up to them.

Eventually, Svetlana was allowed to leave the medical facility to finish her recovery at Ban-Hezikal—the alien luxury spa that had become her home away from home. It amazed her how familiar the sight of endless runa legras had become. Even its smell had begun to trigger a sense of reminiscence. That strange reminiscence only grew when she met Tauthin’s new Bakma defectors. When she addressed them for the first time in Bakmanese, their opaque eyes widened in wonder. In meeting them, it felt like Svetlana had a front row seat to a moment that future Bakma would read and hear about. There was an energy to what Tauthin was doing in seeking to create a free Bakma nation—even if sustainability was a long way off. It was hard to found a new nation without females with which to reproduce. But even in that, there was a glimmer of hope. As it turned out, Tauthin and his brethren were not so barren as they’d been led to believe. Long ago, in a conversation in Novosibirsk Confinement, Tauthin had explained to Svetlana how the Khuladi removed all eggs from the male Bakma ovary. But the Kalarael had uncovered something in their scans that Tauthin didn’t know—something in the Bakma species that was distinctly different from the reproductive cycle of humans.

The male Bakma ovary could produce new eggs.

It was a startling and game-changing revelation for all parties involved. It meant that each one of the now eight free Bakma had a small number of eggs within them. Each one of them had Bakma waiting to be born—Bakma who would know nothing of enslavement or the Khuladi god, Uladek. Bakma that could be born…

…free.

But a key component of that freedom was still absent. A necessary part of the process. An entire gender that the Khuladi kept under lock and key solely to avoid what Tauthin and his brethren were now considering. There was no viable plan of action to retrieve them. There was no clear path to that particular victory. But there was something the Bakma at Ban-Hezikal had now that they’d never had before.

Hope.

Svetlana pondered that hope deep in her heart. She put a bookmark on it. If there was a time when that hope could feasibly be realized, she wanted to be ready. For them. For their future. For unrealized potential that the universe had taken away.

Until the time came for that plan to be developed, Svetlana set herself to prepare for a return to Earth. A return to Room 14 at Novosibirsk. To Scott, and Yuri, and David, and Max. To Varvara, and Becan, and Jayden. To Travis and Boris. To even Esther. As her impending departure from Kalar drew nearer, her heart beat with more fervency for the life she’d once had. The life that felt like a lifetime ago.

She was more ready for it than ever.

OceanofPDF.com

PART V

PART V

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Thirty-four

PART V

Chapter Thirty-four

Thursday, April 12th, 0012 NE

1852 hours

Norilsk, Russia

NATALIE HAD A feeling it’d come when she least expected it. Smack dab in the middle of a cafeteria dinner with the Falcons, the call came that Antipov’s mission briefing for the attack on EDEN Command was about to begin. It gave her just enough time to scarf down the remainder of her meal, bid her comrades farewell, and make tracks for the briefing room, which was packed with fulcrums. It was a strange feeling being counted among them—a distinction that was not lost among the crowd. More than a few times, Natalie found herself approached by fulcrums offering Nightman salutes and welcoming her into their ranks. But not all eyes were welcoming. Several times, she’d caught fulcrums casting frosty glares her way as if her presence was defiling the place.

Dostoevsky had saved her a seat alongside him and Rashid Faraj, the Turkish fulcrum who’d been a part of the Krasnoyarsk extraction. Colonel Saretok and Valentin were also in attendance, both sitting in the middle of the first row. There were men she recognized from all over the base, though she knew few of their names.

At the front of the briefing room, Antipov adjusted a collar mic, the jostling of fabric amplified through the theater’s speakers. Though not meant as a call to attention, it served as one just the same. As the murmuring diminished, Natalie leaned forward in her chair to focus on what he was about to say.

After clearing his throat, the scruffy, ponytailed general offered the crowd a sly, slanted smile. He drew a breath and addressed them.

In Russian.

Rolling her eyes, Natalie leaned back in her chair and released the softest of sighs.

Leaning over and whispering in her ear, Dostoevsky said, “He says thank you to everyone for attending. It has been a time of great turmoil for us all since EDEN’s attack on The Machine and the murder of General Thoor.”

The murder of General Thoor? Killing Thoor sounded more like good, old-fashioned justice to her. She listened as Dostoevsky translated on, more thankful than ever for the fulcrum’s presence.

“Many Nightmen were lost at Novosibirsk on the day of the betrayal. Some even abandoned our cause when it seemed we would be defeated. Resist the urge to label these men cowards; they were doing what they felt they must to survive. I implore you to look back on your time with them fondly, for they contributed to all we became. Though gone from us, they will always be our brethren.

“Over the past week, I have sent several messages to you regarding our path forward, including the abolishment of the Murder Rule and the expansion of our inclusivity.” Antipov’s eyes rested on Natalie, and he gestured her way as Dostoevsky translated. “Many of you have had the chance to meet Fulcrum Rockwell, the first woman to have such a designation. She is to be treated like a sister.”

If there was ever a time Natalie wanted to sink into the floor, this was it.

Antipov mercifully continued. “General Thoor was our greatest leader. It was he who made Novosibirsk a name that struck fear into the hearts of all who heard it. He raised us from nothing to make us the most feared fighting force the world has ever known. In all that he did for us, there was but one flaw.”

Just one?

“He did not adapt. He did not see the progression around us for what it was. He came from a different time with different rules. Things do not work the same now as they did long ago. We must adapt if we are to survive. We have already undergone several changes since the general left us. As time goes on, expect that you will see more. Without further delay, let us now discuss the mission before us—the most important we will have ever undertaken.”

Natalie’s eyes narrowed.

“By now, you have all heard the location of EDEN Command, in the Likouala Swamp of the Congo.” Working the projector controls, he brought up a map of that region. “The time has come for us to enter its hallways, to retrieve what is ours, then to destroy it as they attempted to destroy Novosibirsk.”

Retrieve what was theirs? They had to be talking about Scott and company.

“This operation, which we are calling Dark Thunder, will consist of three phases: the disruption of EDEN’s response force, the infiltration and destruction of EDEN Command, and the takeover of the EDEN bases of Novosibirsk and Leningrad by NSU forces, as directed by President Belikov. He has been working in conjunction with us during the planning phase of this operation, without whom none of this could be possible.”

What about Sydney? Where were they coming into play? Were they at all?

Antipov went on. “At 1450 tomorrow, transports and a fighter escort from Northern Forge will depart for EDEN Command on a low and carefully calculated trajectory that should leave them undetected until they reach Africa. Their approximate arrival time will be 1830 hours—this will be an evening attack on the facility.” He clicked to the next screen in the presentation, which highlighted the numerous EDEN bases on the planet. He turned to the crowd. “As many of you know, I have worked for many years to place eidola at the major bases in EDEN’s global network. These sleeper agents have been instructed to amalgamate into the ranks as legitimate EDEN soldiers. At the same time that our fighters are instructed to fire upon EDEN Command, I will send a signal to these agents to initiate a total disruption of EDEN’s interception network.”

A total disruption of EDEN’s interception network? What did that mean?

“This will be a coordinated disruption that will render all of their facilities unable to respond at precisely the time our attack begins. What few Superwolves they will be able to dispatch will be no match for our Omega Fighters. At that point, the success of the operation will be in the hands of those leading the base assault.” Once more, he faced the slide show, which transitioned into a timeline of events, just as he’d discussed. “As you can see, shortly after the eidola disrupt EDEN’s network, General Andreev of the National Soviet Military will coordinate simultaneous attacks on both Novosibirsk and Leningrad to purge them of EDEN forces. Once they are captured, he will release a message condemning EDEN for conspiring with extraterrestrial forces. To substantiate his claim, he will release a copy of the audio recording between Archer and the Ceratopians. It will justify all that we have done, even if there are those who disapprove of the manner in which we have done them.”

There was nothing about anything Antipov was saying that surprised Natalie. Of course, they’d have to hinder EDEN’s ability to intercept. Of course, they’d need Omegas to defend whatever Superwolves reached them, anyway. Of course, there would have to be backing by the NSU for this all to work. Had she been in charge of this operation, she’d be coming up with these same concepts and timelines. Yet her conscience was gnawing at her. These Nightmen were working toward the same end goal as her—to stop what EDEN was doing. But was sending armed NSU forces into EDEN bases to forcefully eject them the right course of action?

A Nightman raised his hand. Antipov called on him. Shortly after he asked his question, Dostoevsky leaned in to translate. “He asks what will happen to Leningrad and Novosibirsk after they are captured.”

Antipov answered, “Control of Leningrad will fall to the NSU, while Novosibirsk is returned to us, to be given to Colonel Saretok to serve as general. I will remain here at Northern Forge.”

The answer prompted a few murmurs in the crowd. As for Natalie, all she wanted to know was the death toll of all of this. How many innocent soldiers—soldiers who’d enlisted for the same reasons as her—were going to be killed for the actions of a few at the top?

Can we not just release the audio? Can we not let the law handle this? Do we have to go full assault, here? What if it was as simple as releasing the audio, watching Archer and his cronies get arrested, then seeing Scott, Tiffany, and Becan released? Would that not accomplish the same thing as all of this? It would. She knew it would.

Though Dostoevsky continued to translate, Natalie found herself lost in thought. I have no options, here. What am I going to do, steal the audio and release it myself? I don’t know where it is and I wouldn’t know what to do with it once I had it. And with Valentin’s cameras everywhere, I’d be busted the moment I got the recording in hand. But I want to be a part of this—I need to be a part of this. This isn’t some inconsequential event where I can just sit on the sidelines. This is important. Critically important. This is for Earth, and if Archer has his way, Earth is screwed. The Nightmen want to set the world right. It’s just the way they want to do it that’s so wrong. So what can I do?

What can I do?

Words in Dostoevsky’s translation caught her attention. “How will EDEN’s interceptors be disrupted?” someone asked. She wanted to know the answer to that, too.

“By destroying their air traffic control towers,” Antipov answered. “It is the simplest way to avoid mass casualty while simultaneously preventing them from coordinating responses in time.”

Destroying air traffic control towers was avoiding mass casualty? As opposed to what, dropping nukes? Closing her eyes, she lowered her head in disgust.

“Fulcrum Rockwell.”

The sudden addressing of her by Antipov snapped her head back up. His cold eyes were staring straight at her, his words in English—meant for her to hear.

“Is there a problem?”

Yes. Yes, there was. “How many people will be in these towers when your eidola hit the buttons?”

Antipov smiled briefly, in the polite way one does when they don’t like the question they’ve been asked. “We will do all that we can to ensure that as few people are injured as possible.”

Again, she asked the question. “Do we know how many people will be in the towers?”

“Between ninety-eight and one hundred twenty-two.”

She hadn’t expected him to have an answer.

Angling his head, he asked, “Do you know how many Nightmen EDEN intended to kill between Novosibirsk and Chernobyl?”

“Yes, but—”

“But the Nightmen were murderers, so that makes it okay, right? Is that what you are thinking?”

…yes. Yes, that was what she was thinking. But it was something she could never say. Silenced by his words, all Natalie could do was listen.

“I assure you, Fulcrum Rockwell, I have put far more thought into the loss of life in this operation than EDEN ever did for theirs. I do not wish to kill. I have tried to make that clear to you time and time again. I hope I have succeeded.”

Voice a tad lower, she said, “I just want to make sure that this is tactical and not…”

When she didn’t finish the statement, Antipov arched an eyebrow. “And not what, fulcrum?”

She sighed. “Vengeance. Bloodlust.”

Crossing his arms, Antipov chuckled behind tightly sealed lips. He shook his head a single time. “The waters are bloody, fulcrum, and you are in a room full of sharks. That is why I am here—not to chum the waters further, but to prevent the frenzy that would otherwise take place.”

She got that, now. Defeated by his argument, she simply said, “Thank you, general. I understand.”

Around the room, several low chuckles emerged. Thankfully, a sharp word from Antipov silenced them. Without sparing her another glance, he continued with his brief.

The next ninety minutes consisted of Antipov going over various details of the operation, from the involvement of Gagarin Wing to how exactly EDEN Command would be infiltrated. In the week leading up to the assault, Todd Kenner had identified the location of the underground hangar entrance that needed to be blown open for entry to be made. Once that was done, all the transports had to do was follow the tunnel into the heart of the facility. Though Antipov assured the group that the entry plan was fool-proof, Natalie had learned by this point that all doubts were warranted. She would reserve any and all judgment until they were flying home with the rescued soldiers.

Also mentioned in the mission brief were the names of the fulcrums who would be leading the EDEN Command assault. Unsurprisingly, Natalie was not listed among them—though Saretok and Dostoevsky were. Dostoevsky would be in command of one of three V2s taking part in the operation. The only members of the Fourteenth who would be involved were Egor, Varvara, and Esther. The rest of the beleaguered unit was simply too injured to partake. There would, however, be other familiar faces to fill the ranks. In addition to the Fourteenth’s contributors, Javon and Tom would be there, as would Feliks and Pyotr. Serving as XO for Dostoevsky’s squad was Rashid, who’d recovered enough from the injuries he sustained in Krasnoyarsk to resume field activity. Though Natalie didn’t know the man particularly well, in what few conversations she’d had with him at Northern Forge, he struck her as a sound presence in a scenario that desperately called for such.

Though Natalie’s name was listed as someone under Dostoevsky’s command, there was no indication as to where she fell within the ranking structure. Fulcrums oversaw slayers—that much she knew. Perhaps, that was all there was to know.

More than ever, the whole meeting left her once again feeling that she didn’t belong to this group of people. Antipov had talked a good game when he’d “recruited” her, but now that she was in, what was she? It seemed she was little more than a visual aid for inclusivity. The token woman. Or at least, the token woman that wasn’t Esther. And she wasn’t exactly sure what Esther was at this point. She only knew this: she would have a role in this operation, even if it was one of her own making. She hoped Dostoevsky would give her that much.

One thing Natalie was surprised about was that there was no mention of Sydney whatsoever. Whatever role they were playing in this was under wraps. She could only assume that General Becker was being kept in the loop.

When the crowd was dismissed, they rose with a typical post-brief murmur. On a better day, under better circumstances, Natalie would have sought out Antipov after the meeting to ask follow-up questions, but after having already drawn more attention to herself than she’d intended, the last thing she wanted to do was potentially entrench herself deeper into Antipov’s ire. Instead, she turned to Dostoevsky. “So what do you think of all this?” If there was anyone who could understand the internal dilemma she was dealing with, it would surely be him.

Sliding his hands into his pockets, the fulcrum answered, “I think tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

“He didn’t say anything about Sydney. Do you think they’re playing a role in this? I mean, they must be, right?”

“I am sure. But as is often the case, Antipov likes to keep his best assets secret.”

Glancing around to ensure no one was listening into their conversation, she leaned closer to him. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

Though he seemed a bit surprised by the request, he nodded his head. “Of course.”

“How do you do this?”

He looked at her strangely. “What do you mean?”

“How do you align yourself so easily with these people?”

At that, he chuckled and smiled. “I am one of these people.”

In response, she shook her head. “You know that’s not true. You wear the same kind of armor as they do, but you’re not like this crowd—at all.”

He offered a placating, if not strained half-smile. Drawing a breath, he answered, “Whether or not I feel the same way as my brethren is irrelevant. I committed murder to earn the right to wear this armor, as did they. I will always be a Nightman.” He seemed to consider her. “This is my ministry, Natalie. Only someone who has been through what they have been through can reach them. It has become my purpose. Though I fight with them, I know some of them look upon me to see something different—to see if there is hope in the darkness. I am a fulcrum. I am also a man who loves God. The two need not be mutually exclusive.”

She got that. She truly did. She just had no idea how that was supposed to help her. “Unfortunately for me, I don’t think I have much of a ‘ministry’ with this group, or whatever you’d call it.”

The commander angled his head. “Then who is your ministry with?”

Blinking, Natalie looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“Who can you reach that no one else can reach? How have you been put in a unique position to address a certain group of people—or a need? That is your ministry. That is what you must find out.”

“And when I found out, then what?”

He smiled. “That part is up to you.” With no further words, he stepped backward to walk away. “Get ready, captain. Tomorrow is a big day.” Turning away, Dostoevsky made his way for the exit, his words left to linger.

And for Natalie to deal with.

Her ministry. Never once in all of her time with EDEN had she ever thought of her job as a ministry. If she indeed had such a thing, it was not to anyone in the Nightman sect. Her ministry would be to those like her. Those who followed a call to be something higher—something greater. Those who’d decided to protect Earth even if it cost them their lives. If Dostoevsky’s ministry was to the Nightmen, surely Natalie’s was to EDEN.

The question was, how was she supposed to live that ministry out? She was about to partake in a mission to attack EDEN Command. Beyond just the extraction of Scott and company, it was an opportunity to send a message to the world. But what message would that be?

I am one with The Machine.

That was the message. Or, that would be as soon as she appeared on the scene wearing that dark-horned armor. Natalie Rockwell, once an ideal soldier of EDEN, had succumbed to the temptation of darkness, just like Scott Remington had. But at least he had that golden collar. What did she have? Who would she be representing? Antipov? The late General Thoor? Herself?

No. None of those answers could be right. She needed to represent the young men and women who’d left everything behind to fight for a cause. For those who’d lost loved ones in this war. For those, like her, who’d joined to make a difference. Those for whom that gleam of silver and blue still meant something.

There were so many words that drifted through Natalie’s mind as she thought about tomorrow—about what it would bring, not only to her, but to the world. Tomorrow, the people of Earth would hear the truth about those they’d entrusted to protect it. They would know that there were people out there willing to risk death to save it. She could think of no better ministry than the restoration of that faith where it’d been lost.

And there was only one way she could think of to do that.

As news of the operation spread, the operatives of Falcon Platoon and the Fourteenth found cause to gather together. There was no place more appropriate than in the troop bay of the Pariah, the aircraft that’d brought them all together on this journey of purpose and circumstance—on this wild ride that occasionally resembled a slow-motion train wreck. And yet, in the company of each other, sitting spaced out along the floor and in the seats, they found reasons to smile. They found thoughts of those they’d lost and those they’d soon see again. Thoughts they knew would drive them tomorrow to find success. To demand it, not only of themselves, but of each other.

Dostoevsky made it clear that, despite the general’s preordained plan, anyone who wanted to partake in the operation would be allowed in his transport. It was a statement met with enthusiasm, but also a solemn understanding of why things had been planned the way they had. Every injured warrior who partook was one less able body who’d be able to fit inside. One less effective fighter. One less person to truly help. It was a shared understanding, even if it was one the group did not like. In the end, there was but one seat on the transport that went unclaimed of those that were available. As it turned out, there was only one truly able body who could possibly take it. It was the person Natalie wanted on board more than anyone else at Northern Forge. The person that, on this evening of clarity, she longed to share friendship with again.

Logan Marshall didn’t gather with the rest of the group when they made their way to the Pariah, nor did he send Natalie any messages regarding it, despite the fact that he surely knew this mission was going down. But that did not deter her from hoping he’d walk into that hangar tomorrow and tell her, “Hell, Nattie, you know I can’t let you go alone.” So strong was her conviction that she brought it up with the group. It was for that reason alone—for the sake of that Australian mercenary who could singlehandedly turn a tide—that no one claimed that one vacant seat. It was his, if he decided he wanted it.

Eventually, the chatter died down and the first of many yawns began to emerge. As comforting as it’d been to have a final moment of togetherness before the day of the mission, it was also important that everyone found rest. Leaving the Pariah, they ventured back toward their quarters to sleep.

Everyone except Natalie. There was but one more task—one more act of inspiration—that she needed to do. After making her way to a quiet corner on Level-2, she sat on the floor, set her helmet camera facing her across the hallway, and recorded a message. A testimony, much as she imagined Colonel Lilan’s had been. Something to be aired alongside the audio recording of Archer and the Ceratopians. The world was about to hear that some of their most trusted had sold them out. They needed to hear a reason to still hope.

As soon as the message was finished, Natalie too made her way to the living quarters, where she slipped beneath the sheets of her cot to find rest.

It found her quickly.

* * *

EDEN Command

At the same time

FUN IN THE SUMMER sun. Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the summer sun.

Tiffany’s head hung low in her chair—the same one she’d been strapped to for who knew how long. As her blond strands swung melodically with the chorus that now lived on repeat in her head, she stared at their ends as they moved back and forth like wheat swaying in the wind. Or a crowd waving their hands. Or perhaps, waves in the ocean.

Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the summer sun.

The song still played in the room, as it did every minute of every hour of every day, except when someone would enter the room to ask her questions she was no longer able to understand, let alone answer. She had no more fingernails to pry off. She’d been struck, had her hair yanked, been water boarded. The past however long it had been had seen her run through the gamut of torture techniques, with little success to show for it. Given what felt like mere minutes of sleep per day, she could scarcely conjure up enough brain power to remember her name. In fact, there was only one thing she knew well enough to recite at all.

Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the summer sun.

Eyes rolling back, Tiffany felt the reality around her start to fade as it did seemingly every hour. This was how it always happened.

Fun in the… summer sun. Fun in…

There was no existence to be had. No future to comprehend. Hope having long abandoned her, the only happy thing the blonde longed for was when her captors tortured Scott through the speaker. His screams were the closest thing she had left to a true human connection. They reminded her that she wasn’t alone.

Fun...

Eyes heavy as cinder blocks, she bobbed her head once, twice, then a third time. The pulsing bass continued.

Oceans. A surfboard. Her and her girlfriends as teenagers on the beach. Winking at the boys as they passed. Some of the boys winking back. The thoughts flitted through her consciousness like a flickering screen.

Then…

Gasp!

She never heard them come in anymore. Long and slow over her head, they always poured it. Making it last. Making it awful. The shock never changed. Open mouthed and hyperventilating, Tiffany tensed as the ice water came down. Her eyes always closed at first. Then they opened, watching as her soaked, blond strands streamed with water over her head and toward her lap. She sucked in as the slow pour was finished.

They never asked questions. Not anymore. For so long they’d tried, until it became an effort met with futility. Now, they just kept her awake. They just pounded her eardrums. They just twisted the knobs of insanity as far as they would go, as if waiting for her to come to them with information. As Archer had told her several times already, “the door is open when you decide you want to step through.” But she knew nothing of doors. She knew just one thing.

Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the summer sun.

Shivering as she stared through the wet hair that hung over her eyes, she gazed at the wall before her as if looking right through it. As if beholding some realm that only she could see. Her face was expressionless.

The guard—another one of the nameless few that Archer and Oleg seemed to employ for tasks such as this—leaned down to look at her face, almost as if to ascertain whether the woman before him was still a woman at all. To see if she’d been reduced to a shell. Reaching forward, he wiped her dripping strands back over her head. A kindness? Or did he just want to see the crazy in her? It mattered not. Standing upright again, he turned for the exit, stepping back into the hall with his empty bucket. The trembling blonde was left behind as the cell door closed.

There were no words. There were no feelings. There was no future or past. There was only a cold, miserable present. There was only the chill. Staring ahead for a few moments longer, Tiffany lowered her head back down, the strands so carefully pushed back once again falling forward. Once more, she watched them sway. Like an ocean. Like a crowd.

There was a sudden, loud clank. The room was cast in total darkness—the endlessly looping pop song fell silent. Flinching in her chair, Tiffany shot her head upright as red emergency lights kicked on. Was this a dream? In front of her, she heard a loud clunk come from the cell door. A lockdown.

Above her head, the speaker system crackled, as if a channel had suddenly been opened. From it, a voice emerged that she’d never heard before. “You need to listen, Tiffany. I don’t have much time.”

This voice…it was addressing her? It sounded so pressed, so real. So…southern. She wanted to question it as to its existence—to question the existence of everything that was suddenly going on around her. To interrogate this hallucinogenic manifestation. It continued before she could.

“I just initiated a remote restart of the base’s main power hub. I have just about a minute before it cycles back on and they’ll be able to hear me.”

Hear him? Lips pressing together, she managed to form a single word. “Who…?”

“Tomorrow, the Nightmen are going to storm this place. They’re coming to get you, Remington, and McCrae out before they destroy the facility. You’ll know when it happens. Every wall around you’s gonna start shakin’.”

Destroy the entire facility? McCrae? Did the voice mean Becan? Her head was spinning. But this was a dream. Wasn’t it? This voice was the final desperate grasping of her mind before it became forever lost.

“I’m gonna try and get to you quick, but I may not get there before EDEN does. If they show up, they’ll be showing up to kill you. Fight ’em with all you got left.”

All I have left? What else do I have left? Upon opening her mouth, she found it hard to form the word. “How?” Wait a minute…was this real? Was the voice she was hearing not the madness in her brain? Was someone really coming for them? Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the summer sun. Fun in the—no, listen!

“Hang in there, Feathers. You’ll be out of here, soon.”

The rush of sanity came to her quickly. The conversation she was having was real. Lurching forward in her chair, she yelled, “Wait!”

There was another loud clunk. The emergency lights faded. They were replaced by the bright white lights of the cell. Power had been restored. Ahead, from the cell door, she heard the lockdown bolt lift. The speakers burst back to life again, the blaring lyrics of Slammin’ Sam and the Wham Ka-Blam reverberating in all their top-pop glory. And just like that—just like that—everything was back the way it was.

Almost.

I just had that conversation. That voice I heard was really talking to me. Are we about to be rescued?

All of a sudden, despite the pulsing music and the shivering cold of the dousing, Tiffany found a ledge of clarity to cling to. She didn’t care who that voice was. What did it matter? If it was a trick of Archer’s, then she’d be no worse for wear imagining it real than writing it off as a delusion. But she didn’t think it was a delusion. That wasn’t what her quickening heart rate was telling her.

Angling her head downward, Tiffany stared at the floor. On the outside, she looked much the same as she had when the words of Fun in the Summer Sun were looping endlessly in her brain. But this time, despite its earsplitting presence in the cell, she wasn’t hearing it. She wasn’t affected by it. Her thoughts were too deeply focused.

“All I have left,” she whispered. Closing her eyes, she cleared her mind of everything except those four words. All I have left. All I have left. She was beaten, demoralized, chained, weakened. A mental shell of herself with scarcely the strength left to fight—and not even that did an ounce of good while she was shackled to a chair.

All I have left.

All she could summon. All she could possibly muster. Every ounce of everything she had left in her brain, body, and spirit. Until she had nothing.

All I have left.

The voice had had limited time to speak. It’d chosen to speak to her instead of Scott. There must have been a reason. Scott must have been too far gone to have heard it. There was no other reason why the voice would have chosen her. She’d heard Scott’s torture; it’d been relentless. She’d been given a heads-up, but Scott had been given nothing. If EDEN got to him first, he wouldn’t even know they were there to execute him. Suddenly, her heeding the voice’s warning was more than for her own benefit. It might very well be to save her and Scott’s life.

Twisting her hands in their clasps, she strained to pull one of them free. It was an effort she’d attempted many times before. Her wrists had already bled from it. Never had they come close to slipping out. Jaw tightening, she lowered her head.

I have time. I have time to figure this out. I just need to clear my head. It was easier said than done with Slammin’ Sam in the room—but at the end of the day, that was just another excuse. The time for excuses had run out. All I have left means all I have left. I’ve got a lot left in the tank. I am Tiffany vecking Feathers. I am exceptional. I am…

…I am totally rad.

Despite the fatigue, despite the physical and emotional torture, despite everything she’d endured, she found herself feeling a spike in focus. A spike in determination, like the recipient of an adrenaline shot. That voice—that hope—had done it for her. She wasn’t insane. She’d just fooled herself into acceptance of what seemed like an insurmountable task. Escape. Hope. How closely the two were tied together. Perhaps the latter could lead to the former. Perhaps that was all she ever needed.

Minutes and hours ticked past. Tiffany made no effort to mask her fatigue—no effort to try and hide it from view to avoid a dousing. She’d survived on scant sleep for this long. She could make it one more day. Lowering her head and closing her eyes when she needed a boost, she simply waited for the guards and their buckets to come. She met the water eagerly, even lifting her head on occasion to let it pour right over her face—open-mouthed and gasping all the while. A shake of the head later, and her brain was good to go. Figuring. Tinkering. Plotting like her life depended on it. She knew that it did. Salvation was coming.

She was ready to meet it.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-five

Friday, April 13th, 0012 NE

1421 hours

Norilsk, Russia

NATALIE HAD SEEN many breathtaking sights in her lifetime. The aquamarine waters of St. John’s Trunk Bay in the U.S. Virgin Islands. The jewel-like lights that adorned the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Even the sun breaking over Pyramids of Egypt, just outside of Cairo. Fortunate to be born into a family of relative affluence, she’d taken advantage of every opportunity to see the beauty that Earth had to offer—a blessing that manifested onward in her adult life, be it by conscious decision or circumstance. She had seen so many beautiful things.

None of them were prettier than Nebraska.

As the chestnut-haired captain stood with her eyes closed in her room—her roommates long having departed for the hangar—all she saw in her mind were those endless, amber waves of grain in that place she called home. People joked about the flatness of the Cornhusker State, but she wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. It reminded her to stay grounded. It reminded her of the importance of a solid foundation. Of a core set of ideals, a moral compass. It reminded her not so much of who she was, but of who she strove to be. She had a chance to be that person now.

In less than a half hour, Northern Forge’s hangar doors would open and its transports would set their sights on EDEN Command. The Nightmen were taking back the world today—freeing it from a tyrannical rule it didn’t know it was under. That was their message to the world. She was supposed to be among them, adorned in their armor, ushering in a new future where the Nightmen would be seen as liberators. Antipov had given her everything but a red carpet on which to walk. He gave her everything she could have asked for.

She was about to turn it all down. She was about to show up to the main event horribly underdressed, but also as herself—a woman fighting not to destroy the organization that’d cast her aside, but to restore its honor. She was probably the only person on this mission that felt that way. That was fine with her. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been there before.

Knock, knock, knock.

Natalie opened her eyes, and she took in her reflection in the mirror. She took in that blue and silver armor as it gleamed in the light. It had a luster all its own. She was sure Artur would miss it. She always had a thing for lost causes, be it Logan, the Caracals, or EDEN itself. There was no better story than one of redemption. She was ready to play her part.

“Hey Vee, you comin’?” Easing the door open, Javon leaned his head through. The soldier was dressed out in slayer armor, only his helmet missing. She didn’t blame him for that choice. As much as anyone else, he’d earned the right to be bitter. Nodding her head and drawing in a deep breath, she said, “Yeah. I’ll be right on my way.”

She saw him nod in the mirror. Taking a step backward into the hall, he paused just past the door’s precipice. His eyes stayed on her for a moment before he said, “You look good in that, captain.”

She smiled, her eyes drifting to meet his in the mirror. A second later, he was gone, the soldier quietly closing the door behind him.

Looking at the floor, Natalie set her eyes upon the EDEN helmet that was lying there. Bending down, she carefully picked it up and held it in her hands. Once more, she stared at her reflection, this time in the sky blue visor on its front. The captain closed her eyes again.

This was it. This was the culmination of her journey—her rise to captaincy, her being swept away from Cairo by the outlaws, her being disavowed by EDEN and the world. This was her chance to make it all worth it.

This was her chance.

Turning the helmet around, she slid it down over her head. It fit like it was made for her. After setting it firmly in place until its latches clicked, she stared at her reflection again. How different it looked behind that beautiful sky blue. How right.

Walking to the door, Natalie stopped only to grab her E-35 from where she’d propped it against the wall. Upon slinging it over her shoulder, she marched out of her room.

Northern Forge’s hangars were bursting with activity, all pertaining to the mission that Antipov had dubbed Dark Thunder. Every member of the Fourteenth was there—even those not participating in the mission. As Dostoevsky gave a final inspection to the V2 he would be commanding, those under him assisted in loading weapons and equipment. Everyone was lending a helping hand—until the sight of a new arrival made them all stop.

She walked into the hangar like an angel of light. Bright reflections danced on the surface of her EDEN armor like sunbeams, radiating with splendor. It was even enough to pull Dostoevsky from his inspection, as he joined every other eye in gazing upon her.

As for the object of everyone’s awe, Natalie had determined to keep her own gaze steadfastly ahead. She wanted to block out the noise—to focus on her destination. To be wholly unaffected. That was, until someone of prominence stepped in her path.

The expression on Antipov’s face was one of grim acceptance, almost as if he’d known this was going to happen. Crossing his arms, the scruffy general waited for Natalie to stop before him. For almost ten seconds, the two stared at each other, like colliding, immovable wills. It was Antipov who finally blinked. “Captain Rockwell, you have disappointed me in every conceivable way.” Her eyes remained steady, as did his. At long last, he dipped his head. “I respect you more than you know for that.” Lifting his hand, Antipov offered her an EDEN salute. “Godspeed to you, captain.”

For Natalie, the gesture was unexpected, but appreciated. She offered an EDEN salute in return. “Thank you, general.”

Turning away from her, Antipov returned to his other tasks in the hangar. As soon as Natalie approached the V2, Dostoevsky met her at its base. “I had a feeling you might do that.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, glancing away nonchalantly, “someone got to talking about purposes and ministries. You know how it goes.”

“Oh, yes. I do.”

“Permission to come aboard?”

He nodded. “We wouldn’t leave without you.” Stepping aside, he allowed her to walk past him into the aircraft.

Esther was in the middle of securing equipment when Natalie walked aboard. The scout was dressed in the same kind of black tactical gear she’d worn on the train hijack mission. As she watched Natalie enter, she smirked and rose to her feet. “Well, look who decided to join the peasants. Welcome, your majesty. You honor us with your presence.”

Returning the smirk with one in kind, Natalie said, “At least you’ve finally learned your place.”

The scout approached Natalie, holding out her open hand for Natalie to slap. The captain did, and their hands locked tightly in place. “Are you ready for this?” Esther asked.

“You know it.”

“Let’s bring our friends home.” Releasing Natalie’s hand, Esther resumed her securing of equipment. Natalie stared at her suspiciously. When the scout finally noticed, she paused and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Angling her head, Natalie asked, “Are you okay?”

“Of course.”

“You just…” What was the right way to word it? “You seem confident.”

Esther raised an eyebrow. “Should I not be?”

“No, it’s just…”

A silence fell between them that teetered on awkward, until Esther finally broke it. Her expression softening, she stood to meet Natalie again. “I’m all right. I mean that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, thank you for asking,” the scout answered. Upon opening her mouth, she seemed to second guess herself before continuing. “I’m not proud of myself for how I reacted to…you know. The news.”

She’d heard all about it.

“I betrayed Jay’s faith in me in that moment. It’s something I regret. Today is my chance to get things right.” Her expression hardened. “EDEN have no idea what’s coming to their doorstep. There’s a baby boy in America who needs his daddy back. I intend to be the one to rescue him.”

It was good to hear those things. It was good to know that Esther’s head was in the right place.

“Just do me one favor,” Esther said, kneeling next to the equipment, though her eyes stayed on Natalie. “You make sure Scott and Tiffany get back safely. I’m entrusting them to you.”

For several seconds, Natalie’s emerald gaze lingered on Esther’s, before she allowed—at last—a smirk to creep out. “I didn’t get all dressed up for nothing.”

“Dashing,” Esther said. “Now stop watching me like a proper supervisor and give me a hand with this gear.”

Kneeling, Natalie joined Esther’s work.

Throughout the hangar, the armored warriors of the Nightmen marched toward their respective transports. There were three V2s in total in the hangar, not counting the Pariah, which had been repaired to baseline operability but would not be participating in the assault. Over the speakers of the transports, Antipov’s voice crackled through. “All teams, prepare to depart.”

Colonel Saretok—towering over the Nightmen around him—slid his custom fulcrum’s helmet over his mohawked head, its faceplate’s painted, crimson streaks identifying him in the crowd. If there was any question as to the significance of this operation, the sight of the fully-armored and weapons-laden colonel laid to rest any doubt. With an assault rifle slung over his back, a hand cannon strapped to one side of his hip, and a pair of handguns holstered on the other, the Nightman second-in-command looked like a human war machine. Iosif Antipov might have been the leader of the Nightmen, but the muscle belonged to king of the fulcrums.

Claws clanking in near-rhythmic unison, three packs of necrilids stalked into the transports behind their human masters. Psoglav, the one-eyed alpha that had fought under Dostoevsky in Atami, once again padded toward him. When he reached Dostoevsky’s side, he crouched onto his haunches.

From the back of the troop bay, the members of the Fourteenth and Falcon Platoon watched as Centurion, geared from head to toe in all his black-armored, red-plumed glory, ducked to make entry. All of the stops were being pulled, from human warriors to alien assets. So far as Natalie could see, there was only one thing missing.

Where was Logan?

She hadn’t heard a single word from him since the mission was announced. He knew she was going. Surely, he would show up for it. Briefly, she glanced to the empty seat. It had been left vacant in case he decided to go. In case he decided to be a difference maker. But with every second that passed, it was looking less and less likely that’d be the case.

An empty seat. A space for another warrior. One who wanted to be a part of this. Who believed in it. Her gaze shifted to the rest of the Fourteenth—those who weren’t slated to be a part of things. David, Max, William, Boris. They were all there watching. All wishing they could take part, but all too injured to go.

Who was the right one to take?

It was in that moment that she saw him. Not Logan—she knew by that point he wasn’t coming. But there was someone else who wanted to be a part of this. Someone else who had a dog in this fight. Who just wanted—just needed—a chance to prove himself.

“Mark!” she called out. When the cadet, overshadowed by the older men he stood behind, heard his name called, his eyes widened. “Let’s get your brother!”

There was no hesitation. Mark Remington bolted past the other men toward the ramp with as much gusto as she’d seen from anyone. As he jostled past Centurion and the crowd of Nightmen in the troop bay, Esther called out to him, “There’s a set of slayer armor up here, Mark! I’m sure we can cram you into it.” The cadet did as instructed, and Esther began helping him into his gear.

Sliding through the crowd toward the rear bay door, Natalie gripped a handrail to stare out just as the ramp began to rise. It was right then that she finally saw Logan, standing at the precipice of the hangar entrance. Unarmored and without a weapon, he was just standing there, eyes on hers as she stared back at him. Like an act of personal defiance. Natalie’s eyes narrowed. The last glimpse she had of her Australian ex-lover was him turning to walk back into the base. The troop bay door sealed. Those that were in, were in. It was time for Dark Thunder to roll.

Over the speakers, Antipov’s voice emerged again. “Good luck to you all. Those who fall today will be remembered forever.”

“Everybody, strap in!” yelled Dostoevsky, prompting Natalie to scoot past Centurion to find a seat. Plopping down next to Javon, she strapped in tightly. Beyond those soldiers she knew, there were a slew that she didn’t—all Nightmen under Dostoevsky’s command. Ahead, through the open door that led to the cockpit, she watched the mountain base’s massive hangar doors open. The V2’s engines roared to life. She felt the uneasiness of it lifting off.

They were on their way.

“Hey, Vee,” Javon said from beside her. She looked his way. “You know we ’bout to fly into a hornet’s nest, right?”

“I don’t know, Quinton,” she answered, looking at him. “I rather think a hornet’s nest is about to fly into them.”

Slowly, the corners of the soldier’s lips crept upward. He nodded his head. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s right, baby!” On the other side of him, Tom whoo-ed.

Nightmen. Necrilids. A decked-out Ceratopian warrior. EDEN Command had no idea what was coming. It was time to set things right.

Drifting forward one at a time, the trio of transports hovered over the mountain valley then turned their noses south. One behind the other, they set off on their way.

What they didn’t know was that something was on its way to them, too. Something that had been watching them—stalking them. Narrowing its scope of focus bit by bit every time their hangar doors opened to allow their hidden beacon to communicate. Tracking a signal nobody at Northern Forge knew was there.

As the V2s set off on their way to EDEN Command, so did Vector’s purple-and-white-clad warriors set their sights on the mountain, and the long tunnel that led into it from the city of Norilsk. Their chaos rifles were at the ready; their passion rivaled that of their dark adversaries. They needed but a final direction in which to go.

Now they had one.

* * *

EDEN Command

At the same time

TICKING. TICKING. TICKING.

In the time since Tiffany had heard the unnamed voice address her through the cell speaker, her mind had been in a constant state of exhausted, adrenaline-fueled motion. Hours had passed. So many hours. Perhaps a full day. Enough to make her feel as if whatever it was that was supposed to be coming was right around the corner. And in all of that time—in all of that mental dissecting of her situation—she’d come up with no feasible plan to break free from her chains.

She couldn’t pick her locks. She didn’t have a bobby pin. Even if she did, and even if she could somehow manage to get it into her hands, which were cuffed behind the back of the chair, she wouldn’t have known what to do with it.

It wasn’t like she could charge whatever guard entered next and steal their keys. Both of her ankles were clasped to a leg of the chair. If she somehow managed to stand, she’d topple forward in the very next second. What she needed at this stage was a miracle—and those had been in short supply for a long time. But she wouldn’t give up. She couldn’t give up. For all she knew, Scott’s survival depended on her freeing herself and getting to him before EDEN did.

So think on, she did.

The cell door slid open. As Tiffany lifted her head, she watched a guard walk in with a tray of food. It must have been lunch time. After placing her plate atop a tray, the guard wheeled it in her direction until it was extended over her lap, once again for her to unceremoniously digest via face insertion. Looking down at the tray, she saw that it was one of the same meal combos she always received. Chicken on the bone, mashed potatoes, and a spoonful of dirty rice. And…something else.

It was a drab green color—smooth and creamy, in the spot on the divider plate typically reserved for dessert. As the guard made his way to the far wall to lean as he watched her, she looked up at him. “What’s this green stuff?”

“Avocado custard,” the guard said.

She blinked. “What?”

“Avocado custard. One of the guards from C-Wing wanted you to have it. I think she made it.”

Oh my God. He was talking about Ching. “One of the guards made me this?”

“That’s right.”

“And you just let me have it?”

He stared at her blankly. “It’s custard. What’s it do, give you superhuman strength?”

“No.”

“Eat the stupid stuff.”

She was too stunned to. Lowering her head, she stared at the custard as it sat plopped in all its green glory. Deep within her, something stirred. Ching made me custard. Avocado freaking custard. And of all the times, she made it for me right now. This had deeper meaning written all over it, but what possible deeper meaning could it have? It wasn’t even the most palatable looking thing. It looked…slimy. Oily. Just so…

So…

…

…slippery.

The tiny hairs on Tiffany’s arms stood on end. Slimy. Oily. Slippery. The tingle ran all the way up her spine. This is lubricant.

All the while she’d struggled against her handcuffs, she’d been rubbing skin against metal. But with something slick, with some kind of lubricant, could she actually slip one of her hands free? Could she actually…escape?

“You gonna eat that or just stare at it?” the guard asked, snapping Tiffany momentarily out of her thoughts.

Still looking at the tray, she answered simply, “Yeah. I’m gonna eat it.”

Like hell she was going to eat it. She was going to use it. She was going to save it for last, then cram as much of the stuff in her mouth as she could without it looking obvious. Then the moment that guard stepped out, she was going to somehow get it from her mouth to her hands. Somehow. Some way. Failure was not an option.

Bite. Chew. Struggle. She played the role of hapless eater just as she had ever since they’d begun feeding her this way. She let herself look like a fool, with food on her face and drink dribbling down her outfit. That was fine. That was all well and good. It was all part of the façade. When the time came for the custard, she did exactly what she set out in her mind to do. Lowering her face to the tray, she opened her mouth and began inhaling as much of it as she possibly could. Gobs were going everywhere. Smearing on her face, sticking to the tip of her nose. She didn’t care. What mattered was how much she could fit in her cheeks without giving it away. And boy, was she fitting. It actually tasted good, though she dared not swallow and waste a lick of it.

By the time Tiffany finished, she looked like she had a green goatee—though a quick rub against her shoulders removed most of it. Flicking a few food-covered tips of hair out of her face, she looked up at the guard. “Done,” she murmured.

The guard made his way to her without a word. She wanted it that way. The last thing she needed was for him to start asking questions and making her talk with cheeks full. Seconds later, he was walking out of the cell, the door closing behind him.

Time to move.

Scooting her rear end as far to the left as she could—enough to expose a good few inches of the chair seat on her right—she leaned her head over her shoulder and made like she was wiping her chin. She knew what she had to do.

Drop this stuff. Drop it right on that chair in a green, glorious mess. Hit the mark.

Opening her mouth, Tiffany allowed the custard she’d stuffed in her cheeks to fall out. Her aim was true, and it landed with a plop on the chairside.

She had to move quickly now. Stretching her handcuffed hands as far to the right as she could, she managed to reach the custard, scooping it awkwardly into her right hand then scooting her butt to the right to cover up the mess. Mission accomplished—so far.

Rubbing her hands together, Tiffany slathered the oily substance as best she could all over them. It felt revolting, but it was a means to an end. To an escape. Now, if she could only escape…

Twisting her hands, she strained with every fiber of strength she had in her. She pulled like her life depended on it. The slipperiness was granting her far more leeway. But it hurt.

All you have left!

Clamping her teeth together, Tiffany strained to force her right hand through the cuff. Her eyes were watering. She just about wanted to scream. But it was working. She could feel it, millimeter by millimeter, working. There came a point where she wasn’t sure what was custard and what was blood. But if she had to break her own hand, so be it.

So be it.

All…

The pain was becoming almost unbearable.

…you…

God, she was close. She was so very, very close.

…have…

She could feel it. She could feel it giving way. She was going to do it. If she could just…pull…a little…

…left!

Tighter! Something in her hand popped. The pain jolted up her arm like electricity. She’d just dislocated something. Her mouth opened; she wanted to scream. Lowering her head and biting down on her lips, she held it in as she slammed her feet up and down in pain. She wasn’t there yet. But she was so, so close. Whatever damage she’d done to her hand, she would deal with later. Right now, she just had to pull. And pull. And pull.

Until…

Tiffany’s right hand popped through the cuff with such velocity, it nearly startled her. She quickly drew it back, tucking it into the cuff just enough to shroud its freedom from view.

The reality of what’d just taken place struck her. Tiffany found herself staring blankly ahead. I did it. The bottom of her thumb, right next to her palm, throbbed. But in that moment of victory, the pain was scarcely even noticed. I just vecking did it. She was free. Had she chosen to, she could have moved both of her hands from their position behind the chair to her lap. She could do with them whatever she wanted.

Instead, she stayed still. My ankles are still clasped to this chair. There’s nothing I can do about them—not without a key. I know the guards have magnetic handcuff locks. I’ve seen them use them. When the time came, she would have to somehow incapacitate a guard with only her hands. Angling her head down in thought, she massaged her right thumb. It didn’t feel broken. She’d broken bones before. As bad as this felt, broken bones felt worse. I dislocated my thumb. She had to fix it. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed hold of the base of her right thumb with her left hand where it was deformed. With a holding of her breath and a hard yank, she pulled the base of her thumb back into place with an absolutely excruciating pop. Once more, it took everything in her to not scream out loud. But the blonde held it in. Through watering eyes, she stared down at the floor.

That loose handcuff is a weapon. When the guard comes for me, I can sling my left hand at him and whack him in the face. Then I’ll…

Then she would have to take advantage of whatever opportunity the universe presented her. Grab his weapon. Put him in a headlock. Do an acrobatic handstand and break the chair over his skull. At this stage, she believed anything was possible. It was a far cry from how she’d felt before that godsend of a voice had come to her.

I can do this. I know I can do this. Get ready to fight, Feathers.

Eyes determined and hands tense like a coiled snake, she waited for the moment to come. That moment when the walls would shake. When the Nightmen would arrive to take her and Scott back. These guards had no idea what was coming. After all she’d been through at their hands, she wouldn’t want it any other way.

That shock on their faces would almost make it worth it.

* * *

Northern Forge

ANTIPOV WAS SITTING in the front row of the briefing room, his eyes set on the projector screen that displayed a live map of the transports’ positions. A quiet murmur emanated all around him from both the Nightmen in the crowd and the stragglers from the Fourteenth and Falcon Platoon who’d meandered in to observe. For anyone who wanted to be in the know, that room was the place to be. For what it was worth, Antipov was far too focused on the screen to pay any mind to casual observers.

The general’s fingers rapped on his comm, and he looked down at it. With the push of a button and the issuance of a single command, the air traffic control towers of EDEN’s global interception network would be felled. His eidola, embedded into EDEN bases all around the world, were ready and waiting. The bombs were set, the operatives were in position. All they needed was the call.

From one end of Northern Forge to the next, people were waiting with bated breath. There was so much tension in the atmosphere. Everyone from base groundskeepers to Antipov himself seemed wound up like tops, as if all it would take was the slightest thing to go wrong to make their whole plan come unhinged. One single hiccup. One thing no one saw coming.

The two sentries on patrol in the tram tunnel never knew what hit them. As chaos rounds crashed through their helmets, they collapsed to the floor without anyone the wiser. No one saw the force of Vector-led EDEN soldiers stalking through the tunnel in the cameras. Every eye on base was glued to the mission timetable. Glued to that quickly ticking clock.

It was ticking faster than any of them knew.

* * *

Likouala Swamp, Congo

NATALIE STARED THROUGH the V2’s open cockpit door at its front window. They’d been in the air for some time now—long enough for their destination to be close. Shifting her view to look out the side portholes, she watched some of the Omegas from Gagarin Wing that’d been escorting them. The route the fleet was taking was calculated, meant to avoid detection until the last possible moment—until being seen was no longer of consequence.

Any time now, that moment would come.

* * *

Northern Forge

MORE SHOTS FIRED. Another pair of sentries fell. As Chiumbo Okayo led his squad of Vectors and EDEN soldiers through the tunnel, he patched through to EDEN Command, where Klaus Faerber was listening in. “We are approaching the end of the tunnel. We will be inside their base soon.” Over a hundred strong behind him, the collection of EDEN’s elite drew nearer.

“Mariner is en route,” Klaus answered. “Find and extract Lisa as quickly as you can.”

“Yes, captain.” Focus shifting to Marty Breaux and Pablo Quintana behind him, Chiumbo said, “Get ready to deliver.”

Pablo acknowledged, kneeling to press a command into the wrist pad on his gauntlet. The drone hovering over him revved to life, streaking down the tunnel ahead of the group.

* * *

Likouala Swamp, Congo

ANTIPOV’S VOICE emerged over the fleet’s speakers. “All eidola, prepare to disrupt the interception network. All Omega Fighters, prepare to fire on EDEN Command.”

Closing her eyes, Natalie exhaled a slow, purposeful breath. Get ready. This is it. Today, it all comes to light. In every part of the troop bay, soldiers silently fell into their zones.

“All forces, on my mark,” Antipov said. “Ten…”

* * *

Northern Forge

WITH HANDS TOGETHER as if in silent prayer, David pressed his fingers to his mouth as he stared at the countdown on the projector screen. Around him, his comrades held their breath.

“…nine…” Antipov said from the front of the room.

“I’M TAPPED INTO THEIR systems,” said Pablo breathily as he trotted behind Chiumbo and Marty. “The drone is ready!”

“Overload on my mark,” said Chiumbo through EDEN’s channel. “Five…”

“…EIGHT…” said Antipov.

Closing her eyes and clenching her teeth, Catalina lowered her head.

“…seven…”

“…THREE…” said Chiumbo. Around him, his soldiers readied their weapons.

* * *

Likouala Swamp, Congo

“HAIL THOOR!” SCREAMED one of the fulcrums in Natalie’s transport. “Hail The Machine!”

“Hail Thoor!” the others yelled. “Hail The Machine!” Around them, necrilids tensed and hissed.

Antipov’s voice crackled through. “…six…five…”

Natalie stared ahead at Esther—Esther stared right back at her.

* * *

Northern Forge

RISING TO HIS FEET, Antipov opened his mouth to say four. The word never came out. From every direction, inside the walls themselves, there came a loud, buzzing hum. Blinking, Antipov turned to look around.

The briefing room went dark. The countdown timer, the projector—all turned pitch black.

“The hell?” said Max from the floor, where he and his able cohorts had been seated.

From deep within the walls, there came a clunk. Northern Forge’s red, pulsating emergency lights kicked on.

Raising his comm to his lips, Antipov shakily said, “Northern Forge to fleet.” There came no response. “Northern Forge to fleet! Antipov to Saretok, to eidola. Anyone?”

Beneath the dim, red-light glow, David and Max swapped weary looks.

From her quarantine cell in the medical bay, Lisa blinked as the emergency lights kicked on. Standing up slowly, she looked around at the nurses, who were looking at each other.

Click.

Angling her head as she turned to the quarantine cell’s door—and the magnetic lock that had been holding it closed—the Vector slowly narrowed her eyes.

* * *

Likouala Swamp, Congo

NATALIE LOOKED at Javon, then Dostoevsky. Everyone in the transport looked at each other.

After clearing his throat beside them, Tom raised his hand and said, “Next’s supposed to be four, right?”

Moments later, Saretok’s voice emerged through the channel. “Fleet to Northern Forge.” Several seconds later, he repeated it. Then again. There came no response. “Does any aircraft have communication with General Antipov?”

“Negative,” answered one of the transports, then one of the Omega pilots. More responses came, all the same.

* * *

Northern Forge

“WHAT HAPPENED?” asked Antipov from the front of the room. Valentin shook his head bewilderedly. “Have we no power?” the general demanded. “What has happened, here?”

The base was so quiet. Deathly quiet. As Max took a step and attuned his ears to the base’s tomb-like state, he asked his comrades, “You ever get that unlucky feeling?”

IN THE MEDICAL BAY, Lisa reached out toward the quarantine cell door. Pressing her palm against it, her eyes briefly drifted to Gavriil Shubin and the nurses as they frantically attempted to reactivate their equipment. Stealthily, she slid the door to the side. It opened without friction. Eyes widening, the Vector froze.

SEVERAL FLOORS BELOW, Logan Marshall stepped out of the weight room with a few Nightmen in tow. Red, pulsing lights illuminated everything. Walking slowly toward the only truly open area on Level-2—the tram concourse—he watched as a small crowd of Nightmen congregated.

* * *

Likouala Swamp, Congo

“WHAT THE HELL’S goin’ on, man?” Tom asked, rising to his feet. After removing his helmet, he looked at Dostoevsky. “Did the countdown stop? What’s happenin’?”

Standing up beside him, Javon shook his head. “All I know is that four seconds just passed and ain’t no Omega Fighter fired any rockets. Does that mean the eidola ain’t attacked EDEN, too?”

Dostoevsky was already on the comm. “Colonel Saretok, please advise—has something happened to Northern Forge?”

FROM THE V2 AT point, Colonel Saretok slid his helmet from his head, holding it under his arm as he dipped his head to look into the cockpit. Grabbing the comm that was hanging from the ceiling, he adjusted the frequency and said, “This is Colonel Saretok reaching out to any eidola receiving this message. Does anybody copy?”

No response came.

“What do we do?” asked the pilot, looking at Saretok desperately. “We are coming within EDEN’s detection radius!”

* * *

EDEN Command

SODA SPEWED FROM the flight controller’s lips. Lurching upright in his chair, he adjusted his glasses and stared at the radar screen before him. “Whoa!”

Next to him, the secondary flight controller peeked his head over. “Whoa?” When he too looked at the screen, his eyes widened in horror. “Whoa! Are those phantoms? Those have gotta be phantoms!”

“Those aren’t phantoms!” Reaching for the comm as his soda spilled to the floor, he said, “Prime Control to Council HQ! I have approximately…” His eyes scanned the collection of blips. “I got a hell of a lot of bogeys inbound, right now!”

The channel crackled with static. “This is Council HQ, come again?”

“I’ve got an unidentified fleet heading—” He leaned closer to the screen. “Oh veck, these are Omegas!” Nearly dropping the comm, he screamed into it, “Omega Fighters inbound! I repeat, Omega Fighters inbound!”

FROM THE WAR Room, where he, the other judges, and Klaus Faerber were watching the holographic globe spin, Archer leaned in over one of the communications operators. “What did he say?”

“He said Omega Fighters, sir!”

“Omega Fighters?”

The operator nodded frantically. “Yes, sir!”

“That’s impossible.”

* * *

Likouala Swamp, Congo

“COLONEL, WE MUST make a decision!” said the pilot.

Saretok remained stoic. “We have heard nothing—not from Northern Forge, not from the eidola. How can they have all disappeared?”

The pilot gasped before holding his breath. “…we are detected.”

Decision time. The countdown had long since expired. All guarantees were now out the window, every part of the new general’s intricate plan evaporated into thin air. There were only two options to choose from.

Surge forward or fall back.

Saretok’s gaze locked onto the dark expanse of swamp ahead. Onto the target area that was rapidly approaching. Scowl twisting on his face, he slammed his helmet down over his head with a heavy clack. He spoke through its comm. “Today, the eidola have failed us. It is time for the fulcrums to lead. All Omega Fighters, fire, I repeat, fire!”

IN DOSTOEVSKY’S transport, Natalie whipped her head to the porthole windows. The Omega Fighters outside surged ahead. Their guided missiles burst forth.

The attack had just begun.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-six

Friday, April 13th, 0012 NE

1819 hours

EDEN Command

“THEY’VE FIRED AT us!” said the operator in front of Archer. “Multiple missiles heading toward the gateway!”

“Who is attacking us?” asked Klaus. In every direction, at every console in the War Room, chatter exploded.

Snarling, Archer stormed toward the holographic globe. “Who do you bloody think?”

* * *

Likouala Swamp, Congo

“THIS IS IT, boys!” Javon shouted, the soldier gripping onto the handrail as their V2 rocketed ahead. Next to him, wide eyes hidden behind his helmet, Tom held his breath.

Natalie stared through the cockpit window far ahead—the same place everyone was looking. Those guided missiles, those silver streaks of vengeance, curled down into the swamp below. When they struck, the fiery plumes reached the heavens.

* * *

EDEN Command

TIFFANY WAS SITTING with her head forward when the first trembles came. She lifted her head as they came again, and again, and again. The blonde’s face grew pale as she sat up erect.

Seconds later, a wailing klaxon reverberated through the walls.

* * *

Northern Forge

“WE MUST CONTACT the fleet!” said Antipov, shoving Nightmen out of his way as he ran toward the hall. Whipping his head back to Valentin, he shouted, “Where are the auxiliary satellite comms?”

The keeper was running behind him breathlessly as all around them, confusion and calamity broke loose. “They are kept on Level-2, in general storage!”

Rushing into the darkened hallways, David, Max, and the others looked around for some indication of what was happening. All of a sudden, from the direction of the hangar, there came a loud, grinding whine. So loud was it, so distinct amid the unnatural silence, it caused every single one of them—Antipov and Valentin included—to turn around.

“The hell is that?” asked William.

Shaking his head, David said, “It sounds like…” He looked at his comrades. “It sounds like the hangar doors.”

FAR BENEATH THEM all, on Level-2, Logan and an assortment of Nightmen wandered into the tram concourse. Kneeling in the center of the concourse, a Nightman, scarcely illuminated by the pulsing red glow, knelt down to pick up a fallen object. Upon lifting it by its small, lifeless frame, he looked in the direction of Logan and the others. “It looks like a drone.”

Flashes of weapons fire erupted from the tram tunnel. The Nightman with the drone—and all those around him—were blown back as their bodies were riddled.

“Fall back!” Logan yelled, the Australian’s eyes widening as the tidal wave of rounds inundated the Nightmen in the open. Diving for cover, what Nightmen managed to escape scrambled to their feet to retreat. Barely escaping himself, Logan slammed his back against a corridor wall and huffed hard, combat-prepping breaths. Those rounds. The way they obliterated everything in their path. He knew them well. “Chaos rounds!” the ex-mercenary bellowed. “Vector, Vector, Vector!”

ANTIPOV AND VALENTIN listened as the roar of twin engines emerged from the hangar. When the door leading into the hangar opened, they saw a pair of V2s make their descent. The V2s’ rear bay doors opened, and EDEN troops stormed from them, the rat-tat-tat of their E-35s sending streaks of orange fury down the hall.

“We are betrayed!” Valentin shouted, wide-eyed and panicked.

Antipov shook his head in disbelief. “Impossible!”

From next to Max, Flopper barked and scampered toward the incoming soldiers. Max grabbed his collar and jerked him back. “No, boy!”

“We gotta get outta here!” said David.

“Forget outta here,” William said, “we gotta get some weapons!”

Some Nightmen already had them, unslinging them from their backs and firing return volleys through the hangar entrance.

It wasn’t long before William got his wish, as a small force of Nightmen ran toward the hangar, numerous weapons in hand. Shouting to their comrades in Russian, they began tossing weapons liberally to all who could catch them.

Snatching an E-35, David took to the cover of a corner near the cafeteria entrance, leaning out to provide a burst of desperate suppression fire.

Grabbing a weapon of his own, Auric quickly tossed it to the wheelchair-bound Catalina then signaled for another one. Rolling to the far side of the hallway, the pair leaned forward to add to the weapons fire before hurriedly ducking back.

Firing an assault rifle, William grunted with disapproval. “This ain’t gonna work for me! Any of y’all got a hand cannon?” No answer came from any of the Nightmen. “C’mon, guys, help a big fella out!”

Boris was chasing down a weapon he’d dropped when a hand grabbed him from behind. The technician was spun around to face Antipov. Before Boris could yelp, the general said, “I need you to come with me.”

Halting his own firing from nearby, Max looked at the pair and listened in.

“Our systems have been compromised from the outside!” Antipov said to Boris. “You need to come with me to help affix the backup satellite comms to Northern Forge’s primary transceiver.”

Boris stammered. “But—”

“The primary transceiver may not have power,” Antipov said, ignoring the technician’s bumbling. “Be prepared to work around that. Now please, I do not have time to explain further. You must come with me now!”

“I’ll go, too,” said Max, prompting Antipov to look his way. “Two techs are better than one, right?”

Glancing between them, the general nodded. “So be it. We must move, quickly!”

“Hey, Dave,” said Max, tapping David on the shoulder. David looked at him. “Antipov needs help—Boris and I are going with him.”

David half-frowned. “You gonna be okay doing whatever it is you guys are doing?”

“Hell,” Max said, “it can’t be any more strenuous than what I’m doing here now. Considering the circumstances, I think the doc will give me a pass.” Passing Flopper off to David, Max said, “Watch my dog, man.”

“You got it.” As Max joined Boris and Antipov as they ran for the stairwell, David tugged Flopper to a nearby closet. “Come on, boy, let’s get you in here.”

“EVERYONE!” SHOUTED Gavriil Shubin, “make sure all critical equipment is turned off! We do not want them to overload if systems come back on!”

It was right then that one of the nurses glanced in Lisa’s direction—just as the Vector captive had cracked open the cell door. That one look from the nurse was all that it took. Lisa slung the cell door open, caution thrown to the wind as several nurses and the sentry on post turned their heads her way. The Vector dashed from the cell, ponytail flying as she rolled to avoid the sentry’s grasp just as he reached for her. Lisa ducked and kicked backward, her foot slamming into the center of the sentry’s armor. Though not enough to fell him, it pushed him off balance enough for him to have to grab hold of the wall—and for her to reach for his weapon. Lisa shouted as her hands gripped his assault rifle and she pulled. The sentry, regaining his balance, pulled back, swinging her around and slamming her through a medical equipment stand and against the wall—but her grip on the weapon remained.

Shielding his nurses from the fight, Gavriil shouted, “Back, back, back!”

BULLETS EXPLODED against the walls around Logan; he lifted his comm to his lips. It was dead. There was no reception coming from inside the mountain at all. “Bloody hell!”

None of the Nightmen around him were armed. This was about to become a massacre. “Weapons!” Logan shouted in Russian, looking at the Nightmen. “Where are the weapons?” No one looked composed to any degree—Nightmen were fleeing like panicked children. The best warriors the Nightmen had to offer had just taken a flight to EDEN Command. The ones left behind had been so for a reason.

Alas, some still heeded his words. Motioning down one of the many corridors that cut through general storage, one of them yelled, “Weapons are down here.”

Logan bolted down the hall, several Nightmen in his wake.

HANDS STILL CLASPING the sentry’s assault rifle, Lisa let loose a primal scream and came off her feet, planting both of them against the sentry and propelling herself away from him with all of her might. The sentry, yanking back on the weapon hard, laid his finger down on the trigger. Bullets erupted, ricocheting in every direction as the medical staff dove for cover—though several, including Gavriil and the eldest nurse, Inna, were struck. The medical bay was suddenly filled with the sounds of screaming and weapons fire.

Shifting a foot against the bottom of the sentry’s faceplate, Lisa pulled her foot back and kicked the Nightman there repeatedly, as hard as she could. Discombobulated, he stumbled back. His grip on the weapon relented. She wrenched it away as she fell to the floor. Groaning as her injured shoulder hit the ground, she quickly rolled, took aim, and fired. Before the sentry could right himself, bullets struck the vulnerable spot under his neck. He toppled and fell.

Grabbed from behind by a nurse, Lisa spun free and whipped around, sending the butt of her assault rifle crashing against the woman’s face. There was no hesitation as she aimed her weapon and fired again, dropping the woman where she stood.

Footsteps emerged behind her. Spinning back to the medical bay door, the Vector saw a pair of uniformed Nightmen bolting toward the room. Taking cover behind the corner of the door, she laid down on the trigger, forcing both Nightmen to take cover in side rooms. Ducking back as one leaned around the corner to fire, Lisa closed her eyes and lowered her head, flicks of wall debris peppering her face. Finger on the trigger but restraining, she waited for the two men to move in.

Her wait was not long. The Nightmen dashed for the medical bay, weapons drawn as they searched for their target. In the same second that they came to the threshold of the door, Lisa spun around on her heel and sent a hook kick screaming for the face of the nearest assailant. The strike was true, and the Nightman was nearly flipped end over end. Lisa rushed past the corner just as the Nightman was falling backward and as his comrade was side-stepping to avoid him. Reaching out, she grabbed the Nightman who was still on his feet by the collar, slinging him headlong into the room. The top of the Nightman’s head struck the hardened glass of the quarantine cell, and he rolled over, dazed.

Focus shifting to the man she’d first kicked, Lisa slid forward, ripped his combat knife from his belt, and in a single, fluid maneuver, skirted past him and jabbed it into his back. With a decisive, upward thrust, the killing strike was complete. Twirling around, she flung the knife into the crown of the second Nightman just as he was pushing up to his feet. As he slumped down, dead, Lisa dashed toward him, gripped the bloody knife, and yanked it out with vehemence. Kneeling beside the man, she claimed his pistol and ammunition.

The medical bay was adorned with blood, both from the Nightmen and the medical staff, all of whom were huddled in the corner, cradling the wounded and looking upon the vengeful Vector with whimpering fear. Curling her lips, she offered them a sneer before rising to her feet to leave.

Then, paralysis. Lisa’s body contorted in pain as a torrent of pressure enveloped her head. Keeling over, she gripped her temple with clenched teeth. From seemingly every direction, a singular voice addressed her.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

Pulsing. Pounding. The mental onslaught was relentless—until the Vector pushed back. Clenching her teeth and opening her eyes with determination, she pushed up and slowly looked behind her. There, standing in the hallway whence the Nightmen had come, stood her mocha-skinned British rival. Squinting in confusion, Lisa angled her head from the floor. “Esther?”

Clad in her white, hexagonal bodysuit, the high-ponytailed scrapper cocked her head. “Would it be anyone else?”

The world around Lisa bulged and compressed, as if she was staring through a flickering fish-eye lens. Harder, the pressure pressed on her brain. The Vector winced and fought against it. Grimacing against the mental compressions, she said, “You’re not Esther. You’re that Ithini…”

The construct’s eyes narrowed. She sashayed in the medical bay’s direction. “I don’t like your choice of venues.” Raising her hands up from both sides, she said, “Let’s try another one.”

The world around Lisa erupted, pillars of flame replacing what had been the medical bay. The grip on her mind loosened, and the Vector scrambled backward to her feet. No longer was she standing in Northern Forge. Dry, hard dirt was beneath her. She stood at the center of a ring of billowing fire. Silhouetted by the orange glow, the construct of Esther approached.

Lisa tensed her feet to attack, but Ju`bajai’s came first. Zipping across the hellscape with superhuman speed, the construct’s fist collided against the side of Lisa’s face. Rocked by the blow, the Vector tumbled across the dirt, rolling to a stop meters away from where she’d stood. Lifting her dusty face, she looked up through loose strands of hair.

Ju`bajai was standing on the opposite side of the hellscape, walking with cocked hips at her again. “I can sense your mind,” the construct said. “I can sense its weakness. Its fear. You could have turned. They would have welcomed you.”

Before Lisa could push to her feet, a second attack came. The construct zipped through her body like a spirit, emerging out the other side, leaving the Vector buckled over, wide-eyed, and gasping, as if the breath had just been sucked out from her.

“I’ve tasted your soul,” the construct said. “And it is lacking.”

Whipping around haplessly, Lisa swung for Ju`bajai only to have her wrist grabbed in mid-air, not by the alien’s hand, but by its ponytail—a ponytail that had now grown in length like a whip. After uncoiling itself from Lisa’s wrist as if it was alive, the ponytail struck forth, colliding into Lisa’s chest and sending her flying across the hellscape. Once more, she rolled to a stop.

“You’re so predictable,” Ju`bajai said as its ponytail weaved like a snake. “That was always your problem, wasn’t it? Too daft to think on your feet.”

Pushing upright, Lisa grimaced and limped forward. Looking at the ring of fire around them, she shook her head. “This isn’t real.”

Ju`bajai clapped her hands. “Very good! You’re brighter than you look. Practically on fire. Why don’t you cool off?”

The ground gave way beneath Lisa. The Vector was plunged straight down into an ice-cold abyss. Eyes widening as she flailed against an increasingly strong undertow, panic overtook her. She opened her mouth; water filled her lungs.

Splat!

The hardness of metal struck her as she fell face-first onto the floor, seemingly dropped from mid-air. Gasping for breath, Lisa wiped her hair back. Lifting her head, she looked around. The ring of fire, the watery depths—they were gone, replaced by an endless expanse of flat metal and starlit sky.

“Not good enough, Tiffin!”

The voice came to her with deafening volume—so much so, it made her cover her ears. But it wasn’t Esther’s. It was the voice of her drill sergeant in Philadelphia—and a statement she’d replayed in her head many, many times.

Then her classmate. “Lisa, move your tail! We’re gonna get smoked!”

Then her mother. “If it’s not working, you can always come back home.”

Then her evaluator. “You’re just not getting it!”

It was everyone who’d ever chastised her in all her years at the Academy, all coming at her at once, from every direction. No ear-covering could stop it, but she pressed her hands harder anyway. She screamed at the top of her lungs. “Get out of my bloody head!”

The world around her rippled. She strained to resist it.

Her tactics instructor. “Wrong, wrong, wrong! Why can’t you get this?”

Her counselor. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Lots of people can’t handle the mental side of it.”

Her girlfriend. “You’re not even the same person anymore.”

Esther. “We always knew you’d be a dropout.”

Herself. “I’m not good enough.”

They came one after the other, their words shifting to that same statement—“You’re not good enough”—on endless repeat. Overloading her senses. Becoming a cacophony.

“You’re not good enough.”

“You are not good enough.”

“You’re not good enough!”

But she was. Closing her eyes, she channeled every ounce of mental fortitude she had. Slowly, every voice that berated her began to falter. Flames kissed her cheeks in violent bursts, avalanches of water soaked her. Still, her eyes remained closed. She stayed quiet and still. Because she was good enough.

Because none of this was real.

“You…are…not…good…enough!”

The voice in her head was sounding less familiar. Sounding more extraterrestrial. The construct was losing. When it spoke to her one final time, it was the voice of the Ithini itself.

You are not good enough, Earthae.

“Yes,” Lisa said, her stone-cold exterior holding as the false world faded away. The heat, the wetness, the cold. It all disappeared. She opened her eyes. “I am.”

DOWN THE HALL, in the room she’d been hiding in, Ju`bajai’s opaque, oval eyes flickered and blinked. The enervated alien’s body shimmied, and she stumbled and fell.

AFTER RECLAIMING her weapons from the medical bay floor, Lisa stood upright, slung her assault rifle over her back, and readied her pistol. Aiming it ahead, she stalked out of the medical bay and into the halls.

* * *

EDEN Command

“HOLD ON, EVERYONE!” shouted Dostoevsky as he gripped a support rail. The occupants of the troop bay braced for descent as the vertical thrusters of the V2 kicked in.

Ahead of the transports, a gaping hole revealed the entrance to EDEN’s hidden headquarters. Beneath it was a chasm plenty large enough for the transports to enter.

Over the loudspeaker, Saretok’s voice emerged. “Air Support Team 1, return to Northern Forge to assess the situation there. Support Teams 2 and 3, remain with us.” The squadron commanders acknowledged, and the indicated squadron broke off to return to Norilsk.

Natalie’s stomach was in her throat. There was no turning back now. Whatever happened at Northern Forge—or hadn’t—was irrelevant.

Their attack was underway.

* * *

Northern Forge

ROUNDS RICOCHETED around Logan as he ducked around the corner of a corridor. Sinking low then aiming his assault rifle around it, he fired off a volley of suppression fire. Though none of his shots found their marks, the attack offered enough of a reprieve to allow the last few Nightmen with him to bolt from the storage room, weapons in hand as they moved to cover.

The entirety of Level-2 had been overrun by the Vector-led EDEN forces, who’d not only taken to the many corridors that ran throughout the level, but also the intersection just before the stairwell that led to the other levels.

Logan had no idea what still functioned on the base and what didn’t. The red, pulsing lights were no doubt a part of the base’s auxiliary power, but there’d been no indication of anything else working—not elevators, not base-wide comm systems, nothing. The Nightmen around him, despite their efforts at firing back, were fearful. Fearful warriors were dead warriors. It was only a matter of time until what little resolve they had left was trampled.

Leaning around again, he unleashed another barrage of weapons fire. A bullet whizzed past him, cutting through his uniform at the shoulder and tearing his skin. Wincing, he slunk back and pressed his back to the wall. With gritted teeth, he roared and slammed in a new magazine. “Where the hell are the bloody defenses?” Was anyone else coming? Where were all the necrilids? For as formidable a force as the Nightmen were revered to be, they were getting their tails whipped. The momentum of EDEN’s surprise attack had to be slowed.

VALENTIN EMERGED from the Level-2 stairwell into a cacophonic hell. Bullets exploded against every wall—bodies lay strewn about, blood stained the walls and the floor as Nightmen ran for cover. Having been unable to claim his fulcrum armor from his suite without power to the elevators, he and those Nightmen who’d followed him from Level-3 were forced to make their stand without the protection of black metal.

“Protect the stairwell!” the keeper shouted, pushing past a slayer to dash ahead and take position around a corner. “They cannot be allowed to breach!” Leaning around the corner, he fired his E-35 at the encroaching intruders.

The stairwell opened into a three-way intersection, with corridors running straight ahead and branching off to the left and right. The primary push was coming from the right, as there was a small force of Nightmen resistance holding the area in front of the stairwell itself. It was in that direction—the right—that Valentin directed his warriors’ efforts.

“Fortify the hall!” he shouted. “They must not be allowed to take the stairwell. Every man shoots until death!”

It was then that the keeper caught sight of something. Beneath the pulsating red lights that illuminated the corridors, he saw movement beyond the leftmost corridor from the stairwell. The corridor where EDEN wasn’t. Yet as clear as day, even under the red lights, he saw the reflective shape of a soldier wearing EDEN armor. Though the soldier was gone in an instant, what concerned Valentin was not that he was there. What concerned him was that the soldier hadn’t engaged the Nightmen from behind at an extremely opportune time.

Someone was being sneaky.

Gaze turning to Bedrich Zima, one of the few warriors geared up in slayer armor, he said, “Protect this stairwell at all costs! There is somewhere I must go.”

“Da, keeper,” Bedrich replied.

Abandoning the stairwell, Valentin stalked quickly down the leftmost corridor.

There were several critical locations on Level-2, any one of which could cripple Northern Forge if compromised. The satellite comms were there, as was the base’s primary transceiver, though they were both on the other side of the level. Of closer concern were weapons storage and the necrilid pen, both of which were vital if this attack was to be repelled. They could afford to lose neither.

Valentin saw the soldier the moment he rounded the corner at the end of the leftmost hall. His back to the keeper, the man from EDEN was looking down at something on his wrist. Farther ahead, Valentin could make out a small, spherical device hovering in midair. A drone. For all Valentin knew, that was the device that had shut down power to the base and opened their hangar doors. He wasn’t about to wait to find out what else it could do. Raising his weapon, he took aim at the soldier from behind.

The soldier reacted first. As if he had eyes in the back of his head, the soldier ducked down, spun around, and aimed a handgun in Valentin’s direction. As Valentin hit the wall to dodge the shot, the EDEN warrior quickly disappeared around a corner. Farther down the hall, the spherical drone zipped out of view.

There was no time to waste. Raising his weapon again, Valentin rushed down the hall. On one occasion, the EDEN soldier leaned his hand around the corner to fire his handgun, but another volley from Valentin kept him at bay.

Suddenly, the drone reappeared, this time from the same corner that protected the soldier. In the same second that the keeper swiveled his E-35 to fire at it, the drone released a blindingly bright flash of light—more than enough to make Valentin blink and start backwards. That was all the EDEN soldier needed. Rounding the corner, he aimed his handgun and fired.

The keeper never had a chance. The shots struck him in the chest, and he stumbled backwards. Eyes staring at the pulsing red lights that illuminated the ceiling, Valentin Lukin gasped for his final few breaths from a pool of his own blood.

Aiming his handgun down both directions of the corridor that ran before him, Pablo Quintana searched for any more pursuing targets. Only when his path was clear did he return his focus to his wrist pad. Tapping in several commands, he spoke into his comm. “I have located the room with the necrilids. En route to it now.”

Vector’s channel crackled as Chiumbo’s voice emerged. “Do you require assistance?”

Three fast chirps emerged in his earpiece—indication that someone was coming from behind him. Spinning and crouching, he aimed his handgun at the indicated corner. The two Nightmen who emerged from it never knew what hit them. Two fast pulls of the trigger and subsequent headshots later, and he was once again alone. A long, satisfied tone played in his ear. “Negative,” he said to Chiumbo. “I will destroy the necrilids myself.” After reloading his handgun, Vector’s combat tech resumed his march down the hall.

“HURRY! QUICKLY!” Waving Boris and Max toward him, Antipov motioned toward the entrance to Northern Forge’s server room. Located on an isolated corner of Level-2 that they’d reached via a service ladder, the server room was far enough away from the beaten path to allow them to completely circumvent enemy forces. Even separated from the heart of Level-2, they could hear a flurry of weapons fire coming from the direction of the tram concourse. As soon as they were inside, Antipov grabbed a pair of auxiliary satellite comms.

“Is there a breaker control point in here?” Max asked as he searched the server room, which was small and tightly cramped with standing consoles.

Shaking his head, Antipov answered, “I have no idea. Could this be as simple as flipping a breaker?”

“Could be.” Max pointed to the flashing red lights. “The auxiliary power still functions, so this wasn’t an EMP. Unless the power source was insulated, which could be possible.”

From the back corner of the room, Boris shouted, “Here!” The scruffy-haired technician flipped a tripped switch along the wall, and the server room consoles came to life. White light, at long last, replaced the pulsating red.

“Atta boy, B!” Max slid quickly to one of the stations. After several taps on the keyboard, he looked at the information on the display. “Okay, it looks like the base’s primary power system was issued a manual overcharge by some remote…something.”

“Quintana,” said Antipov dryly.

“They just caused an overload,” Max said. “There should be a built-in failsafe for this kind of thing, so I doubt any systems are permanently damaged.” After snapping his fingers at Boris, he pointed to a wall outlet. “Find a manual rebooter and plug it in there.” Boris hurried to do as told. Holding his hand out to Antipov, he said, “You’re gonna want to hand me a sat-comm, general.” Antipov complied without question.

“I have the rebooter!” shouted Boris, scampering across the server room to the wall outlet.

Max pointed and said, “Plug her in!”

The technician slid the manual rebooter into the outlet, twisting it sideways as soon as it was inserted. A series of loud, subsequent clunks emerged from the walls. The lights above them flickered.

Pop!

Sparks erupted from the outlet; Boris leapt backward. The clunks ceased as a long, droning hum emerged, its sound pitching downward until it became a buzz. Max’s face fell. “That doesn’t sound good.”

The wall socket erupted, as sparks exploded from the various consoles. Antipov, Max, and Boris scrambled for the exit as electricity arced from one side of the room to the next—popping, bursting, erupting. They watched in horror as socket after socket exploded from the walls.

LOGAN HAD JUST slammed a fresh magazine into his E-35 when the wall outlets near him exploded. The Australian slammed his back against the opposite wall to avoid the shrapnel before turning his head to look at the Nightmen around him. “The hell?”

The chain of exploding sockets continued until it reached the EDEN soldiers down the hall. Caught off guard themselves, the soldiers momentarily halted their offensive.

It was as much of an element of surprise as Logan was going to get. “Move in!” he shouted to the Nightmen around him, all of whom had blindly taken to his command in the absence of a fulcrum. “Press in, press in!” With their weapons flashing, they unloaded on the EDEN soldiers as they moved up the halls.

COUGHING IN THE newly formed smoke, Antipov shouted, “What happened?”

“I don’t know!” Max answered. “Maybe they uploaded a countermeasure, maybe the equipment is just old. There’s no telling!” Eyes hardening, Max looked at Antipov and said, “All I know is that we’re not getting that room back.”

“I must have power to contact the eidola,” said Antipov direly. “As it stands now, I have no way of knowing if any of them detonated their devices or not. If they do not follow through, all of our forces who just left for EDEN Command are heading for a massacre. Every Superwolf and V2 in EDEN’s air force is going to converge on that place. EDEN Command will call them all to save themselves.”

Max motioned to Antipov’s comm. “Do you need power, or just a signal? Does that sat-comm still work?”

“Yes, the sat-comm has power—it just cannot get out of the mountain without the base’s transceiver.”

“If all you need is a signal, then there’s a way to make it happen, but you’re not gonna like it!” Casting a sidelong look at Boris, Max returned his gaze to Antipov. “We’ve got to get to the hangar door. We need to get right by the opening. If we get there, there’s a small chance the signal can escape—but we’re gonna have to get through EDEN to try it.”

There was no hesitation. “Then we must try it,” Antipov said. “If we do not, then every part of this plan will fail. Every one of our lives, both here and in the transports at EDEN Command, depends on it.”

Tapping on Max’s shoulder, Boris said, “I have an idea that might be better!”

“Let’s hear it.”

“We have a better chance of getting a signal out if we are clear of the mountain entirely. If we get to the Pariah, we can fly it high in the air with the autopilot. From there, we could definitely get a signal out—we could even link up the Pariah’s comm to the general’s, if we wanted. There would be nothing to block the signal at all. It is much more likely to work than just getting near the door.” Expression falling grave, he hesitated. “EDEN may shoot us down, especially if there are Superwolves around the mountain, but we would still get the signal out.”

The other two men fell quiet. It was Max who broke the silence. “Boris, that plan totally sucks.”

Antipov nodded. “I agree. But if it would work, it would be worth it.”

“How’d I know you were gonna say that?”

“Come—let us hurry.” Without another word, the general turned in the direction of the stairwell, the other two men close behind.

“WHAT SHOULD WE do? Should we release them?” asked one of the two slayers guarding the entrance to the necrilid pen.

His counterpart threw his hands up. “I don’t know! I think we should?”

“Are you asking or telling?”

“I don’t know!”

Looking down the hallway that housed the makeshift pen, the slayer reached up to adjust his helmet comm. “Can anyone read me? Can someone please advise us, are we to hold position or engage? Should we open the pen?” When he once again heard only static, he turned back to his comrade. “We must open this pen. Listen to what is happening. It sounds like a warzone!”

“No orders have come.”

“No orders can come!”

A loud, wailing sound emerged behind them. Both slayers spun around, their weapons raised, to find its origin. Hovering in a fast figure-eight in the center of the hallway was a brightly colored, pulsating object. Lights on it flickered and flashed like strobes. A series of high-pitched whines emerged from its core. Both men readied their weapons to fire.

The man behind them fired first. Rounds clanked against their armor, most deflecting though one caught one of the guards at an exposed joint behind the neck. He gurgled and fell forward; the second slayer spun to face the assailant.

Pablo was already on him. The Vector leapt at the slayer, slamming his open palm sideways against the Nightman’s helmet. The slayer hit the wall, head rocking as he stumbled and tried to catch his balance. Before he could, Pablo grabbed him from behind, placed his left hand around the front of the slayer’s helmet, and pushed the barrel of his handgun up against the soft spot behind his neck.

Pop! Pop!

The slayer’s body went limp. Pablo released him, dropping the lifeless body to the ground. Behind the Vector, the drone’s flashing and wailing ceased, and it drifted to his shoulder. Pablo’s focus shifted to the room. Tapping on his wrist pad, he sent the drone to the door’s control panel. After the several seconds required for the drone’s connection to establish itself, the door slid open.

Necrilid eggs spanned the room, with no less than a dozen necrilids tending them. For several seconds, Pablo stared. As soon as the first necrilid looked his way, he reached down and snagged a high explosive from his belt. Upon activating it, he tossed it into the middle of the chamber. The drone sealed the door shut. Turning away, Pablo strode down the hall and spoke into his comm. “Nest isolated.” Behind him, a wall-shaking boom erupted. He continued to walk. “I thought there’d be more.”

On the other side of the comm and with weapons blasting in the background, Chiumbo replied, “Do whatever damage you can. When you are discovered, rendezvous with the main assault team.”

“Understood, lieutenant. Quintana out.”

All throughout Northern Forge, the firefight between EDEN’s Vector-led forces and the Nightmen raged on. Though EDEN pressed in from both the hangar and Level-2, what Nightmen had remained at the base had dug in, snatching all the weapons they could to fortify strongholds in the base interior. Yet despite the Nightmen’s best efforts, EDEN—and the Vectors—were closing in. It was not a matter of if they would break through to the interior portion of the base. It was a matter of when.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-seven

Friday, April 13th, 0012 NE

2004 hours

EDEN Command

“HOW IS THIS possible?” asked Klaus Faerber as he stormed around one of the consoles to approach Archer. “How could the Nightmen have found this place?”

“Because of your bloody friend!” Archer answered.

The captain shook his head. “What friend? Who?”

“Todd Kenner!”

“What?”

Glaring as he ran to the communications station, he shot a look back at Klaus. “He’s been working with the Nightmen this entire time! We didn’t know to what capacity, so we let him alone to observe him. A little too much, it seems!” Turning back to the console, he shoved the communications operator out of the way as he queued into the base-wide channel. “All personnel, we are under attack, I repeat, we are under attack! Move to your muster points immediately!” Switching the frequency to the security team, he said, “All security forces, you are to find Todd Kenner at once. Don’t worry about taking him alive—put a bullet through his bloody brain!”

“This is a mistake,” said the captain. “He is here because I asked him to help!”

“He booked his plane ticket, captain, before you even contacted him. He’s working with the Nightmen. You were used like a buffoon.”

For several seconds, Klaus just stared at him, the hardened warrior’s mouth hanging in disbelief. Then slowly, his jaw set. Turning around with a reddened face, he stormed toward the War Room’s exit and lifted his comm to his lips. “This is Captain Faerber to all Vectors. Find Kenner and kill him on sight.” Slinging his chaos rifle from his shoulder, he marched out of the War Room and into the halls.

Archer watched as Klaus exited the room. Eyes narrowing, he walked through the frenetic masses and spoke into his comm. “Mister Strakhov, you know who these Nightmen are here for.”

Through a burst of static, Oleg replied, “Yes, my judge.”

“Remington and Feathers cannot be rescued alive. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my judge.”

Archer continued. “Get to Confinement and eliminate them. While you’re there, ensure that two of our specimens, Ceratopian No. 12 and a Bakma identified as Nharassel, are eradicated. They know vital information pertaining to our goal. If they are captured by the Nightmen…it would not be good.”

“I understand.”

“Get it done. Archer out.”

TIFFANY WAS FRANTIC. She’d heard the announcement; she knew that this attack was indeed real, as the voice she’d heard had claimed. As her breathing intensified, she repeated the voice’s words in her head. Fight with all I have left, fight with all I have left, fight with all I have left...

They were coming to kill her. The voice had said as much. There was no reason to doubt its truthfulness now.

They’re going to come for me. Fight, Tiffany, fight. Fight with your life!

There was no reason to hide the fact that she’d slipped her restraints. All personnel had been ordered to evacuate. She knew that meant the ones watching her, too. Reaching around the chair with her freed hands, she yanked at her ankle restraints. They were locked tight.

Key—I need a key! Where can I get a key?

The guards carried them. They carried access cards, too. She would need both to get to Scott before they got to him first.

There was no use struggling. She was never going to free her legs without the key. What she needed to focus on was putting herself in a position to pull off a surprise attack against whoever walked through that door first. Whoever it was that was on their way to kill her.

What if they go for Scott first?

“Oh, no,” she said aloud, her voice shaking. “Come for me first, please, please come for me!” What if they put a bullet through Scott’s head while she was sitting there tied to a chair? What if…

The cell door—it was opening! Whipping her hands behind the chair to hide them, Tiffany looked up to see who was about to enter.

It was a guard! She had never seen the man before—not that it mattered. What she could see was the key attached to his belt and the security access card hanging from his lapel. As the guard rushed toward her, her body went rigid.

This is it. This is my time. Rock star up, girl! Gripping the loose cuff in her left hand like a set of brass knuckles, she steadied her breathing and prepared to strike.

The guard slid to the side of the chair. He reached down to claim his magnetic key from his belt. When he had it, he reached for her hands.

Tiffany didn’t wait for him to realize that she was already free. Swinging the full weight of her body around in the chair, she brought her shoulder flying around like a haymaker. The guard flinched back—but not quickly enough. Tiffany’s handcuff-clenching fist slammed into his cheek beneath his visor. The guard stumbled backward.

Leaping from the chair with her ankles still attached, Tiffany crashed her body into his. As she fell forward to the floor, so too did he. Groaning in pain, the guard fought to wrench his body from under hers.

Reaching for his belt, Tiffany yanked his combat knife from its sheath. Upon bringing it up and around and screaming like a serial killer, she plunged it straight into the guard’s shoulder. Rearing his head back, he howled in agony as she jammed it in.

The guard relinquished his grip on the magnetic key. Their writhing caused it to be flung across the room and out of the cell. Upon tearing his security access card from his lapel, she propelled herself from him with a violent push. She crawled for the door.

She had to get out of there! The longer she tried to fight, the faster these tables would turn. The guard was bigger, stronger, quicker, and most importantly, his ankles weren’t tied to a chair. As she maneuvered across the floor toward the cell door, he rose to his feet behind her, bloodied knife that he’d pulled from his shoulder in his hand. She looked back as he clutched his bleeding shoulder and glared. Gasping, she turned to the cell door again. It was still two meters away.

She wasn’t going to make it.

THE V2S’ NOSE-mounted cannons fired, the three transports pumping their rounds into the hangar floor. There were several aircraft parked—all V2s and Superwolves. What ones were in the center of the room exploded with gunfire as the Nightmen’s transports cleared the way.

“Everyone,” shouted Dostoevsky, “hold on!”

White-knuckling a support rail, Natalie held on as the pilot sent the back end of the transport whirling around for a landing. It was almost enough to fling the occupants of the troop bay—necrilids and Centurion included—against the wall. The rear bay door began lowering before the transport even touched down. From outside, bullets peppered the aircraft’s hull as EDEN forces in the hangar opened fire. Centurion grabbed a pair of soldiers that were in front of him and shoved them toward the back of the bay. The hulking beast took up position between the bullets coming from outside and everyone inside, acting as a massive, living wall. Shots dinged against his armor and whizzed through his helmet plume.

“When he goes, we go!” shouted Dostoevsky.

Cl-clunk.

The V2s touched down. Centurion leapt from the troop bay to the hangar floor. Jolting his arms forward, he extended the pair of neutron blasters, roared, and unleashed a tidal wave of neon into the hangar.

Necrilids bounded from the back of the transport. Soldiers stormed out behind them. With Esther and the Falcons in tow, Natalie charged out of the troop bay with her weapon raised.

ROLLING OVER ONTO her back, Tiffany shrieked in rage as she cocked her feet back then thrust them and the chair at the guard, her efforts in vain as he grabbed the chair and yanked it and her back into the room. Raising the knife, the guard thrust it downward toward her head. Raising her hands to grab it as she contorted her head to the side, she succeeded only in saving her life. While her left hand managed to snatch the knife’s handle, her right curled around the blade itself, getting sliced open as the tip of the blade touched her scalp. She screamed and shoved the knife to the side, causing it to cut across the top of her head as it slipped off her and struck the floor. Reaching up with her left hand, she jabbed her fingers into his eye sockets and pushed with all of her strength.

The guard screamed; he let go of the knife handle. After prying her hand away from his eyes, he rolled over onto his side as Tiffany’s bleeding right hand grabbed the knife handle. She lifted it above the guard’s neck, then she slammed its blade straight into his throat. The guard gurgled; he grabbed the wound with both hands. His body spasmed for several seconds before it lay still.

Tiffany’s whole body shivered. Blood covered her eyes from the wound on her head. Keeping the knife in one hand, she once again rolled over to crawl for the door.

BULLETS ZIPPED PAST Natalie as she slid behind the cover of a damaged Superwolf. This was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. The number of rounds shooting back and forth dwarfed the worst combat situations she’d been in. It was relentless.

Angling her body around the corner of the aircraft, she aimed her weapon at a pair of security guards at the far end of the hangar and pulled the trigger. The bullets struck both their targets, knocking them backward. Within seconds, the two men were pounced upon by necrilids.

Accessing her heads-up display, Natalie brought a map of the base to the forefront of her vision. The Nightmen had been supplied the layout by Todd Kenner, who was presumably still somewhere in the base. His whereabouts, however, were not her concern. There was only one place in EDEN Command that Natalie wanted to go. As the preprogrammed route to Confinement loaded, a series of yellow nav points appeared in her vision.

Esther slid next to her, the scout firing her own weapon as she leaned around the opposite corner of the aircraft. Briefly, the two women locked eyes, each knowing what the other’s mission was.

“You ready for this?” Natalie asked.

Esther nodded. “Good luck, Natalie.”

“Same to you.” Getting on her comm, Natalie rallied her troops. “My team, let’s move out! You all have the nav points.” Over the comm, Javon, Tom, and Mark acknowledged. As the three men made their way to her, she said to them, “Use your weapon as a deterrent. Don’t fire unless fired upon. Everyone understand?” They did. “All right, let’s go!” With their E-35s ready, the foursome pressed in along with everyone else.

As the Nightman forces continued their advance, EDEN security found themselves being violently pushed back by the multifaceted nature of the assault. When their attention was on Centurion, the necrilids blindsided them. When they focused on the necrilids, the methodical approach of the Nightmen took advantage. When they reacted to the Nightmen, Centurion charged through them like a bone-frilled wrecking ball. There was no one way EDEN could look, no one threat they could prepare for. Within minutes, the hangar had been cleared, allowing the different strike teams to branch off in their assigned directions.

Leading the primary charge was Saretok himself. The towering fulcrum colonel—his own mission the capture of EDEN high officials and recovery of documental evidence—led an entire platoon of Nightmen into the massive main transit hub of EDEN Command. What resistance they encountered from EDEN Command’s security team, known by the moniker Com-Sec, never stood a chance. The attacking Nightman force was simply too varied, skilled, and motivated to be hindered. As the EDEN body count piled up, the Nightmen marched forward like a machine.

Branching off from the main force were Dostoevsky and his team: Rashid as XO, Esther, Varvara, Egor, Feliks, and Pyotr. Their objective was twofold: plant a series of high explosives at several key structural points and recover Becan McCrae from the medical center. The former objective would ensure that the destruction of the base was complete. The latter was purely personal.

That left Natalie and her team to head for Confinement. Under normal circumstances, they would expect to find it among the most heavily guarded sections of the base. But with EDEN Command under attack—and the bulk of its security forces responding to Saretok’s advance—the hope was that resistance there would be thin. With that mindset, they slipped away from the primary wave to follow the backroad waypoints to Confinement.

TODD KENNER WAS sprinting through the halls of EDEN Command. He had been prepared for the operation and had thus readied his weapons in his room long before the V2s from Northern Forge had landed. No guards had paid him mind so far, a clear indication that their focus was on the base attack and not him. In fact, with others rushing about in a panic themselves, his running through the crowd almost completely fit in. More than halfway to Confinement already, he was yet to encounter any resistance to him at all—until he rounded the corner that led to Research and Development.

Todd skidded to a stop, his boots sliding on the slick, white floor. Standing motionless, but with his weapon at the ready, he stared at the line of warriors before him. Warriors he knew all too well.

Leading the pack and scowling behind his purple-tinted visor, Klaus Faerber bared his teeth. Six Vectors stood ready beside him. The captain took a step forward.

Angling his head, Todd said in his thick, hick’s drawl, “Now don’t be doin’ that, friend.” His fingers tensed on his chaos rifle trigger.

“I am not your friend,” Klaus said without stopping. “You will come with us now, or we will shoot you where you stand.”

“Ain’t you seen the big picture? Don’t you realize there’s more goin’ on here than you ever thought?”

The German stopped. “Did you help the Nightmen find this place?”

“Is that all you care—”

“Did you?”

Todd said nothing. He and his former captain simply glared at each other, each pair of eyes burning through the other man’s. Both men immovable.

It was all the answer Klaus needed. “You are lucky I found you first. I ordered the others to kill you.” He looked at his soldiers. “Take him into custody.”

His finger twitching again, Todd said, “I’ll drop four of y’all before y’all even draw y’all’s guns. Don’t make me do it. I know every single one of you.”

“You heard me,” Klaus said to his Vectors.

“Their blood’s gonna be on your hands.”

Slowly, Klaus’s eyes narrowed. “The Nightmen murdered my son. No amount of blood affects me anymore.”

“Klaus, they didn’t murder your—” It was all Todd bothered to say. Cutting himself off before any of the Vectors could fire their weapons, he dashed to the left toward the corner of the intersection—the only cover in any direction. One-handing his chaos rifle in mid rush, he aimed it toward the line of Vectors and pulled the trigger.

Three of the Vectors were struck, toppling backward as the chaos rounds tore through their purple and white armor. The others, flinching back, quickly took cover in Research and Development’s lobby.

Todd pressed his back against the wall as weapons fire erupted against the corner. Armorless, the Type-3 scout blew out a breath as he shielded his eyes from the explosions. After readying his chaos rifle, he ducked low and angled his body around the corner at knee level. His Vector adversaries were spread out about the lobby; two of them had taken cover behind corners opposite him. All he needed was a second’s worth of their poking their heads out.

They gave it to him.

Rat-tat-tat-tat! Rat-tat-tat-tat!

Two quick bursts—two Vectors felled. The corners were cleared.

Part of the wall behind Todd’s head exploded. He ducked and rolled away. Looking up with wide eyes, he watched as a new cluster of Com-Sec soldiers emerged behind him.

Todd wasted no time. Flinging up his chaos rifle, he shifted from target, to target, to target—each felled in mid-run by lightning-quick pulls of the trigger. He heard bootsteps behind him. One of the Vectors was moving in for close combat.

A mistake.

In a fluid motion, Todd tossed his chaos rifle from his right hand to his left, and then his right hand reached down to pull his pistol from its holster. Crouching low, he looked behind and lifted his pistol to aim for the Vector’s exposed chin. Both weapons—the chaos rifle in his left hand and the pistol in his right—were fired at the same time. Both found their targets—one a soldier from the small security squad, the other the Vector, who was knocked off his feet to the floor, writhing and clutching his neck.

A bullet struck Todd in the neck—a glancing blow. Grunting, he slapped his pistol hand over it as he fired on with his left, sending a barrage of chaos rounds toward the Com-Sec soldiers. Scampering to the bleeding-out Vector, Todd retrieved a grenade from the man’s belt, activated it, then flung it around the corner toward the Research and Development lobby.

“Grenade!” someone yelled. The boom came shortly after.

It was all the diversion Todd needed. Bolting around the corner, he charged the lobby, chaos rifle raised as he abandoned his pistol on the floor behind him. Once more, the rifle barrel flashed orange, and once more, a Vector was struck—the last one other than Klaus himself.

Which left Klaus himself.

The German captain didn’t hide from view. Emerging from behind one of the many pillars spread about the lobby, Klaus raised his chaos rifle in Todd’s direction. Todd aimed his weapon right back. It was then, in that moment, that Todd did something he hadn’t yet done in that fight.

He hesitated.

Pulling the trigger without mercy, Klaus sent a barrage of chaos rounds streaking Todd’s way. Though Todd dove behind the relative safety of a reception desk, it was not without injury. A chaos round found his leg, ripping through the flesh of his left calf. Snarling in agony, Todd leaned his chaos rifle around the desk and laid down on the trigger. Bullets zipped Klaus’s direction—he relented and found cover of his own. Farther, just beyond the lobby, Com-Sec soldiers emerged from the corridors.

Grunting in deep, heavy breaths, Todd slammed his head back against the reception desk. “Veck!” He glanced down at his left leg, where his calf was a mangled mess. After shaking his head and grimacing, he called out, “All right, all right, all right!” Reaching up, he touched his neck where the other bullet had grazed. Warm, fresh blood was still oozing from it.

Slowly, Klaus Faerber and Com-Sec circled around him.

TIFFANY PRESSED THE tip of the magnetic key to the clasps on her ankles. They unlatched with a beep, and she wrestled her legs free. Pushing blood-soaked hair from her face, she stumbled back into the room to the body of the guard. Kneeling beside him, she cut off a strip of his uniform with her knife. With shaking hands, she wrapped the cloth around her right palm, covering the bleeding gash that was underneath. Removing the guard’s pistol from its holster, she rose to her feet.

She had freedom of movement. She had a weapon. She had a security access card. All that was missing was Scott. Her head was spinning, the blitz of activity making her feel as if the room was uneven. Reaching up, she felt the warm, thick fluid oozing from her head. That surely had something to do with it, too. But there was no time to feel affected. The Valley Girl needed to move.

Trotting toward the cell door, she eased her head around the corner. The hallway was shiny and well-lit with floors and walls made of marble and plaster. Everything screamed clean. That was about to change.

Far ahead, a trio of guards emerged. Tiffany ducked behind a cell partition—small half-walls that divided the space between cells. Though not large, they were enough to hide her mostly from view.

Mostly.

Tiffany knew that this was not a fight she could sit out. These were not enemies she could sneak past. Fighter pilots were not regarded for their battlefield prowess, but today, if she wanted to survive—if she wanted Scott to survive—she would have to fight like EDEN’s best. Closing her eyes, she drew in several fast breaths.

Go.

Stepping from the partition, Tiffany raised her pistol. None of the three guards were looking at her; they were moving to the far side of the cell block with purpose.

They’re after Scott.

Tiffany pulled the trigger. As the shots ricocheted down the hall, she ducked back down the next partition closer to them. Despite the small barrage, only one of the guards fell. The other two, no longer oblivious to her presence, ducked behind partitions of their own. Now it was the Valley Girl whose side of the hallway was being pelted with bullets. Pushing as tightly against the partition as she could, she winced as flicks of plaster rained upon her. Reaching around the partition with her handgun, she fired several blind shots before pulling the weapon back.

What do I do? What do I do? Her heart pounded. She had to get to Scott—if that was even where Scott was, if he was even who they were heading to. More shots were fired. She could hear the guards talking on their comms—alerting the other security guards that a prisoner had escaped. Getting help.

Where was her help?

That guy whose voice I heard said he was going to help me! Where is he? Did he forget? Did he die trying to reach me? Reaching around the corner of the partition again, she fired off more shots. Miracle shots, until her miracles ran out.

Click-click-click.

Out of ammunition. Pulling her hand back, she clenched her teeth. “Help me. Please, God, help me. Send someone to help me!” But she had no one. No comrades. No friend. No mysterious voice. Tiffany had no one but herself.

Boom!

Flinching, she opened her eyes and looked at the cell she was sheltering beside. Staring at her from the other side of the glass wall was a towering, five-horned behemoth—its lean, sepia-streaked body rippling with the most refined muscles she’d ever beheld. Its deep brown eyes stared down at her from where he’d just slammed his fists against the glass. Slowly, the Ceratopian pointed to the door—right to the security card reader. Above the reader, printed out on a door label, were the words Ceratopian 12. In a low, guttural, and shockingly understandable voice, the Ceratopian said, “Let me fight, human.”

Pop! Zing! Ping!

Tiffany ducked her head down as bullets peppered the partition. Her eyes stayed on the beast—the answer to her prayer. There was no hesitation. Upon grabbing her security card, she skedaddled toward the cell door, whipped her hand up to the reader, then quickly pulled it back before the bullets could tear through it. The light above the reader went green.

The Ceratopian strode for the door. “Stay down, little one.”

Without thinking—without hesitation—Tiffany shook her head. “Not today!”

Pausing at the door’s precipice, the Ceratopian turned its horned head to look at her. For the faintest of moments, she thought she saw it smile. Reaching out with its massive claw, it grabbed the nearest partition and with a violent yank, pulled it straight off the wall. Bursting from the cell, it leapt forward, spun around, and flung the entire partition down the corridor. Lifting her eyes above the partition she was hiding behind, Tiffany watched wide-eyed as the pair of guards leapt to avoid getting pummeled by the flying piece of wall. The Ceratopian closed the distance between her and the guards in seconds. The Valley Girl watched in horror as it grabbed them and ripped them apart like straw dolls. Covering her mouth as their entrails spilled out on the floor, she fought back a gag reflex.

The Ceratopian reached down, picked up one of the guard’s assault rifles, and slid it all the way back in Tiffany’s direction. She watched it as it stopped just past her. Mouth agape, she said, “Ho-ly veck.”

“We must move,” said the behemoth.

Somewhere between the gruesomeness of what she’d just witnessed and the fact that she was speaking English to a Ceratopian, Tiffany found herself lost for words. Finally snapping out of it, she cleared her throat and snatched the weapon. “Yeah—hell yeah!” No, wait. “Wait!”

The Ceratopian turned to her.

“I have to find somebody! I have to find my friend.” Scott—she had to find his cell!

“We do not have time. More will arrive soon.”

She knew that. She’d heard the guards radio for help. But there was no chance—no way in hell—that she was leaving without Scott. Rushing past one cell after the other, she looked in each in search of her friend. At one point, another extraterrestrial, this one a Bakma, banged on the interior glass of its cell as Tiffany hastened by. It was distinct enough—purposeful enough—to prompt Tiffany to stop. Looking back at the Ceratopian, she said, “This guy looks like he wants out!”

The Ceratopian strode to the cell, where he looked down upon the Bakma behind the glass. When the Ceratopian came into view, the Bakma stepped back and seethed. Tiffany swore she saw the Ceratopian smirk. “Leave that one. He cannot help us.”

“You know him?”

“His name is Nharassel. He is not good. He should be left.”

“Yeah, but—”

The Ceratopian looked at her. “This Bakma stays.”

She was going to say the more, the merrier. Back to the search for Scott. Ahead of the Ceratopian she again ran, until at long last, she found what she was looking for: the lone cell in Confinement with a human occupant.

Scott was chained to the back wall of the cell, his arms outstretched like he was crucified, and each wrist handcuffed to pins in the wall. He was shirtless—his pants were stained with blood. Crisscrossed on his chest were gaping cuts, like his body had been used to sharpen knives. Puncture wounds were in his shoulders, his stomach. He looked dead. “Oh my God.” Dashing to the security reader, she flashed the access card in front of it. As soon as the light was green, she bolted inside and toward him. “Scott!”

Scott offered no response. His eyes were swollen and purple. His head hung limply.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God. Please be alive, please be alive!” Placing her hands on his chest carefully, she felt around for any warmth—any beat of his heart. When she felt both, she exhaled. “Okay, Scott, hang tight there. I’m gonna get you out of here!”

Weapons fire emerged from the hallway. The Ceratopian grabbed one of the fallen guard’s assault rifles and ducked into the cell. Holding the undersized weapon awkwardly, he fired a series of scattered shots down the hall. “Hurry, little one.”

“I’m hurrying!” she said breathlessly. Holding the magnetic key against his handcuffs, she unlocked them. When both his hands were freed, she braced his fall with her body. Grimacing in pain, she slung one of his arms over her shoulder. “God, you are heavy!” Gritting her teeth, she repositioned him as best she could then trudged for the door. On wobbly knees, she grabbed her assault rifle with her one free hand. He was so heavy. He was so incredibly heavy. How could she possibly do this? The blonde stumbled forward. She and Scott both fell to the floor. Lowering her head and with her bloodied tendrils dangling, she closed her eyes. You got this. You got this, Tiffany. You…okay, like, right now, you don’t got this, but you really need to get this.

She knew what she had to do. It was the only way she would ever get him out of there. Dragging him alongside simply wasn’t going to work. The pilot was going to have to lift.

Repositioning him again, she put him facing her then slid her arms around his waist. Bending her knees, she counted, “One, two, three.” Screaming with every fiber within her, she propelled herself up and forward. In a single, strained maneuver, Scott came off the ground. Her grunting intensified as she stumbled to regain her balance with Scott’s legs hanging forward over her shoulder and his upper body down over her back. With a slide and a shimmy, she maneuvered him into a fireman’s carry.

Tiffany howled. She couldn’t help it. This took everything—every ounce of strength she had in her. Her legs burned. But she could do it. Glaring with intensity, she tromped forward one foot after the other. God, how she wanted the Ceratopian to carry him. But she needed him to fight. Whipping hair from her face, she screamed at him, “Bust us out of here!”

The Ceratopian didn’t reply. Still staring at her despite the rounds erupting around him, he angled his head and asked, “What is your name, little human?”

Oh come on, can it wait? Huffing a breath, she answered, “Tiffany!”

“You are fierce, Tiffany,” he said, his alien accent nearly butchering her name, though he got it out.

Her hair was in her face again. “I’m kinda dying here, big guy!”

Picking up the partition he’d previously flung, he held it up with one hand like a shield. “Follow me.” He marched forward, the partition in one hand to block EDEN’s projectiles as he fired the assault rifle recklessly with the other.

She trudged with gritted teeth behind him as she carried Scott onward. “So what do I call you?”

“Henkatha.”

That was a pleasant mouthful. “All righty, Henkatha. Lead the way.”

SLIDING AROUND THE corner of a column just outside of EDEN Command’s inner plaza, Dostoevsky leaned his body around its far edge and fired. The smoke of weapon exhaust saturated the air—even behind his fulcrum’s helmet, he could smell it.

It had taken Dostoevsky’s team little time to reach the community wing of EDEN Command. With the bulk of Com-Sec already dispatched, there was sparse resistance there. Small as they were, his Nightman team of Rashid, Egor, Feliks, and Pyotr was cutting through EDEN’s defenses like a red-hot blade.

While the Nightmen cleared the way, Esther kept her eyes peeled for any sign of the base’s medical center. Despite seeing directional signage for it everywhere, she was yet to see the medical center itself. A bullet zinged past her, forcing her to take cover behind the various square columns in the plaza. After ducking her head down as pieces of the column exploded above her, she shook her head and shouted, “If that’s the cafeteria over there, the medical center should be close!”

At the next column over—a larger one and one of the identified structural vulnerabilities—Egor Goronok knelt to attach a high explosive. Dostoevsky shot a look at Esther behind him. “This is but one of many charges we must set! If you wish to find Becan now, I trust you to do so on your own.”

That was good, because she trusted herself. “I’m up to it, commander!”

“Varya, go with her.” He nodded in the medic’s direction, and she acknowledged. He then turned his head to Pyotr. “Alkaev, you as well.”

The teenage slayer looked Esther’s way.

Esther wouldn’t turn down the help. Kneeling, she waved for Pyotr to join her. He dashed through the weapons fire around them then knelt by the two women. “Listen,” the scout said, her eyes on both of them, “we might be rolling a bed back to the hangar, so we can’t afford any injuries.” Her dark eyes focused on Pyotr. “I take point, you watch where I’m looking, then you look the other way. Protect my blind side. You have a slew of ammunition—use it.”

The slayer nodded eagerly.

“Varya, you watch our six. Linger behind and let us know if anyone approaches. You’re the most important person on this team. That sound well and good?” Through her tinted visor, the medic nodded. Esther held out a fist. “Let’s go, girl.” Varvara punched it, and the scout turned ahead. Together, the three set off through the backend of the plaza.

NATALIE AND HER team had encountered little resistance on their trek through the corridors of EDEN Command, hitting each nav point in their route almost in stride. What little opposition they encountered, they were able to dispatch or avoid entirely. All of Com-Sec’s forces seemed to be rallying to the base interior, where Saretok and his squads were storming. With ammunition still plentiful, the small team was only a few turns away from Research and Development.

It was there, however, that all smooth sailing came to an end. As they rounded the corner leading to the final corridor, they hit their collective brakes. Ahead of them and moving toward Research and Development was a sweeper team of Com-Sec guards. As soon as Javon and Tom, clad in Nightman armor, appeared in the open, a member of the sweeper team spied them. The guard pointed in their direction and shouted, as Natalie and her teammates raised their weapons to fire. Barrels flashed as an exchange of orange streaks erupted in the halls.

A bullet broke through Tom’s armor as he was moving toward cover. The soldier screamed, toppling backward and scampering out of the firefight while Javon laid down suppression. Natalie and Mark ended up taking a position around the corner opposite them. Natalie, Javon, and Mark all engaged from a distance as the EDEN soldiers clamped down on R&D’s entrance.

Still sheltering behind the reception desk, Todd Kenner poked his head around as the sound of weapons fire emerged from the hallway. As the collective focus of everyone around him—the Com-Sec guards, Klaus himself—shifted to face the new threat, he slammed a fresh magazine into his chaos rifle and aimed. The German captain wasn’t even looking at him. For a second time with Klaus in his sights, Todd hesitated.

Then he fired.

Chaos rounds tore through Klaus Faerber’s back; the German stumbled forward then collapsed. Todd quickly pivoted his gaze to find another target. One found him first. The black sheep of Vector never even saw the soldier who hit him. His head was struck by a bullet the moment it turned.

Flashing a look to Tom across the hall, Natalie shouted, “Where’s he hit?”

Grimacing, Tom felt around his abdomen, where dark red blood was oozing. Leaning his head back, he cried in agony. Above him, Javon shook his head. “Somewhere in the stomach! Shot tore through his armor like butter!”

Chaos rounds. It didn’t necessarily mean that Vector was there—chaos rifles weren’t used exclusively by them. But it most certainly meant they were about to go toe to toe with some harsh weaponry. Leaning around the corner, she fired off a volley to keep Com-Sec at bay. “Can you walk, King?”

“No,” he answered, his voice shaking in pain.

Glancing at Mark, Natalie said, “Javon, let’s lay down some suppression so Remington can get to him.” She’d had no intention of relying on Mark as a medic for this mission, but she was sure glad she had him, now.

“You got it, Vee!” Swinging around the corner, the tall soldier joined Natalie in sending a cascade of weapons fire down the hall.

“Move, move, move!” she shouted at Mark. The cadet scampered across the hallway, sliding out of the line of fire and next to Tom as he reached for his medical kit. “He’s yours!” Natalie said to him. “Stabilize him so we can move on.” She had no choice but to trust the cadet—and hopefully use that trust to fill him with confidence. When the medic-in-training affirmed, she shifted her focus to Javon. “We’ve gotta make a move! You ready?”

Javon nodded. “Ready when you are!”

“Go!” Bolting from cover, Natalie moved forward as she aimed her rifle at the corner. The moment a Com-Sec guard appeared, she and Javon opened fire, forcing the soldier back before he could attack.

There was no time to waste. There was no telling how many soldiers would be around that corner—the longer it took for Javon and her to clear it, the more time the guards would have to get better position on them. Up until that point, Natalie had tried her best to avoid taking the life of any soldiers from EDEN. What shots she had gotten off, she’d tried to shoot for incapacitation and not death. But with the heat of battle now facing her, that luxury of a clean conscience was coming to an end. What had to be done had to be done.

Turning the corner with Javon, Natalie fully expected to see a fortified force awaiting them. Instead, what she saw was bloodshed in every direction. Bodies were sprawled out—both EDEN and Vector. To be sure, the soldiers at the corner whom they’d pushed back were there, though they had now taken cover in a lobby, where more bodies—all clad in purple and white armor—could plainly be seen.

What in the hell happened here?

She barely had a second to entertain the thought, as the guards engaged, firing upon Natalie and Javon as they stood at the precipice of R&D. Natalie made a quick count of four guards before their firing forced her and Javon back to the previous intersection. “I got four!”

“Roger four!” said Javon, retreating around the corner after firing a volley of his own.

Two on four. They have chaos rifles. We’ve got this. Drawing a deep breath, she looked across the corridor at her comrade. “Move in fast, make your aims count! Don’t miss.”

The pair dashed around the corner, weapons raised and ready to fire. Time seemed to slow down. A soldier poked out from the right-hand corner ahead. Javon dropped him before Natalie could aim. Another emerged, this one from the left. A shot to the midsection from Natalie put him on the floor. Still, onward they charged. Bursting into the lobby with their weapons in search mode, they quickly became targets themselves. In the same second that Javon found a target sheltering behind a pillar in the corner, he was clipped in the right side of his chest. Though he stumbled forward, he managed to get his own shot off. It found its target, and the soldier behind the pillar fell. So did Javon, who quickly scrambled behind cover, clutching the side of his chest and heaving.

The last target was Natalie’s alone.

There was no way she could fall back into cover—not with Javon injured. If she wanted to take out the final guard before the guard took out her friend, she’d have to fight less like herself and more like Scott Remington. So be it.

Natalie charged the corner that led into the reception area with abject recklessness. There was no doubt the last guard was waiting for her—a fact that would put Natalie at a distinct disadvantage. She’d have to make sure the guard missed her first. Drawing close to the corner at an all-out sprint, Natalie bent her knees and slid forward like she was aiming for home plate.

She went just low enough. The Com-Sec guard swung the butt of her weapon where Natalie’s neck would have been, missing her completely. Whipping her head back to Natalie, the guard quickly reoriented herself. By the time Natalie aimed her own weapon and pulled the trigger, the guard was already diving and rolling out of the way.

Natalie did the same. Scrambling behind one of the many decorative planter boxes that were scattered about the area, she nearly lost her head when she lifted it to find her target. Bullets exploded against the corner of the planter, dirt flying as Natalie rolled to the other side of the box. Popping up, she fired a burst of suppressive fire in the general direction of the attack—just enough to stave off her assailant. The Com-Sec guard ducked back behind her own cover. Natalie ducked, too. For a second, all weapons fire ceased. Angling her head to the corner of the planter, Natalie shouted, “Just you and me, sister! You want to walk away from this, you just let me know!”

The guard was on the move—Natalie could hear her sprinting in the direction of the reception desk. Rising to fire, Natalie managed to get off a single burst before the woman disappeared.

Press in!

Adrenaline took over, and before Natalie knew it, she herself was charging for the same reception desk. The Com-Sec guard emerged from the far corner—barely five feet away—and laid down on the trigger. Once more, a rain of weapons fire was sent Natalie’s direction. Natalie slid behind a pillar then poked out to fire a return volley. The Com-Sec guard ducked behind the desk again.

This close-quarters game of cat-and-mouse wasn’t going to work. Natalie needed to end this fight now. With the other woman in momentary cover, now was Natalie’s chance. Bolting for the desk, she dove over it just as the Com-Sec guard rose to fire. Natalie collided into her, and the two women in EDEN armor went toppling over.

No sooner had they hit the floor than Natalie felt the hammering impacts of an elbow in the center of her visor. The hits came one after the other, rocking Natalie’s head with each blow. Upon wrapping her arm around the woman’s neck, Natalie rolled over and slung her onto the floor. The hit was hard, and Natalie heard the woman audibly react to it. But the fight wasn’t over. Too close to fire with an assault rifle, the Com-Sec guard reached down to grab her pistol from its holster. So did Natalie. Bringing the weapons up at the same time, each woman directed their pistols at the other’s head while simultaneously trying to push the other’s away. The result was a barrage of ear-splitting blasts as the two women rolled, literally wrapped up in each other, firing shot after shot just past their ears. Abandoning her efforts to fire, Natalie slammed her fist into the Com-Sec guard’s solar plexus. The guard oof-ed and buckled forward.

This fight had to end. Natalie headbutted the Com-Sec guard square in the visor—the woman fell back, her helmet jarred loose as Natalie took a truly advantageous position for the first time. Her ponytailed assailant lifted her head to look at her; the woman’s almond eyes widened. Natalie aimed her pistol at the Com-Sec guard’s head.

Then she saw it—that look she hadn’t anticipated seeing in someone so close to EDEN Command Confinement. In someone she was prepared to outright kill. She saw fear. Genuine, life-flashing-before-her-eyes fear. Something far more human than she’d expected—even wanted—to see. For the slightest of moments, Natalie hesitated.

Kicking her leg into Natalie’s, the guard shouted with vehemence as Natalie was nearly swept off her feet. Fortunately for Natalie, the reception desk was close enough to reach out and grab to stop her fall. After whipping her head back to the woman with a scowl, Natalie reached down, grabbed her assault rifle on the floor where it’d fallen, and swung it toward the guard’s chin with all of her strength.

Smack!

The butt of the weapon hit true, and the guard was knocked off her feet, her dark ponytail flailing as she landed flat on her back. Bringing the reclaimed weapon around, Natalie stood over the woman and aimed the barrel at her head.

The guard was out cold, her head lying limply to the side. There was no need to pull the trigger. Natalie knew how hard the woman had just been hit. This fight was finished. Bending forward and propping her hands against her knees, Natalie exhaled a breath.

“Veck, man!” Javon said from the corner far behind her.

Natalie spun around, where she saw Javon clutching his chest. She turned to make her way toward him, only to stop when she saw the crumpled-over body of a man behind the reception desk. His head, facing away from her, was lying in a pool of blood. His outfit wasn’t EDEN’s or Vector’s, though he had to have been felled by them, as there was no one else in the room who could have killed him. A chill came to her when she realized who it must have been.

Once again, Javon groaned. Natalie turned away from the corpse to trot in his direction, nearly stumbling over the corpse of another fallen warrior, this one clad in purple and white. Weaving through the carnage, she knelt next to Javon and examined his chest plate. The wound, much like Tom’s, was oozing with blood. He’d been hit solidly. “Can you walk?”

“I…” Javon grimaced, then he pushed himself up. “Yeah, I can walk.”

After adjusting her comm, Natalie addressed Mark on the other side. “How is King, Remington?”

The voice of the breathless cadet came back to her. “I’m…I’m workin’ on him!”

“Is he stable?”

“Yeah, he’s stable!”

Atta boy. “I’m sending Quinton to you. I want you to check him out then get them both back to the hangar.”

Javon growled and shook his head. “Like hell you’re sending me back.” Forcing himself to a stand, he readied his weapon as best he was able. “We in this to the end.”

“For you, this is the end.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

She looked at him sternly. “You don’t. Your job was to help us reach Confinement. You did that.” Without looking, she pointed in the direction of Research and Development. “There are only a handful of nav points left—everyone is evacuating. Whatever resistance we had to face, we just faced it. You get to the transports, I’ll get Scott and Tiffany, then we’ll all get back to Northern Forge and laugh about this over a six-pack. How’s that sound to you?”

Javon looked down. “I’m not gonna lie, that sounds pretty good—but I’m not leaving you behind.”

“I’m ordering you to go. You think Mark is gonna make it back on his own without help? Whatever you got left in the tank, he and Tom are gonna need it. Understand?”

Exhaling a tired breath, the soldier nodded. “Understand, Vee. But look, you better be careful.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t plan on dying today.”

“We never do.”

“I’ll see you on the ship, Quinton.”

“We’ll be waitin’ for ya, captain.” Turning away from her and still clutching the side of his chest, Javon lumbered painfully back up the corridor.

Natalie turned toward the interior of the lobby. Trashed with bullets and blood, it looked like a gateway to hell. But if there was a hell to face, she was ready to face it. With her grip on her weapon secure and her emerald gaze burning a hole through her visor, Natalie stalked into R&D.

THE WAR ROOM at EDEN Command was in a state of total chaos. Communications operators shouted into their headsets to members of security, council staffers, and representatives from other EDEN bases across the globe. All the while, Malcolm Blake, Benjamin Archer, and the other members of the High Command that’d made it there stared at the holographic globe at the center of the room, where numerous lines connected incoming EDEN squadrons to the pulsating red blip that identified EDEN Command. It was the first time that anyone in the room—sans the very few people who already knew—saw where the base they resided at was located. The veil had been lowered for all the world to see. At another time, those in the War Room might have been awestruck at the revelation. But this was not that time.

“Mister President!” shouted one of the radar operators. “Nagoya has just launched another squadron. ETA is—”

“Too bloody long,” Blake said, cutting the operator off as he slammed his palms against the railing. “We’re measuring their response time in hours—this will be over in twenty minutes!”

From farther down the railing, Archer watched the globe—and Blake—with pale-faced stoicism. He’d spoken nary a word since tasking Oleg with the silencing of Scott, Tiffany, and his alien collaborators. But all that while, his mind had been churning.

This was a loss. He could see that now, as could Kang, who was sitting in a chair across the room. The emergency transports were already being prepped in the secondary hangar. The live feeds in the security cameras didn’t lie. The Nightmen had come with a force that was bigger and more fervent than anything EDEN Command had to throw at them. They’d brought necrilids, a rampaging Ceratopian in Nightman armor, Omega Fighters. Archer’s concern was no longer holding onto EDEN Command. His goal was to survive the flight out.

“Where is Mariner?” Blake asked. Archer’s eyes shifted to regard the president as he waited for an answer.

“Mariner’s ETA is forty-seven minutes,” the radar operator replied.

Mariner and his Flying Apparatus had been the first to be called out, abandoning their efforts to bombard Northern Forge to make a beeline for EDEN Command. Squadrons from several other bases were en route, too, namely Berlin, London, and Sydney. Cairo, though the closest base in proximity to EDEN Command, was yet to get a plane off the ground.

From behind, Jaya Saxena grabbed Archer by the arm. When he turned to look at her, the wide-eyed Indian girl asked, “What are we going to do?”

A stupid question with an obvious answer. “We’re going to leave.”

“But what about everything?”

“Everything will be fine. If we leave.” It was not necessarily true—but it was the only thing Archer could cling to. His eyes returned to the holographic globe, this time zeroing in on the dot that represented Northern Forge. How little that place seemed to matter now.

“Attention, my comrades!” The boisterous voice was Dmitri Grinkov’s. The large, Russian judge lifted his hand for all to see. “The emergency transports are ready! We must leave.”

Turning from the holographic globe, Blake picked up where Grinkov left off. “Everyone heard Judge Grinkov. Take your final looks at what you see here, and then walk away. Or preferably, run.”

At the entrance to the War Room, a section of Com-Sec guards readied their weapons to escort.

Once more, Jaya tugged on Archer’s sleeve. He turned again to regard her. “What does this mean?” she stammered. “I mean, for us?”

For them? “Opportunity,” he answered. She angled her head, puzzled. “See the forest for the trees, Jaya. There is always opportunity—if one is unafraid to act.” Putting his hand on her shoulder, he eased her away. “Now if you please. I would like to survive this.” Gesturing toward the door, he followed her as she hurried for the Com-Sec guards.

Person by person, the War Room was abandoned.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Thirty-eight

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.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Thirty-nine

Friday, April 13th, 0012 NE

2123 hours

EDEN Command

ESTHER HAD GONE into many places she wasn’t supposed to in her lifetime. There was the time she’d listened in from the other side of a door as a child as her father and mother screamed at each other. And the time in Philadelphia Academy, when she snuck into the office of a professor to steal copies of an approaching exam. And in Cairo Confinement, wearing a black maxi dress and soaked to the bone as all hell broke loose around her as she prepared to break out Centurion. Her entire life could be summarized by her penchant for getting into places—and situations—she had no business being close to.

EDEN Command outdid them all.

There was not so much a wall of opposition in front of her as there was utter chaos around her. She, Varvara, and Pyotr were en route to the base’s medical center, where Becan was supposedly being held. She was prepared to be engaged in one long, relentless shootout all the way there. What she found instead were staffers, scientists, and civilian contractors running in every direction like headless chickens. In the few instances when she and Pyotr had encountered EDEN security, she found them so confused and leaderless that circumvention was easy. From the ceiling speakers above her, the soothing female voice of EDEN Command’s automated assistant repeated, “Attention, all personnel. There is a Level-5 hazardous situation. Please proceed to the nearest muster point. This is not a drill. Repeating, this is not a drill.” The voice did little to accomplish its purpose of calming the masses. People were running in every direction like the whole place was about to cave in.

It was not hard to find the medical wing. Signage was bold, bright, and abundant, leaving no question as to the direction of her goal. The only question she had was what she’d find when she got there.

Through the sparse crowd that ran to and from the medical center’s exterior, she could make out a pair of double doors leading into the center. And it was there—for the first time—that Esther saw an enemy she would actually have to confront.

She’d been prepped in the briefing that the medical wing of EDEN Command had its own dedicated security staff: Med-Sec. Easily identifiable by their white and red body armor, four Med-Sec guards stood in front of the double doors. Weapons ready, they were protecting the gate.

“Targets ahead,” Esther said to Pyotr, who abandoned her blind side to train his weapon. “Engage!”

She and Pyotr got their shots off first. Both their aims were true. As one pair of guards fell, the second quickly hunkered down behind short, concrete barricades.

All around Esther and Pyotr, what few non-combat personnel were in the halls ducked and ran. Though Esther tried to get lost amid them, within seconds, she, Pyotr, and Varvara were virtually alone in front of the retreating mob. Leaning around their concrete cover, the two Med-Sec guards opened fire. Seconds later, they were joined by two others from within the medical center. It was four against three.

The only place that offered any protection against Med-Sec was the entrance to a side restroom, where Esther was already positioned. Providing cover fire for Pyotr and Varvara to join her, Esther quickly ducked back as chaos rounds peppered the corner.

“Bloody hell,” she murmured. Reaching down to her belt, she grabbed a flashbang. “Stand by, Pyotr,” she said quietly. The slayer nodded.

There was no time to get bogged down in a stalemate. The retrieval of Becan meant nothing to Saretok—the moment EDEN Command was ready to blow and the documents they wanted from Intelligence were secured, they were going to make tracks back to the hangar, Irishman or no Irishman.

Pressing the activate button on the flashbang, Esther slung it around the corner toward the medical center entrance. Ducking back and closing her eyes, she prepared for the burst. When the flashbang erupted, Esther rounded the corner and prepared to clear the way.

What she found instead was trouble. No sooner had she turned the corner, a pair of Med-Sec gloves grabbed her assault rifle and shoved it aside. Two of the guards must have approached prior to the flashbang erupting. Esther fought to pull her weapon back—but the effort was useless. The guard next to him raised his chaos rifle in Esther’s direction. Relinquishing her grip on her assault rifle, the scout literally dove for her life back around the corner.

Panic.

Screaming at Pyotr and Varvara, Esther literally shoved them in the direction of the restroom door. “Go in!” As the guards emerged around the corner behind her, she scrambled through the door and leapt to the ground.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

A veritable avalanche of chaos rounds cut through the restroom. Wall tiles exploded like hand grenades. Sinks and urinals were blown off the walls. As water lines were shredded, streams of hard, spraying water streaked across the room. There was no exercise of caution by the two Med-Sec guards—no concern as to whether or not innocents were present. They were painting the place with bullets.

Sliding across the floor, Esther whipped her head around to see the two guards storming inside. Pulling out her pistol, she fired in their direction. From the opposite corner of the restroom where he and Varvara had gone, Pyotr opened fire, too. Within seconds, the foremost guard was struck, and he stumbled backward and fell. But the second guard got in his lick—and Pyotr was the victim. Esther couldn’t see the shot that got the teenager—there was far too much water spray streaking across the room—but she heard Pyotr scream.

No! Esther needed him! Esther needed all of them! Shoving up from the ground, she practically unloaded her handgun in the second guard’s direction. Within seconds, the Med-Sec guard fired back. Chaos rounds streaked past her head and exploded against the tile wall. Whether by the guard’s haste or a miracle from God, none of them found her.

The sound of E-35 rounds emerged. Either Pyotr or Varvara was firing back. The Med-Sec guard ducked down as several shots dinged off his armor. He swung his weapon to return fire.

Esther was already charging. Tearing through the streaking water, she fired forward with her handgun until she was close enough to engage hand-to-hand. Leaping at the guard in a display more of freneticism than finesse, she collided into him, knocking him back through the door. With what few pistol rounds she had left, she raised her weapon and opened fire. The guard was struck everywhere—the head, the neck, the body, the arms. Blood splattered the floor around him.

Footsteps emerged by the corner. The two guards she’d hit with a flashbang had recovered enough to pursue. Slamming a new magazine into place, Esther raised her pistol at the corner and hesitated—just long enough.

Pop! Pop!

Two pulls of the trigger, two headshots. The final two Med-Sec guards fell lifeless to the floor just as they emerged around the corner. There was no time to take in the moment. Rushing back into the restroom, she sought out her comrades.

Pyotr was writhing on the ground with Varvara atop him. The blond-haired medic was already working with her kit, assault rifle at her side where apparently she, and not Pyotr, had set it down after engaging.

He couldn’t be hurt! Esther needed everyone—everyone to help her get Becan. They’d gotten so close. How could this be happening now? “Can he fight?”

Looking back at Esther, Varvara shot her a glare. The scout wasn’t even graced with a response.

“Veck!” Esther screamed, ripping off her helmet and pushing some loose, damp strands out of her face.

“I must bring him back,” Varvara said. “Esther, he will die. I can stabilize him here, but I cannot leave him.”

Stabilize him. Stay with him. Take him back to the hangar. All of those things involved Varvara leaving the rescue effort. She looked in Pyotr’s eyes. The trembling, terrified teenager locked his with hers. After holstering her weapon, she crouched down on the floor. There was only one decision she could make. “Take him back. I’ve got this.”

“You can call for reinforcements,” said Varvara, looking at her.

“I won’t get reinforcements. Nor would I have the time to wait for them. I’ll get Becan alone.” Before Varvara could protest, she said, “I can, Varya. I must.”

Hands bloodied as they hovered over Pyotr’s wounds, Varvara’s eyes locked briefly with the scout’s. “Be careful.”

After sliding her tactical helmet back over her head, Esther strapped it into place then walked to the fallen guards. Reaching down, she claimed one of their chaos rifles. Stashing an extra magazine on her belt, she marched out of the restroom toward the medical center.

* * *

Northern Forge

HUSTLED, BUSTLED, and shoved into a transport—that was the experience that awaited Lisa as she arrived at the drop zone, where numerous V2s were perched. As per Dieter’s request, the female Vector was quickly escorted into a Vulture packed with wounded soldiers from the assault. Indicative that the transport had been waiting for her, its rear bay door closed the moment she was on board.

“Does anyone have a comm?” she asked, weaving through the wounded. When no comms were offered, she slipped through the doorway to the cockpit. “Excuse me, I need to contact Captain Faerber.”

The pilot glanced at her. “I’m sorry, that’s not going to be possible.”

“Why not?”

“EDEN Command is under assault right now.”

“What?”

“Apparently,” the man said, “this is a good time to attack an enemy headquarters.”

The Vector was flabbergasted. “How—how did they find EDEN Command? Where is it? What—”

Busy flipping switches on the console, the pilot said, “I’m gonna save you a bunch of time and say, ‘I don’t know,’ to every one of those. Now please, sit down, because we’ve got to get airborne. We were held up waiting for you.”

Crinkling her nose in spite, Lisa turned away from the cockpit and made her way to a seat. After lowering herself, she strapped in and looked out the porthole window nearest her. Mere seconds later, the V2 lifted from the ground.

Logan Marshall. He was the cause of all this. He and his outlaw cohorts. Were it not for them, she would have never been captured.

It was then, in the midst of her brooding, that Lisa saw them for the first time. Transports. What looked like a whole fleet of them, flying almost street-level low across the surface of Norilsk. They were convening on the mountain base’s access point. Narrowing her gaze curiously, she unstrapped herself and returned to the cockpit. “Who is that on the—”

“Yeah, we see it, we see it!” the pilot snapped, reaching up to snag the dangling cockpit comm. As he brought it to his lips, his copilot craned to look out the window himself. “Beowulf to Command, we have numerous transports inbound to the drop zone. Transports are flying NOE, repeat, transports are flying NOE!”

“NOE?” Lisa asked. “What does that mean?”

The copilot answered quickly, “Below radar detection!” His own fingers were now flying over the controls on his side. “I have no signatures on any of these! Whoever they belong to, it ain’t us!”

By the time the soldiers at the drop zone heard the roar of the approaching engines, it was too late. Nose-mounted cannons unleashed their fury on the hapless, grounded transports and the few men who defended them. Within seconds, the new arrivals were landing uncontested. Their rear doors burst open, as the soldiers of the NSU military emerged.

* * *

EDEN Command

DEEP INSIDE EDEN Command, Saretok and his army surged forward. With EDEN’s defenses decimated, there was little to stand in the Nightmen’s way. By the time Dostoevsky commed him to say that the explosives had been set, he was already breaching Intelligence. Ripping open file cabinet after file cabinet, the mohawked fulcrum barked at his underlings to grab every document they could put their hands on—every sheet of paper sitting on a desk, every crumpled-up memo in a wastebasket. He wanted it all.

Farther away, where the Council was fleeing in EDEN Command’s secondary hangar, the last bastion of Com-Sec resistance fought desperately to stave off the Nightman advance.

As bullets from E-35 assault rifles pinged against the hulls of Benjamin Archer’s transport, he shouted at the pilot, “Launch! Now! We must leave!” The High Command had been split into several groups, the purpose to ensure that should one transport fall, the whole of the Council wouldn’t suddenly be lost. Among those sharing a transport with Archer were Judges Carol June, Javier Castellnou, Uzochi Onwuka, and Director Kang Gao Jing.

The pilot spoke urgently into his headset. “This is Frontier-1 requesting confirmation once again. Will there be a fighter escort upon our departure?”

Through a burst of static, those who remained at Prime Control answered, “—egative, I repeat, negative! You do not have clear path.”

Archer leaned through the cockpit door. “Tell everyone at Prime Control to evacuate immediately. We cannot wait any longer!” The pilot nodded then relayed the message.

Nightmen flooded the hangar as the three transports containing the High Command closed their rear doors. At the forefront of the charge, his armor dinged but nowhere penetrated, Centurion roared and aimed his neutron blasters. As the transports lifted, the middle one was struck by neon red streaks of energy. Bucking sideways, its engine flamed, then flickered. The transport collapsed to the hangar floor.

Pressing his hands to one of the porthole windows, Archer looked at the downed transport as it was overrun by Nightmen. Next to him, Carol June gasped. “My God…was that…?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Yes, it was.”

From several seats down, an overwrought Jaya asked, “It was what?” When no one answered, she asked again, “It was what?”

Archer’s eyes remained on the downed transport, watching as it was swarmed. Drawing in a breath, he looked away from the window. Calmly, he locked eyes with Jaya. “Our opportunity.”

AS TIFFANY FEATHERS returned to Scott’s position in R&D, she pointed Nharassel to him and shouted, “Right there! Pick him up.” She pantomimed putting someone over her shoulders.

The muscle-toned Bakma crouched down to grab Scott and hoist him up.

Tiffany, meanwhile, was making a beeline for Natalie. The crimson-haired captain was lying sideways on the floor, blood seeping from her stomach in amounts that Tiffany had never seen before. Blood trailed from her mouth; her eyes rolled despondently. “Okay,” Tiffany said, “I need you to forgive me, because this is probably gonna hurt. Just stay with me!” Leaning down, Tiffany dragged Natalie up from the floor—Natalie leaned her head back and moaned. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” Resituating her so that the captain’s arm was around Tiffany’s shoulders, she said, “I know it’s terrible, but I need you to walk. I need everything you got! I’m gonna get you out of here.”

Whether Natalie was capable of replying at all, Tiffany didn’t know. All she knew was that upon receiving the command and despite the wound to her stomach, the captain staggered forward. Though Natalie wasn’t nearly as heavy as Scott, Tiffany’s muscles were spent. It took everything in her to move forward at all—but move forward she did.

“And like, if you can, please point me where to go, because I have no idea.” No point came from Natalie, so Tiffany simply staggered onward. Glancing sidelong to Nharassel, she saw that the Bakma had reached down to claim a weapon from one of the bodies scattered about—the Bakma was one-handing it has he carried Scott over his shoulders.

Okay, Tiff, think! You don’t know where to go, but you know that step one is getting out of this…wing, or whatever it is. Just keep moving forward and don’t slow down! You’ll figure this out. You’ll…

Her hazel eyes shifted. Ahead of her, at the entrance to R&D, someone appeared. Com-Sec! The guard’s armor gave her away—with her weapon raised, she aimed at Tiffany. In the same second that Nharassel aimed his own weapon, recognition came. Her mouth in sync with her brain, Tiffany gasped and said, “Ching!”

Ligaya Ching’s dark ponytail was bedraggled—an assortment of cuts and bruises were visible on her face, even through her visor. The same recognition that had appeared in Tiffany’s eyes also appeared in the guard’s. “You!” the guard yelled. “Do not!” The word move was unspoken but understood.

Holding an open palm in Nharassel’s direction, Tiffany staved off any attack from the alien. Her gaze shot back to Ching. “Ching, you’ve gotta help me. You’ve got to help us leave!”

“Ching to Chief Strakhov,” she spoke into her helmet comm, “I have multiple escapees from Confinement. Please advise on what I am to do.” When Tiffany took a half-step forward, Ching aimed her weapon firmer. “I can kill them or take them into custody.”

Tiffany shook her head. “He’s not gonna answer you.”

“Shut up!” Once again, she spoke. “Chief Strakhov, this is Lieutenant Ching. Are you receiving this?”

“Ching…”

“I said shut up!”

Slowly, Tiffany turned her head to the side of the room, where the body of Oleg Strakhov lay sprawled where Natalie had killed him. Ching followed the pilot’s gaze. Her almond eyes found the corpse—she fell quiet. Tiffany did not. “I know you’re confused,” she said. “I know you don’t understand what’s going on. But you have to trust me—you’ve got to! If I don’t get her out of here quickly, she’ll die.”

Ching’s head angled upon focusing on Natalie. There was recognition there, too.

“I wish I could explain all of this to you, but I don’t have the time! Look at me. Do I look like someone who’s evil? Do I look like someone who’s up to no good? I’m just trying to save her life!”

“She is with you,” Ching said, the words somewhere between question and statement.

Confusion was so evident in the woman’s face—even fear. She looked like someone who didn’t know what was going on or what to believe. She needed honesty—truth. Tiffany knew the only one who could supply Ching with it was herself. “I’m not asking you to trust me. I’m asking you to trust you. Trust your gut, trust your instinct. Do what you just know is right, even if you can’t explain it!” Make a connection, Tiff! “The custard! You sent me that custard, right? It helped me escape!”

Now the woman looked dumbfounded. “What?”

“Argh! Okay, forget the custard. No wait, don’t forget it! What made you send it to me in the first place? It was trust, right? You trusted me.”

“It was pity.”

Shaking her head, Tiffany said, “I don’t believe that. I’m sorry, Ching, but I don’t believe that at all. You were doing something good for me because you believed that I was good. If you tell me otherwise, you’re lying.” Natalie’s head rolled back; the wounded captain groaned. Heart racing faster, Tiffany continued. “Ching, I need you to dig down deep right now. You’ve known something was off about this from the start. Don’t even tell me you didn’t! Well I’m here to tell you, yeah, something was off. Something was way off.” She nodded her head in Oleg’s direction. “And he was a part of it. So is Benjamin Archer. So is Carol June. So are lots of people! But not you. You didn’t send me homemade avocado custard because you pitied me. You did it because you felt bad because you knew something was wrong. Just like you know something is wrong now.”

The confusion on Ching’s face remained. The Com-Sec guard hesitated.

“Get us out of here, Ching. Get us to whatever hangar or entryway my friends used to get here. I promise, I promise, we are the good guys in this. You don’t understand it.” Understanding could come later. “I just need you to believe it. Believe it like she did,” she gestured to Natalie. “She was just like you. And now she’s dying—so help us get out of here.”

The tension was emanating from Nharassel beside her. At any moment, the Bakma was going to have enough. Tiffany could feel it.

“Please, Ching. I’m begging you, please.”

Ching’s almond eyes shifted from Tiffany to the Bakma, then back to Tiffany again. For several seconds, the Filipino woman hesitated.

Tiffany’s heart was exhausted. She exhaled what felt like all she had left. “Please.”

Slowly, the guard lowered her weapon.

Elation. “Oh my God, thank you!”

“Follow me.” Casting a final weary glance at Nharassel, Ching took a step backward then turned to lead them out.

Tiffany didn’t waste time on another word. Resituating Natalie against her, she assisted the dying woman forward.

BECAN.

E-35 readied, Esther moved from corner to corner, each turn carrying her deeper into the medical center and closer to her friend.

Becan, where the hell are you?

Thus far, the only resistance the scout had faced was that of the Med-Sec guards at the medical center’s entrance. There was no reason to believe more guards weren’t lurking about. It was a paranoia she didn’t feel comfortable relenting.

Though not particularly large—more comparable in size to a single floor of a small hospital than to a sprawling medical complex—there was no shortage of rooms for Esther to investigate. Most were either standard hospital rooms or doctor’s offices. The fact that none were occupied meant the evacuation of patients must have been well underway. For the patients, whose home was about to be obliterated by carefully placed Nightman explosives, that was all for the better. But for Esther’s purpose of finding Becan, it meant potential disaster.

Turn corner. Raise weapon. Pause. Turn corner. Raise weapon. Pause. Esther repeated the motions at the end of every hallway, searching desperately for someone—anyone—who might tell her where Becan was. At the corner farthest from the front of the medical center, she finally found it: a solitary nurse running up the hallway. “Hey!” Esther called, causing the nurse to stop in her tracks and look up. Weapon raised, Esther asked, “Where is Becan McCrae?”

The nurse didn’t answer. Instead, she dropped the clipboard she was carrying and turned to sprint away.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Several quick squeezes of the trigger later and the nurse was ducking for cover, hands over her head as she crouched to the floor. Seconds later, Esther was upon her, yanking the woman up by her hair and spinning her to face her. “I believe you have an Irishman who belongs to us—where is he?”

Wide-eyed and trembling, the nurse answered, “I don’t know! I don’t know anything about any of the patients!”

“You’re a nurse at EDEN Command and you don’t know anything about the sodding patients? I don’t think so!” Fist clutching the woman’s hair, Esther looked about the hallway for a more direct tool of negotiation. She found it in the form of an abandoned mop bucket. Yanking the woman in its direction, she said, “I’m going to ask one more bloody time—where in the bloody hell is Becan McCrae?”

The nurse yelped as Esther dragged her. “I promise, I don’t know any—”

“Wrong answer!” Kicking the woman’s knees out from behind, Esther dropped her to the floor then shoved her head face-first into the dirty mop water. Ten seconds later, she yanked the gasping woman up by her roots. “I can hold my breath for six minutes. Want to find out how long you can hold yours? I am not playing. Where is Becan McCrae?”

“Listen, please—”

A forward push, and the woman’s head was plunged under again. The nurse fought fervently, but Esther kept her foot clamped down on the flesh of the nurse’s calf—not exactly a pressure point, but still one that hurt. Dirty water splashed across the floor as she thrashed her head around, but Esther kept the pressure on. Twenty seconds later, the nurse was yanked up again. “Sister, you better hope you grow gills, because the next time, you’re not coming up.”

Coughing violently, the sputtering nurse pointed down the hallway. “That way. All of the patients are being evacuated. There’s a muster point down the hall through the big double doors.”

“And where does this muster point lead?”

“To an emergency hangar. There are several around the base.”

There was no more time to waste. If the medical staff managed to get Becan to a transport, then all of this was for naught. Not just this mission. Her mission. Her destiny. If Esther Timmons was to be the woman she wanted to be, getting Becan back was non-negotiable. Esther slung the nurse to the floor, releasing her then storming up the hall. From the floor, the fiery-eyed nurse wiped her hair back. “You think you can take on a Med-Sec escort? Who do you think you are?”

“A one-girl sodding army.” Weapon at the ready, Esther marched up the hall.

THROUGHOUT EDEN Command, the signs of EDEN’s imminent defeat were becoming apparent. The klaxons still wailed—the calm, female voice still urged the staff to evacuate. But the impact of EDEN’s resistance was all but gone. For a base whose location wasn’t supposed to be known, only a certain measure of resistance could ever be expected in the first place.

At the heart of it all was Grigori Saretok. The mohawked fulcrum was marching through the war zone in a way that was almost Thoor-like. Having grabbed as many documents from Intelligence as his fulcrums could carry, he was now in full-fledged finishing mode. The explosives were planted. The documents from Intelligence were secure. There was little else he cared about.

“Colonel!”

A voice called to him from down the hall, where several of his squads were returning from pursuing the High Command. Saretok looked at the fulcrum who’d addressed him.

“Come please, colonel! There is something you must see!”

The fulcrum was excited—eager. Angling his head curiously, Saretok followed his lead, where he saw amidst the crowd a cluster of Nightmen escorting several individuals whose hands were clasped behind their heads. None of the individuals were in armor. These were not warriors. They looked like command staff. Several, he did not recognize—though he did see the insignia of judge on their wardrobes. He cared little for the significance of judges, despite the high esteem they were held in in the eyes of the world. But one man, Saretok knew. The man’s bald, black head was unmistakable.

Malcolm Blake.

And now, Saretok was intrigued.

“Colonel, we have captured several judges along with EDEN’s president. This is Judge…” The fulcrum leaned in to the nametag of the first judge, a Japanese woman. “Shinkatu.”

“Shintaku,” another fulcrum corrected.

“Yes, yes, that is right. And this one says Jun Dao. And we all know of Judge Torokin from Vector!”

Sure enough, the glaring eyes of Leonid Torokin burned through Saretok like fire. The judge was battered, bruised. He looked like he’d put up a fight. But Saretok didn’t care about these judges. There was only one man he wanted to address. “President Blake,” he said, his already gravelly voice reverberating further through his amplified helmet.

“I don’t know who the bloody hell you think you are,” Blake said, “but you won’t get away with this.”

“Yes,” Saretok answered, “I will.” Signaling to the fulcrums to proceed with the prisoners, he raised his weapon against his shoulder and walked ahead of them.

Once more, Blake spoke. “Our forces are already in Norilsk—already breaching your secret mountain, Northern Forge.”

Saretok paused, the sudden stopping causing the others to stop around him. He angled his head with curiosity.

“You have nowhere to run. You’ll have all of EDEN breathing down on you.”

“Mm,” Saretok said, looking forward for several seconds before angling his head back again and speaking further. “We will land at Northern Forge. Whatever resistance we face, we will destroy.”

“You won’t even make it there. The Flying Apparatus is already en route. Mariner will blow you to the stars.”

Saretok said nothing. He simply signaled them forward again. Once they’d resumed their walk, he spoke into his helmet comm. “All Nightmen, return to the base’s main hangar. We leave soon.”

* * *

Northern Forge

“CONVERGE IN TARGET Area Bravo.” The words of Lieutenant Chiumbo Okayo were calm and succinct, despite the occasional rounds he fired from his chaos rifle into the Nightman forces that resisted him. He and his strike team of EDEN soldiers had broken through the stairwell stronghold and were now making their way up to Northern Forge Level-3. Despite the resistance the Nightmen had thrown at him, EDEN’s injuries were vastly outweighed by the Nightmen’s, whose riddled and broken corpses littered the ground over which they marched. “Strike Team Five, fall back to rearm, then fortify Target Area Alpha-2.” EDEN’s comm channel burst with sudden chaos—the sounds of combat and screaming. Chiumbo stopped dead in his tracks, holding his hand up to signal those around him to stop. “What is happening?” he asked over it.

No answer came—only intense and relentless weapons fire.

“Freedom Base, what is happening?” Looking at the soldiers around him, he signaled for them to turn and head back down the stairwell. “Do you require assistance?” Still, no answer came. “Albrecht? Freedom Base, can you respond?” The march up the stairwell reversed course, as Chiumbo and his squad of EDEN soldiers reemerged on Level-2—the level whence they’d come.

The moment the first soldier stepped back into the open, bullets ripped through his armor. Slamming his back against the wall, a wide-eyed Chiumbo readied his weapon. “Alpha-2 is compromised! I repeat, Alpha-2 is compromised!” he said over the comm, before shouting to his soldiers, “Engage, engage!”

“Engage who?” one of the soldiers near him cried out.

“The Nightmen!” another answered.

“But we killed all the Nightmen!”

Orange streaks of weapons fire overwhelmed the area in front of the stairwell from the direction of the tram station. “Albrecht!” Chiumbo said again. “Are you reading this?” Poking his head out briefly around the corner, Chiumbo looked down the hall in the direction of the attack. What the Mwera warrior saw made his eyes open wide.

These were not Nightmen—but they wore black just the same. This was not a band of survivors. It was not a last-ditch effort to repel EDEN. This was something new. This was too many soldiers to count. Soon, every hallway in every direction was teeming with them.

“Fall back, everyone!” Chiumbo shouted, ducking back through the stairwell door before the attackers could mow him down.

“Who is that?” someone asked. No one answered.

Back up the stairs the EDEN strike team went, this time for the sake of their own survival. Into Level-3 they poured like ants, where the second half of Nightman resistance awaited—those warriors of Northern Forge who had taken back the hangar. With Level-2 seemingly secured, Chiumbo and his team had been en route there to assist. But that situation had changed. Bullets now converged on them from two sides: from the bottom of the stairwell where the mysterious, new attackers had appeared, and also from the direction of the hangar. On the cusp of what had seemed like a dominating victory, Vector and EDEN were now finding themselves on the verge of being overrun.

Behind Chiumbo, EDEN soldiers were dropping like flies. Taking position behind a corner, the Mwera lieutenant fired his chaos rifle relentlessly. Nightman after Nightman fell to his hand before he was forced to reload. “We must push forward!” he shouted. “We must reach the hangar!”

But it was not meant to be. The assault was coming too fast—too heavily. Whatever reinforcement Chiumbo had intended to provide to his forces in the hangar had been upended by this new, swarming force. Suddenly, what only moments earlier had seemed a foregone conclusion had now become certain defeat. It did not take long for Chiumbo to recognize that—or to realize the one option he had left that would keep his soldiers alive. “All forces,” he said through the comm as he threw his weapon to the floor and lifted his hands, “surrender! Throw down your weapons. Do not fight!”

No one argued. As the surrounded and outnumbered EDEN forces threw their weapons to the floor, they were converged on from every side.

“GO BACK!” Lisa screamed at the pilot from the cockpit doorway. “You must go back!” Theirs had been the only transport to make it off the ground before the fleet of NSU transports had landed. But all of it, they’d heard over the comms.

“Get back in your seat!” the pilot yelled, pointing back to the troop bay. “There’s nothing we can do!”

Despite the Vector’s protests, the transport continued onward.

WITH WEAPONS TO their backs, Chiumbo and his remaining soldiers found themselves forced into the hangar they had been trying to reach—a hangar that was now very much again in Nightman control. Looking to the open hangar door, he watched as an old-model Vulture slowly hovered inside. Within a minute, its wheels were touching concrete and its bay door was coming down.

The man who emerged from the transport—a man with thick stubble and a short, salt-and-pepper ponytail—was one Chiumbo had never seen before. But it was clear by the way the man addressed Chiumbo that that uncertainty was not mutual. “Chiumbo Okayo. Is your family well? I hear the droughts have been bad in Ifakara this year.”

“Who are you?” Chiumbo asked pointedly as more soldiers appeared from within the base—soldiers now plainly identifiable as NSU.

“My name is Iosif Antipov. I am the general of all the forces that you see.”

Max, Boris, and David emerged from the Pariah. Quietly, they joined the others in observing the exchange.

“You have replaced General Thoor,” Chiumbo said.

Antipov dipped his head a single time. “I have. But rest assured, unlike Thoor, I am a civilized man. You will be cared for here until you can be safely retrieved. I have always heard that you are a good man. I would not deprive the world of one when they are so desperately needed.”

“You cannot hold this base,” Chiumbo said. “Even with the NSU helping you. There are too many countries. There are too many in EDEN.”

“Oh, my friend,” Antipov said, “in that, you are sorely mistaken.”

* * *

African Airspace

“AFL WING COMMANDER to Prime Control, we have a current ETA of seventeen minutes. Please advise as to the number of Omega Fighters present, over.”

“Prime control to AFL wing commander, we do not have a current estimation on that.”

The corners of his mouth downturned, the wing commander of Air Force London replied, “I copy, Prime Control, please standby for our arrival.”

As the lone fleet still en route to EDEN Command, everything was riding on Air Force London’s shoulders. The global attack on EDEN’s flight control towers had essentially scrambled the entire organization’s air presence, forcing all the major bases across the planet to recall their fighters. Air Force London had been in the process of about-facing themselves when the call came in for them to stay the course. The fleet, consisting of one squadron of Superwolves and two squadrons of Vindicators, was streaking over African airspace at maximum speed.

A series of blips appeared on the radar screen in front of the wing commander, far to the west but approaching quickly. Seconds later, one of his pilots spoke over their channel. “Wing commander, I’m picking up numerous bogeys inbound from our three o’clock.”

“I see them,” the wing commander said. Seconds later, signatures appeared over the approaching aircraft. Slowly, the wing commander smiled. “It’s Sydney.” Adjusting his frequency, he tuned to EDEN’s universal air channel. “This is AFL wing commander contacting Oz Force,” he said, referencing the unofficial moniker of Sydney’s new air force. “We are signal buster to EDEN Command—would you care to join us?”

“Roger, AFL signal buster to EDEN Command,” the response came. “Oz has your six.”

“Happy to have you, Oz. Current ETA is seventeen minutes.”

The aircraft from Sydney, now identifiable as two squadrons of Superwolves, altered their courses to fall in behind Air Force London. A minute later, they were tucking in behind the lead squadron of London’s Superwolves.

Blowing out a breath, the AFL wing commander reached up to rub his chin. “We have an unknown number of Omegas waiting for us,” he said, still over the wide channel. “Be prepared for a fight, friends.”

Suddenly, the wing commander’s panel lit up—the warning sound of an enemy missile lock filling the cockpit. Brow furrowing, he looked down at the display. Before he could speak, his pilots addressed him over the AFL channel. “This is Corsair-3, I am missile locked!”

“Corsair-7, also locked!”

“This is Corsair-6, the same!”

Patching through to Sydney’s fighters, the wing commander said, “Oz, we are reading multiple missile locks from your aircraft—are we picking up a glitch?”

The voice of Oz Force’s wing commander—the same one AFL had heard before—nearly cut the AFL wing commander off. “RTB, London.”

At the order to return to base, the wing commander said, “I beg your pardon?”

“You are to RTB immediately. Be advised, failure to comply will result in missile launch. We will fox you.”

Snarling, the wing commander looked behind him through the cockpit glass. “What in the devil are you talking about? Is this some sort of joke?”

“This is your final warning. RTB or be fired upon.”

“Now wait just one bloody minute!”

“You have been warned.”

The wing commander’s display flashed—the alarm tone shifted. Unwilling to risk their tactical advantage for civility, Sydney had just fired.

Yanking back on the stick, the pilot managed to veer out of harm’s way without a second to spare. The same could not be said for the rest of the fleet, as missile-locked Superwolves and Vindicators exploded in midair. Air Force London’s comm channel went crazy with chatter as their fighter jets scrambled to shake their attackers. Within seconds, a massive, multidirectional dogfight had erupted.

* * *

EDEN Command

ESTHER HAD BARELY made it through the double doors the nurse had told her about when she encountered resistance. Med-Sec was indeed providing escort, though Esther caught a glimpse of the patients being evacuated before they all rounded a corner, disappearing out of view as Med-Sec engaged her. That was all well and good, for the time being. It was fewer people for her to accidentally shoot.

Bullets were flying fast and furious. Esther’s forward progress had to be relentless—even with the threat of death raining down on her. Fire. Move to cover. Duck back. Fire. Move to cover. Duck back. Once again, the scout found herself repeating the same motions over and over. There were at least seven Med-Sec guards providing escort—far too many to take down without some sort of X-factor. But there were no sprinkler systems to turn on, no raving extraterrestrials to release, no shortcuts to cut off the medical convoy. The only way she’d be able to do this—the only way she’d be able to get through Med-Sec and find Becan—was to be perfect.

She had to be perfect.

The shots Esther fired weren’t brazen; if she ran out of ammunition, she’d be done for. Every shot had to serve a purpose, be it to kill, suppress, or put someone at a disadvantage. And so that was what she did. She took an extra fraction of a second before every squeeze of the trigger, drew an extra breath before every movement from cover. She did what she never did: she fought with caution as her ally and not her enemy. It wasn’t her forte, but it was what was required. It was what the situation called for. By the time she’d felled two of the Med-Sec guards and effectively closed the gap between them by halfway, she felt a prompting within herself to make her move.

She had no grenades and no flashbangs left—but they didn’t know that. Snatching up a small stapler that’d fallen to the floor next to a nurse’s station, Esther dashed out of cover. With one hand firing her E-35—the lone time she fired with abandon—she flung the stapler along the floor toward the five guards that remained. The innocuous office tool served its purpose—the five guards immediately shrunk back as if seeking cover. It was the break Esther needed, and she took it.

Charging forward, Esther bolted straight for the guards. Unleashing the last rounds from her assault rifle as she did, she slung it to the ground as another guard fell. In the next instant, she was literally leaping into their midst.

The gamble was clear: if she was right in the middle of them, they would hesitate to fire—or even better, they would abandon the effort entirely. Close-quarters combat would rule the day. The gamble paid off; in the same instant she darted between them, the nearest Med-Sec guard reached out to grab her. It would be the man’s last mistake. Grabbing the guard’s outstretched fist in mid-swing, Esther twirled around it, shoved the guard into another, pulled out her handgun, and fired. Three shots penetrated the Med-Sec guard’s back before his desperate comrade threw his body off. Even in the erupting brawl, Esther counted down her competition in her head.

Three.

The two guards to her left reacted—one raising his weapon and the other reaching out. She only had time to take down one. A pop of her handgun, and the Med-Sec guard brandishing the chaos rifle was struck. Though not a kill shot, the blow was enough to make him stumble and drop his weapon.

After grabbing her by the collar, the other guard yanked her close, his free hand going for her weapon. Esther wasn’t going to overpower him—she’d have to outmaneuver him. Sliding her feet forward, she allowed herself to fall straight backwards, the momentum of the drop taking the guard right down with her. As she landed on her back, she pulled up her knees and placed her feet against the guard’s stomach. The backward fall transitioned into a roll, and she kicked her feet out, sending the guard flying head over heels.

The third guard—the one who’d thrown off the dead body of his counterpart—moved in. Esther spun on the ground, her feet smashing into the guard’s ankles and sending him toppling. In the same instant, she re-gripped her pistol, aimed at the guard she’d already shot once, and pulled the trigger again. The shots connected; that guard was out of the fight.

Two.

Wrapping her legs around the neck of the guard she’d dropped, she pressed her thighs tightly together. The guard reached up to try and pry her legs off as his oxygen was cut off. Swinging her pistol around, she took aim at the guard she’d thrown over her and who was now back on his feet. Another pull of the trigger—another impact.

One.

Eyes fixating on the guard whose neck she had clamped, Esther flexed her thigh muscles harder and twisted to cut off more air. Lifting her head, she looked down the hall for the first time.

The patients. She could see them now, still being escorted by various medical personnel, almost all of whom were now looking solely at the fight taking place. And at the very end of the convoy of wounded was a man on a rolling bed.

Becan. It had to be.

She couldn’t afford to lose them. Not again. Raising her pistol while the guard was still trapped between her thighs, Esther fired several shots down the hall. None struck any medical staffers—they weren’t meant to. They were meant solely to make the convoy stop in its tracks. And it did. Doctors and nurses scattered. Patients went running with them; by the look of it, only the man on the rolling bed stayed behind.

Something hot struck her. Straight from behind, right through her armor against the side of her hip. Blood splattered across the floor as the worst pain Esther had ever felt exploded through her body. Her strangle-hold on the guard relinquished, and she rose only to fall forward.

She’d been shot in the hip.

Turning around on the floor, she raised her pistol to see the guard she’d shot several times earlier staggering closer, his chaos rifle raised and ready to fire again. She hadn’t killed him. Holding her breath, she took a fraction of a second to ensure her aim was pure. Her bullet shattered the Med-Sec guard’s visor. He was finished for good.

The guard she’d been strangling scrambled to his feet. A quick bullet dropped him; the next few put any doubts to rest. The guards were all dead.

But the damage was done.

Leaning her head back, Esther released a howl of pain. She could feel the wound pulsing—a look down confirmed the worst. Wherever the bullet had gone, whatever it had damaged, the pool of blood beneath her told no lies. She was in trouble.

“Oh God!” she cried, leaning her head back and screaming. The pain. The unbearable pain. She’d been shot before, in the shoulder, but it felt nothing like this. As tears formed, she craned her neck to look up the hall. The doctors and nurses were still gone—there were no sounds of footsteps anywhere, only the wailing klaxon.

“Attention, all personnel,” the soothing voice said again. “There is a Level-5 hazardous situation. Please proceed to the nearest muster point. This is not a drill. Repeating, this is not a drill.”

They were gone. They’d left whoever it was on that rolling bed behind. It had to be Becan. Who else could it be? Who else would be so hurt at EDEN Command that they’d need such a bed? Through the pain that was now surging through her, she screamed, “Becan!” Through shimmering eyes, she saw the man on the bed lift his head.

That was all she could take. Upon laying her head back down, Esther twisted her body in agony and moaned. That round…that bullet…what damage had it done?

Get up. Get up, Esther! Do not fail now! Forcing herself to roll over, she screamed and reached out with her hand. Clawing at the linoleum, she tried to drag herself forward. She barely moved an inch.

The tears that now fell held more than just pain. This was everything. Her mission to stop that baby boy in America from being fatherless. Her quest be the woman Jayden knew she could be. This was the totality of it all, writhing in a pool of her own blood on the floor of EDEN Command. Within earshot of the end goal, yet unable to move forward. What a horrible irony. It was so…

…so her.

“Becan! I’m coming!” she cried. Trying to pull herself forward, her teeth clenched when the burn came again. For a second time, the pain rendered her efforts futile.

“Attention, all personnel. There is a Level-5 hazardous situation. Please proceed to the nearest muster point. This is not a drill. Repeating, this is not a drill.”

“Shut up!” How she hated that voice. How she wanted it to stop. “Becan, I’m…” The words became harder. “I’m coming…” Everything started to fade.

She was going to die.

Moving was no use. The wound was too damaging. Calling out was no use. Her voice was failing. In the last words she could summon, she heaved through tears of pain and sorrow. “I’m sorry, Becan. I’m so sorry.” As her thoughts became muddled, as the strength left her, she laid her face down against the floor.

Time began to lose meaning. Every struggle to move, every struggle to maintain consciousness, took every bit of strength she had left. She had been prepared for every possibility except a chaos round through the hip. How quickly the body gave up. To move meant straining—to strain meant more blood loss. All Esther could do was roll over onto her back, lay her head back with her eyes closed, and press her hands against the wound. But none of it mattered. EDEN Command was about to be blown up. Even if her comrades knew where she was, they would have to take the time to go and get her. But at least, they could know. Hand trembling and blood-soaked, she reached up to feel for the transmit button on her helmet comm. Her fingers slipped on the surface of the tactical helmet. She reached up to feel again. That was when the voice spoke.

“Esty?”

Esther’s eyes opened, albeit slowly. That familiar voice. That wonderful accent. How hearing it warmed her. Leaning her head back and to the side, she said, “Becan?”

“Esty, is tha’ you?” The Irishman’s eyes, as viridian as she’d ever seen them, hid no truths. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His body was leaning against the wall that he must have traversed to reach her, an assortment of wires and tubes clinging to his body.

When Esther’s brown eyes found him, they welled up again. Softly, she broke down. “Becan.”

“How did yeh…? How are…?” Shaking from head to toe, Becan abandoned the wall to waver her way.

“You have to leave,” she said weakly. “Your baby boy…”

Reaching down, he slid his arm beneath her. “Come on. Get up, now.” With no strength left to resist, Esther lifted herself from the floor. She let loose an agonized scream. The next thing she registered was weightlessness before she sunk to the floor and her back was propped against the wall. “Comm them,” he said to her. “Tell them you’re all righ’ .” Rolling her head from side to side, Esther reached up for her helmet. Once again, she felt around for the transmit button. Her bloodied hands found it, and she uttered a single word through the channel.

“Help.”

THROUGH THE CHORUS of shouts, transport engines, and comm chatter, Javon heard the voice emerge. The wounded soldier was propped against the wall of the transport, his wounds being tended to by Mark. But all the pain fell to the background when Javon heard the voice. “Hello?” he replied reflexively.

“TELL HIM WHERE yeh are,” Becan said, his hand held atop hers as she pressed on the wound.

Her mind was slipping. She could feel it. But she listened. “Medical center,” was all she could manage.

“MEDICAL CENTER?” asked Javon. “Esther? Is that you?” Looking across the troop bay, he watched as Dostoevsky entered. Snapping his fingers, he grabbed the returning fulcrum’s attention.

BECAN SMILED. “Tha’s my girl.”

She turned to him, her eyes struggling to fixate. “You’re okay…”

“So am are. I have you to thank for tha’.”

“I’m dying.”

The Irishman shook his head. “Now tha’s a bleedin’ lie, righ’ there. Yeh didn’t come all this way to die on the floor. Tha’s not the Esty I know.”

Through the crackling static, Dostoevsky’s voice emerged. “Esther, this is Yuri. Stay where you are. We are coming after you.”

She wanted to reply, but the words weren’t within her. Leaning her head against the wall, she murmured, “I want to sleep.”

“No,” said Becan behind her. “No, yeh don’t. Don’t even close your eyes. You just keep lookin’ straigh’ ahead down tha’ hall. Straigh’ ahead until they see yeh.”

Icy cold. All around her, the world felt so cold. “Can I just sleep?”

“Jus’ look ahead, girlie. You’re goin’ to be fine.” A moment passed before he spoke again. “Yeh know I love yeh, Esty. I always have. Thank yeh so much for comin’ for me.”

The world felt so cold.

“Rest easy, now. I’ll be with yeh.”

She believed him.

THE HANGAR WAS frantic with activity. In every direction, Nightmen were emerging from the hallways to congregate there to make their escape. The bombs were set. If there was one thing that could be said about Saretok of those who’d served with Thoor, it was that he trusted the mechanisms that were supposed to work. He was more than content to let the bombs go off by timer as opposed to forcing a soldier to stay behind to detonate them himself. But of course, there was a drawback. Timers wouldn’t wait. The colonel had ordered them set for fifteen minutes, which meant a breakneck flight for everyone lest they be left behind.

Javon watched it all from the back of his transport’s troop bay. Across the bay, Varvara was working furiously with numerous injured warriors—Mark Remington at her side as she essentially told him what to do. Tom was somewhere—Javon didn’t know. There was no chance that everyone was leaving on the transport they’d arrived in. It was just too chaotic for that kind of organization.

A necrilid rasped from behind him. Flinching, Javon glanced at it before looking ahead again. It was no threat. By the look of it, most of the Nightman forces had survived, beasts included. He’d even caught sight of Centurion as the hulking monstrosity boarded a transport on the other side of the hangar. All the while, he’d been keeping a keen eye on the clock. Twelve minutes remained before the bombs would go off. It didn’t feel like nearly enough time. As he watched the hangar, his heart beat faster and faster.

A commotion erupted. Loud chatter, Nightmen pointed and screamed at something coming from one of the hallways that led into the hangar. Craning his neck to see, Javon saw a motorized cart making its way into view. Sitting behind the driver’s wheel, as plain as day, was a Com-Sec guard. Nightmen converged on the cart from every direction, weapons raised and ready to fire. The Com-Sec guard let off the gas and put her hands in the air.

What in the world was this?

Seconds later, as Nightmen literally grabbed the female guard and pulled her from the driver’s seat, all became clear. When Tiffany Feather’s blond locks came into view, Javon almost couldn’t believe it. Pushing himself up until he remembered he was injured, he winced and placed his hand over his wound. Looking Tiffany’s way again, he tried to make out what was going on.

The Com-Sec guard was being dragged by a pair of fulcrums toward one of the other transports. Being dragged right behind her—almost inconceivably—was a Bakma. “The hell?” Javon murmured to himself. What was Tiffany doing with a guard and an alien? And furthermore, if Tiffany was free, where was…

Before the question could fully form in Javon’s mind, he saw her being carried away from the cart by three slayers, all of whom moved with a sense of urgency. Even from a distance, even without being able to see details, he knew it wasn’t good.

It was Natalie.

“Oh veck, man.”

From the other side of the troop bay, Tom looked at him. “What is it?” he asked painfully.

“That’s Vee.”

“Wh…what?”

Javon couldn’t elaborate. He didn’t know exactly what was going on, himself. But he knew he’d find out soon—they were taking Natalie toward their transport. Far behind, another person was being taken off the cart and being carried in Natalie’s wake. Javon knew who it was. Who it had to be. “They got Scott.”

“They got ’em all, man, then we got to go!” said Tom.

“Naw, naw, this ain’t good.” With every second that passed, Natalie was brought closer. “Vee hurt, man. I think she’s hurt bad.”

ESTHER COULD BARELY make them out. Fleeting forms in the distance amidst the shadows and lights. Their voices sounded dampened, like she was underwater. As they approached, she lifted her head.

The foremost figure called out to her. It took several times before she recognized his voice—or even her own name. “Esther!”

Dostoevsky. Her eyes struggled to latch onto him as he and a small team appeared. Her whole body felt numb. The whole world felt numb.

“Get her!” he said. “Lift her up.”

The Nightmen wasted no time. Two approached her, each grabbing under her arm, and lifted her up with little caution. The wound burned again; she screamed. Then she remembered why she was there. “Becan’s behind me. Get him.”

She saw Dostoevsky look past her. He pointed and barked out in Russian; several Nightmen took off down the hall. Looking down at her again, he said, “You are going to be okay. We are taking you back. I am sorry if it hurts, we must move quickly.”

She didn’t care if it hurt. Her mission was complete. Dostoevsky bent down to literally scoop her up in his arms. As promised, the pain was unimaginable. Screaming with her head tilted back, she felt the world around her flicker. Her eyes lost their focus on Dostoevsky, the Nightmen, and the medical center. The sounds around her became a muddled mess—until her body went limp, and all the sounds became silence. Until the cold faded away.

“WHAT HAPPENED TO her, man?”

Tiffany heard Javon’s words as the soldier repeated them over and over—even as the Nightmen unceremoniously placed Natalie on the floor. The Nightmen called for a medic—one named Varvara. From nearby, the medic turned their way then knelt by the captain.

Win the fight.

The last words that Natalie had spoken to her repeated in Tiffany’s head over and over. Tiffany was not a medic. Not even close. But she knew enough to realize that halfway through the drive to the hangar, Natalie stopped being responsive to anything. And so the words repeated on.

Win the fight.

Tiffany knew about last words. She knew they were a gift. On countless nights, she’d wondered what her father’s last words were on the day he died of a heart attack in his house while she was training at Philadelphia. No one had been there to hear them. She knew they could have been something mundane, like, “Oh, well,” or, “Where’d I put my keys?” But she’d always hoped—always fantasized—that they were something more like, “Daddy loves you, girl.” She wished that in whatever last moment of cognition he’d experienced, he’d had the wherewithal to form those words. But she would never know. Few last words were ever heard or remembered.

Win the fight.

When Varvara stopped working, something inside Tiffany wasn’t surprised. Some things—some last words—were just meant to be. Looking up at the small crowd around them, the medic shook her head. “I’m sorry. She is dead.”

Blank stares met her, from Javon and Tom in particular. “What do you mean?” Tom asked. “What the hell do you mean, she’s dead?”

“She was dead when she arrived,” Varvara said. As she spoke, Scott was carried into the transport and set down beside her. “There is nothing I can do.”

The buildup of emotion was palpable. Tiffany felt it from the two soldiers. Their voices rose—they argued and protested. Varvara was adamant in her explanation, until on the words, “I must tend to the ones I can help,” she turned her focus to Scott.

Tiffany turned away, too. Though she heard Javon and Tom speaking, their voices reverberated to her like echoes. Tiffany’s head was in its own space. Slowly, amid the calamity around her, she walked down the transport ramp and onto the EDEN Command hangar floor. A strange calm came over her, as if something was suddenly understood.

Natalie put her life on the line to rescue Scott and Tiffany. She must have known it was a potential one-way trip. One can’t storm the center of EDEN Command and not. She must have thought Scott and Tiffany worth it. She must have thought that being a good human was worth it.

In the short time that Tiffany knew Natalie, she’d seen enough to understand that it was that—humanity—that the former Caracal captain had been fighting for. There were some who called her an idealist for that. For fighting the good fight because it was just that—a good fight. Some believed, not incorrectly, that this was a fight to save humanity from extraterrestrials. Natalie believed it was a fight for the soul of the human species. A fight to distinguish them from those they fought against. A fight to keep humanity honorable and compassionate. Natalie was not a revenge-seeker, or a cold-blooded killer, or a war junkie. She was the kind of person who would go off on a mission to find evidence that could potentially save the Earth but also demand that those with her pack rubber bullets so that no innocents would get hurt. Some would call that stupid. Tiffany thought it remarkable. She saw it as a sign that even in a war for the future of humanity, Natalie hadn’t been willing to lose hers.

“Is there any word from Sydney or Gagarin Wing?”

“Not yet, colonel.”

“Do we know the status of the squadrons we sent back to base?”

“I do not know.”

The words were spoken emphatically from far to Tiffany’s right. The blonde turned her head toward them. She didn’t recognize the massive fulcrum with the red-streaked helmet—but she knew the word colonel. The fulcrum marched on. “Jon Mariner and his squadron are en route. If Blake is to be believed, they will be here very soon.”

That meant trouble would be there very soon. The potential loss of everything they’d fought and died for, at the hands of the pilot who’d taken her down—who called himself Sin while simultaneously refusing to call her anything at all. Who referred to her as just a girl in a plane. Jon Mariner, in the sky, meant certain defeat.

Tiffany watched them march on until her gaze latched onto something far behind them—something that immediately captivated her focus. Though the colonel and his fulcrum continued their vehement conversation, Tiffany no longer registered their words. She no longer saw the curves of their fulcrum armor. The Valley Girl’s hazel eyes were locked instead onto something parked in the corner of EDEN Command’s main hangar. Onto a silver-streaked stallion that’d been spared from weapons fire. Under the pulsating emergency lights, it almost seemed to gleam. As if it’d been meant for her to see all along.

A Superwolf.

“Win the fight.” The whispered words barely escaped her lips. She was almost unaware that she’d even said them. A warmth flowed through Tiffany’s veins as she beheld the aircraft. A warmth that nourished her starved, tortured body. One that comforted her sleep-deprived psyche. Despite the pain, chaos, and confusion all around her—the exhaustion and tragedy she’d been mired in—she found total clarity.

This isn’t for you, Natalie. This isn’t for me. It’s for everyone who’s still left to save. Scott, and Javon, and Tom, and Cat. This is for them.

In the next second, Tiffany felt herself striding forward, her gait picking up into a full-fledged trot until she’d caught up with the Nightman wearing the red-streaked helmet. She didn’t know his name—but she knew what to call him. “Colonel!”

The hulking officer stopped and faced her. There came a curious tilt to his helmet, indicative of his bewilderment as to why this small woman was addressing him.

“Let me fly that plane.” Looking in the direction of the Superwolf, she nodded her head toward it. The colonel looked at it, then he looked back at her. “If you do…I promise you with my last breath, every single one of your transports will make it home.”

For several seconds, he stared at her from behind his faceless helmet. For those seconds, he said nothing at all. At long last, in a tone that indicated sudden understanding, his amplified voice emerged. “You are the girl.”

There was no need for further clarification. Tiffany knew what he meant. “Yes. I am the girl.”

Once more, a pause. Then he said, “We have very little air support. Jon Mariner is among those coming for us.”

“I know.” She repeated the words both to fully register and to emphasize them. “I know.”

The colonel stared at her through his faceless helmet, unwavering as if he was making his call. It did not take him long. He looked at the fulcrum beside him and said, “Send a message to the Omegas. Tell them we have a Superwolf flying escort. Do not shoot it down.”

“Da, colonel,” the fulcrum said, before turning away to do his task.

The colonel looked at her again. “Do you remember the frequency that we use?” Tiffany did, and she nodded. “Use it to stay in contact with us. Good luck, pilot.”

“Thank you, sir.” A parting nod was exchanged between them, and the colonel went his way. Tiffany was left to look at the Superwolf again.

For everyone who’s still left to save.

Step by step, time seemed to slow down, until the Valley Girl’s feet felt lighter than air. Like she wasn’t moving at all. But still, the aircraft grew closer until she was upon it. Climbing up the ladder, she popped open the cockpit and climbed inside. Taking up the helmet that’d been left by the seat, she slipped it over her head. It fit like a glove. Reaching out, she curled her fingers around the joystick—just to feel it. Just to experience it. It was right then that she noticed her fingertips again, and the bloody, scabbed stubs that used to be nails. For a moment—the most fleeting of moments—her eyes glistened. But the moment was not long. Reaching to the control board, she flicked the switches to turn on the aircraft’s systems.

Back by the transports, the last of the Nightmen were arriving to board the ships. Javon and Tom watched numbly as squad after squad emerged from the halls of EDEN Command, running full speed to reach the Vultures. Though Natalie lay by their feet, the captain’s head covered by a cloth, the pair scarcely had it in them to look at her. As if looking would make it real.

Sitting upright suddenly, Tom pointed out into the hangar. “That’s Yuri!”

Javon followed his wounded counterpart’s gaze across the hangar, and his own body sat up erect. Behind Dostoevsky, the small team of Nightmen he’d departed with followed. In their arms, they were carrying two wounded people.

“That’s Esther!” said Tom excitedly as he pointed. “That’s Esther, man, they got her!”

“Yeah, but is she alive?” Javon asked.

Tom slapped him on the shoulder, in encouragement. “We ain’t losin’ another one, man. Not today.”

From the troop bay of his transport, Saretok removed his crimson-streaked helmet. After tossing it to the floor, the mohawked colonel leaned into the cockpit through the door. “Inform Northern Forge that we are returning.”

“Colonel,” said the pilot, “we have tried to contact them several times since the general’s message, but we have received no response.”

“Send the message anyway. If they do not respond, there is no harm to us.”

“Da, colonel.”

Pointing to the Superwolf that Tiffany had climbed aboard, he said, “Connect with that aircraft on our secure network. We must maintain contact with its pilot.” Ducking his head, he stepped back into the troop bay. Raising his comm to his lips, he addressed the Nightmen in the transports. “This is Colonel Saretok to all transports. We must leave now. The explosives are about to detonate.”

“Colonel!” said the pilot, looking back at him. “How much time do we have left?”

“You do not want to know,” Saretok answered.

Blowing out a breath, the pilot grabbed the stick. “Lifting off now.”

From the main hangar of EDEN Command, the transports lifted all at once—as did the lone Superwolf beside them. On the other side of the base from one of the smaller, secondary hangars, the last of the base’s escapees boarded their transports to evacuate. Soon they, too, were dusting off in retreat. For the first time, every external hangar door and tunnel to EDEN Command was opened without caution.

As the transports streaked off in different directions—the evacuees one way, the Nightmen another—the halls of EDEN Command were left vacated. The klaxon wailed on, but there was no one there to hear it. The calm, female voice still urged all personnel to proceed to their muster points. But the muster points had already been abandoned. The only living things left in the facility were the unfortunate alien captives who hadn’t been freed. But they would only hear the klaxons for so long.

From the moonlit sky, the explosions were barely visible—just a slight collapsing of the thick swamp surface followed by a cloud of smoke and dust from the hangar entrances. There was no fiery plume—there was no thunderous rumble. There was only the satisfaction of visual confirmation that the deed had been done. That the head of the snake had been crushed. That EDEN Command—once thought untouchable, once thought impenetrable—had been destroyed. Its destruction was as much a symbolic victory as a tactical one. But that symbolic victory could resonate.

Because the Nightmen had done it.

Every able soldier in the evacuating transports pressed their faces to the porthole windows to observe. Javon and Tom, both barely able to move, were watching with stoic realization. In another transport, Ligaya Ching watched with a dreadful countenance as the place she’d called home—that she would have likely died in were it not for Tiffany Feathers’ convincing—collapsed in on itself. Right beside her, the four members of the High Command who’d been captured—President Blake, Leonid Torokin, Yu Jun Dao, and Tamiko Shintaku—stared in total disbelief. Even the massive beast, Centurion, whose thick, Nightman armor was stained with the blood of those he’d killed, seemed aware of the significance. This moment was more than just historic. It was direction-changing. The king had been dethroned.

But the battle was not yet won.

From the pilot’s seat of her commandeered Superwolf, Tiffany inhaled, exhaled, and set her focus ahead. According to what she’d heard from Saretok, there’d been no word from anyone concerning the situation in the air. The only thing she’d heard at all was that Jon Mariner was en route. Even his ETA was a mystery. But one thing wasn’t.

Whenever she met Mariner in the sky, as she was sure she would, things would not go as they had the first time. There was nothing the renown squadron leader could do to get in her head. Her mind had already been cracked wide open. She’d been tortured, shamed, mired in hopelessness. Yet here she was. What more could Jon Mariner possibly do?

“THEY DID WHAT?” Archer asked, the veins on his forehead bulging. Far from where the Nightman transports were fleeing, the escaping V2s from EDEN Command were making a beeline for Cairo. Only minutes into their journey, a comm call came in that changed everything.

“They attacked Air Force London from behind, judge,” said the pilot, one hand on the joystick while the other inputted commands into the console.

Appearing behind Archer, Carol June stuck her head in. “What is it? What’s going on?” Behind June, Kang Gao Jing and Jaya Saxena listened intently from their seats.

“That’s impossible,” Archer said, his voice growing emphatic. “Why would they do that?”

June slapped him on the shoulder. “Would you tell me what the hell is going on?”

“It’s Sydney, ma’am,” said the pilot.

“Sydney? What about them?”

“They just intercepted Air Force London.”

The auburn-haired judge blinked. “What do you mean, intercepted?”

Blowing out a furious breath, Archer ran his fingers straight up and through his hair. He turned away from the cockpit door completely.

“Intercepted as in attacked, ma’am,” the pilot answered. “I don’t know how it came about, but they’re all engaged in a massive dogfight right now over Algeria.”

“Why would one of our bases attack another?” she asked incredulously.

From behind her, Archer snarled. “You know exactly why!”

“From Novosibirsk, I expect that! Hell, I’d expect it from Leningrad! But Sydney? What possible connection does Novosibirsk have with Sydney?”

Archer’s glare found Jaya, and he pointed. “Why don’t you ask her!” The young woman’s eyes widened. “She’s the one we sent there!”

Though Jaya’s mouth fell open, no words found their way out.

“None of that matters,” said June.

“I don’t think you understand—”

“I said none of that matters!” Whipping her head to the pilot, June asked, “What’s the status of Mariner?”

The pilot shook his head. “The whole network is up and down. I’ll know when he appears on radar, but I don’t think we’re getting anything until then. I have no idea how far away he is or who he has left with him.”

“Are any of the Omegas tailing us?”

“Negative, ma’am. They all left after the Nightman transports.”

She exhaled. “Blessings.” Looking back at Archer, she saw that his narrowed eyes were on her. Her eyes narrowed, too. “Blessings.”

“You count your bloody blessings,” Archer seethed. “I’ll be busy calculating the ramifications of this catastrophe.” His focus returned to the pilot. “Get us to Cairo as quickly as possible. Who knows who’ll show up next to betray us?”

From his seat, Kang Gao Jing placed his hand calmly on Jaya’s knee. As the young woman lowered her head, EDEN’s director of Intelligence looked on in solace.

INHALE. EXHALE. RELEASE.

Tiffany repeated the three steps over and over again—the first two, for her body, the third, for her mind. She didn’t need to have her fingers around the joystick in front of her—autopilot was fully capable of flying alongside the transports—but emotionally, she needed to feel that touch. Wearing no flight suit, possessing no gear but a helmet, it was the most vulnerable she’d ever felt in the cockpit—or at least, in one with an intact canopy. But the look in her eyes would have never indicated it.

There were ten Omega Fighters flying alongside her and the transports. They were all that remained of the air fleet that’d flown to EDEN Command. The rest had been sent back to Northern Forge. Apparently, none of them had been heard from since. Perhaps they’d arrived there safely. Perhaps they’d met The Flying Apparatus halfway. Perhaps they were all dead.

“Colonel Saretok, this is Squadron Leader Volkov.” The voice came over the Nightmen’s secure channel. “We are picking up multiple contacts ahead.”

“We are reading them, squadron leader.”

Hazel eyes looking at the radar, Tiffany saw the blips appear on hers, too. Seconds later, the identifier tags appeared beside them. Superwolves.

“We are moving to intercept,” Volkov said. The Omegas’ thrusters burst with energy, and they surged ahead toward the approaching aircraft.

The moment the Omegas got within firing range, the Superwolves launched their missiles. “We are engaged!” Volkov said. The ten Omegas of Gagarin Wing dispersed and released missiles of their own. By a quick count, the Superwolves were outnumbered six to ten. But if this was who she knew it was…

Two missiles struck their targets. Six to eight.

“Superwolf pilot,” Saretok addressed her over the comm. He still didn’t know her name. “We will circumvent the fight and fly onward to Norilsk. You will remain with us.”

“Roger,” Tiffany answered. For the first time, she noticed her own voice shaking. Deep in her gut, that familiar ache formed again. The Valley Girl closed her eyes.

He’s just a man. It doesn’t matter if he leads the Flying Apparatus. He’s still just a man.

Natalie’s three last words repeated in her head, but unlike in the hangar when the wind of emotion was behind her, now all she felt was sick. What he’d done to her over the waters of the Pacific…he’d dropped her like a sack of bricks. No. He’d made her drop herself.

Inhale. Exhale. Release.

Suddenly, it wasn’t so easy.

Tiffany looked at the radar again. The dogfight was now in full effect. One of the Superwolves had been dropped—but so had three more Omegas. It was five versus five. Sweat drops formed on her brow. She grabbed the comm. “Feathers to transports, recommend we fly buster—repeat—recommend we fly buster!” It was pilot slang for flying as fast as possible. Balls to the wall.

They weren’t going to make it. At the rate the Omegas were falling, it was obvious. It was now four on two. This time, the Nightmen were on the short end. There was no way the Omegas were going to survive this. And there was no way, regardless of bravado, that Tiffany could go toe-to-toe with multiple aircraft from Mariner’s squadron. It had nothing to do with a lack of belief. It was reality.

Another Omega fell. Four to one. Their gig was almost up.

The channel burst with static! A new voice emerged. “G’day, mates! You guys look like you could use a hand!”

Tiffany’s hazel eyes widened. She shot a look to the radar, where seven more Superwolves were inbound—this time, from the other direction. But there was no speculation as to where they had come from. Their accents gave them away. The widest smile of relief cracked on Tiffany’s face. Sydney. Grabbing the comm mic, she said, “We’ve got one Omega going toe-to-toe with four from the Apparatus!” More like three, now. The desperate Omega had taken another one out. “We are RTB buster, repeat, we are RTB buster. We could sure use a little bit of help!”

“Keep on RTB buster. We’ve got the Apparatus.”

“I gotta warn you guys,” she said, swallowing. “They’re hella good.”

“So are we, chick.” The comm channel closed.

Tiffany’s eyes shot back to the radar, then she looked out the side of her cockpit window. Even from afar, she saw the orange streaks of gunfire suddenly cease. A glance back to the radar confirmed what she suspected—what only made sense, if Mariner and his squadron wanted to survive in light of the new reinforcements from Down Under. One Omega returning. Three Superwolves retreating.

It was done.

Lowering her head, Tiffany blew out a hard, long breath. Pressing her palm to her eyes, she pushed hard. “Oh my God,” she whispered. That swell, the undertow she recognized as fear, subsided. The last Omega pulled into formation behind her. She didn’t know the Gagarin Wing identifiers. She couldn’t help but wonder if it was the squadron leader, Volkov. So she radioed. “Feathers to whoever it is in that Omega. That’s some high flying you did right there. Nice work.”

The voice that replied didn’t identify itself. It just answered with a single, exhausted, cheerless word, spoken in the tone expected from someone who’d just lost their whole squadron. “Spasibo.”

Tiffany’s eyes flickered down. She knew that kind of dejection well. She knew that feeling of defeat. If only that pilot knew how well he’d actually done. How he’d just saved them all. Gaze looking ahead again, Tiffany watched the endless sky before her—at the transports that were now flying uninterrupted toward Northern Forge and at the Superwolves from Sydney that were now guarding them. She watched as the Omega slowly accelerated to take point. She wouldn’t protest it. He deserved to be there.

The faintest of crackles emerged on Tiffany’s comm channel. Though no one spoke, it prompted her to look at the frequency dial. It wasn’t on the Nightman channel, nor any public channel at all. This comm—this outreach—was specifically to her. One comm to another. After several seconds of silence, the Valley Girl hesitantly said, “Hello?”

“You’re in our plane.”

The slowest of chills spread across Tiffany’s body, creeping down her spine and causing goose bumps to emerge on her arms. She didn’t need the voice to identify itself. She knew exactly who this person was. With a slight tickle in her throat, she gathered herself and said, “Yeah, well, it was there, so I took it.”

“Can I tell you something?”

It felt so hot in there. At the same time, it felt so terribly, terribly cold. “Yeah, sure,” she answered with as much bravado as she could muster. “Whatever you want.”

“You were the easiest kill I ever made.”

It was right then—right at that comment—that Tiffany’s expression subtly changed. The chill on her spine relented. The heat in the cockpit cooled. There was no good reason for him to be telling her that. There was no tactical gain to be had—not with him and the remnants of his squadron falling back. Not having just lost.

Not having…just lost.

In that instant, the revered reputation of the man she was speaking to began to crumble. He wasn’t saying this to try and get into her head. He was saying it to try and get out of his own. He was taking a shot at her to rebuild himself. Picking on a target whose fear he thought would re-inflate his whipped ego.

He’d thought wrong.

“Oooh, Johnny Boy,” she said back to him, the words just finding their way out. As if she suddenly realized what he was all about. As if she suddenly realized how very small he was. “I’m so, so sorry. I know how hard this must be.”

There was a pause. “How hard what must be?”

He was wrong. She was in no way, shape, or form the easiest kill he’d made. Because she was still there. “Losing.”

Even as she said the word—even as it came out with such hardened finality—she knew how he would react. She knew exactly what he would say.

Nothing at all.

From the other side of the line, the comm channel closed.

Looking out the side of the cockpit window, she searched for any sign of him or his remaining squadron mates. She searched for any sign of a silver speck among the stars. She saw nothing. Exhaling a breath that felt easier than all the ones before it, Tiffany slid her fingers from the stick and let autopilot take over.

No other aircraft—not from EDEN or anywhere else—tried to make contact with the fleet as it flew back to Northern Forge. That was just as well for all parties involved. On a day inundated with the sounds of warfare—with the sounds of the world’s scales suddenly tilting—the steady drone of engines was peaceful enough.

Upon their arrival to the mountain base, they found it thoroughly wrecked. The hangars, still filled to capacity with assaulting V2s from EDEN, had to be cleared in order for the strike crew to even land. What few pilots the Nightmen had on base had been forced to land EDEN’s V2s on the outskirts of Norilsk to make room. As for the hangar itself, it was a scorched, bloody war zone. Corpses, both EDEN and Nightman, had been dragged from inside the base and placed into piles in one corner. In another corner stood a row of captured warriors, including Vector’s Chiumbo Okayo and Dieter Albrecht. Surrounding them, silver-and-blue clad prisoners awaited whatever fate the Nightmen had in store. Antipov had made it clear that they were not to be harmed, but rather returned to EDEN should the parent organization act “appropriately.” He never specified exactly what that word meant.

The Nightmen, as it turned out, were not solely to thank for Northern Forge’s survival. The arrival of reinforcements from the NSU was not something anyone outside of Iosif Antipov had anticipated. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that if not for those reinforcements, every person on the side of Northern Forge would be dead or in custody. Though none of them had seen the press conference, the word was that President Belikov had officially announced that the New Soviet Union was withdrawing itself from EDEN, “in light of recent, learned events,” and that the NSU military was lending its forces to the Nightmen. In the span of a single conference, the second-largest contributing country to EDEN had suddenly declared its independence.

So, apparently, had Australia, its own prime minister announcing a withdrawal from EDEN and an alliance with the NSU immediately after Belikov’s press conference. It was the shocker—the betrayal—that no one in the EDEN-worshipping world had seen coming. And the world demanded answers. Australia assured the world that it would provide them.

But those were big problems. For the Fourteenth and everyone still alive at Northern Forge, the scale of their world was much, much smaller.

Communication with the outside world—and the inside, for that matter—had been reestablished with the help of technicians from the NSU’s reinforcements. It would be a long time before the mountain base could be repaired to anything resembling its normal state, but at least its basic functions were restored.

Grigori Saretok was the first man to walk out of any transport. The colonel’s armor was streaked with the dried blood of those he’d slain. Walking to the hangar entrance, the massive, mohawked man stared out into the frigid mountain valley—not a word spoken to anyone.

The body of Natalie Rockwell was carried out by a crew of Nightmen. The fallen Caracal captain had as many eyes upon her in death as she had when she’d first walked into the hangar donning EDEN’s silver and blue armor. Even Antipov, who had been present in the hangar awaiting the transports’ arrival, seemed to look upon her body with reverence.

After Natalie came the injured. Javon and Tom walked out under their own strength. Scott and Esther, both unconscious, had to be carried. Varvara Yudina emerged from the transport as exhausted and blood-soaked as she had ever been, her blond tendrils stained as they dangled limply down the sides of her face. Dostoevsky walked alongside her, his arm around her, keeping her body pressed to his. Neither spoke as they left the transport behind. Soon all of the wounded were out and added to the massive and base-spanning triage that was underway. For all practical purposes, the whole base was now a hospital.

Ramifications abounded in every direction, both in the world of Northern Forge and the world at large. Only time—and likely not much of it—would indicate how they would turn out.

But for Saretok, the time for ramifications was now. For almost two full minutes, the leader of the fulcrums stared out into the mountain ranges as the wounded were shepherded out from the transports behind him. Only once they all were removed—only once the pathway was clear—did he turn to walk toward the hangar’s center. His eyes were searching for someone. Iosif Antipov was already on his way to meet him.

Quick to offer a Nightman salute, Antipov said, “We have done it. EDEN has fallen. We are free.”

“Indeed,” said the deep-throated colonel. “But you must come with me. There is something you must see.” Turning, he strode back toward the transports.

“Is there a problem?”

The colonel shook his head. “I would not describe it as such.”

Quirking a brow, Antipov followed in step until they were back by the hangar entrance. Only when he was in front of one of the transport’s open bay doors did he see the prize within: the president of EDEN and three of his judges, all in Nightman custody. The general’s eyes widened. “This…this will change things…”

“Yes,” said Saretok behind him, “it will.”

The colonel struck out with his massive hand. He grabbed the back of Antipov’s collar. With a vigorous sling—a sling so decisive that the general didn’t even have time to react—Saretok hurled Antipov clean out of the open hangar door. Out into the mountain valley below. Antipov’s eyes didn’t even have time to widen—his scream was barely heard before it faded away in the whipping, Siberian wind. In the span of a single second, the leader of the Nightmen was just gone.

Gasps erupted across the hangar. Those present rushed to the open hangar doorway to look down, only to quickly step away as if at any moment, they might be the next to be thrown down the side of a mountain. To be dashed against rocks too far down to be seen. As two hundred sets of eyes turned to Grigori Saretok, he strode into the center of the hangar. Only the fulcrums who flanked him seemed unfazed, as if they knew this was coming all along. As if they were one with the coup. With a glare as cold and calculated as what had once been seen from their god of old, the massive, mohawked colonel spoke.

“Today, you saw failure. Today, you saw weakness. Because of that weakness, we were almost destroyed.”

All the while he spoke, a single row of fulcrums formed behind him. No one else in the hangar said a word.

“The eidola wish to win battles in the shadows. Fulcrums win wars face to face. The man I threw from this hangar believed that in order to compete with the world, we must conform to it. I say, to conform is to deny oneself. We are Nightmen. We deny nothing.”

As Saretok’s gaze swiveled from one side of the hangar to the other, it finally stopped on the cluster of bound soldiers clad in EDEN armor—most blue and silver, a handful purple and white. Angling his head, he asked one of the slayers standing before him, “Who are they?”

Stuttering behind his faceless helmet, the slayer answered, “Captured soldiers from EDEN. Some are even Vectors. The general thought—” he caught himself in those words. “Antipov thought they could be used for negotiation.”

From the gathering, Chiumbo and the few Vectors who’d survived watched as Saretok stared at them from afar. The EDEN soldiers around them began to fidget.

“Mm,” Saretok said quietly. Turning, he walked slowly past his fulcrums and said, “Show them how we negotiate.”

No clarification was required. The fulcrums knew what he meant. Raising their weapons, they turned toward the hapless EDEN captives. From Chiumbo to the furthest EDEN soldier down the line, every eye and mouth opened wide. But that was all they had time for.

The onslaught came quickly. As bullets erupted from their barrels and riddled the bodies of the captured, fresh spatters of blood and flesh decorated the walls. The eruption lasted almost fifteen full seconds before the last fulcrum relented on his trigger. As the weapons exhaust cleared, a pile of dead bodies was left in its wake.

“Recall all of the eidola,” Saretok said to the fulcrum nearest him. “Tell them nothing of what has happened here.”

The fulcrum saluted. “Da…general.”

At the sound of the title, Saretok ceased his walking. He stared at the fulcrum who’d addressed him. At long last, he spoke. “General. That is such a common term. We call ourselves fulcrums, slayers, sentries, eidola. There is nothing common about any of those.” The fulcrums listened intently as he went on, pivoting to stand before them. “I require a new title. One that brings honor to our heritage. One that is ours alone.” Holding his breath, the massive fulcrum leader narrowed his eyes. “You will address me as Thoor.”

Behind their faceless helmets, the fulcrums looked at one another—as did all those in the hangar who bore witness to the proclamation. Witness to the new beginning. To the return.

From the end of the row, a fulcrum called out, “Hail, Thoor Saretok! Hail, The Machine!”

The crowd soon followed. “Hail, Thoor Saretok! Hail, The Machine!” Again and again, their chants reverberated throughout the hangar. Their echo bounced off every wall.

Speaking once more to the fulcrum nearest him, Saretok asked, “What is your name?”

“Stepanov, my Thoor.”

“I appoint you my emissary. Have a message sent to President Belikov under my authority. Inform him that I will be returning to Novosibirsk as leader of the Nightmen.”

Stepanov hesitated. “And if he asks about Antipov?”

“Tell him the truth,” Saretok answered. “Antipov died at Northern Forge.”

“As you command!”

Turning away as Stepanov saluted him, Saretok lifted his crimson-streaked fulcrum helmet over his head. After sliding it down and into place with a click, he strode into the bowels of Northern Forge like a god returning from banishment. Like a show of force coming to life. Nary a Nightman in attendance dared stifle their salute.

Far below, at the bottom of the icy mountain valley, the body parts of Iosif Antipov lay strew across the rocks. With every second that passed, his final expression of horror was covered by falling snow. His remains grew more and more indistinguishable from the snowy earth around him, until at long last, he disappeared.

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Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty

Friday, April 13th, 0012 NE

2345 hours

Norilsk, Russia

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. Beep.

Flickers of memories flitted past her. Memories that until then, when consciousness began to emerge from the fog in her mind, she’d scarcely allowed herself to have. Swirling water in an old swimming pool. A single cloud drifting across an otherwise clear sky. A ray of sunlight through the trees. Good memories. Good moments, captured in the tiny spaces she’d forgotten were ever even there. Memories of life before everything had gone dark.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

It was not so much an ejection of those memories that came so much as it was a transition. The swirling water became hands being washed furiously in a sink. The cloud became someone passing beside her—the ray of sunlight, the florescent beam that ensued. But the most jarring sensation was the noise. There was no way to ease into the noise. Rushing people, fervently spoken Russian, the beeps and whirs of various machines. One even beeped close to her. Turning her head slowly to the side, Esther fought to find focus.

A soldier. He was hooked up to a monitor. A doctor and a nurse were above him—they were inspecting something. It was his machine that was beeping. But she didn’t know who he was.

Where am I?

Lifting her head, Esther looked at her own body. Fluids were being pumped into her through an IV. She couldn’t feel anything.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat! A sound of weapons fire—but only in her mind. Then, the pop of a flashbang. The blaring of a klaxon, a woman’s voice. There is a Level-5 hazardous situation. Please proceed to the nearest muster point.

It was then that it returned to her. She knew where she was. She knew what room she was in. This was the medical bay at Northern Forge. But something was wrong. Some of the machines were damaged, shoved off in a corner. A generator was hooked up to others. As her dark eyes squinted, she swore she could make out bullet holes in the walls. This was not the medical bay as she knew it. Something had happened.

She needed to get up. She needed to get out of there. She needed to find her friends. Upon placing her hands down at her sides, Esther strained to push herself up. Another hand stopped her.

“Do not get up,” said a man’s voice in broken English. “I will get someone.”

Her first inclination was to protest. “I—”

“Do not get up! Please.”

She couldn’t if she tried—for the moment she strained with any ounce of strength, an agonizing pain erupted in her core. She leaned her head back and groaned. Esther didn’t see the man leave, whoever he was—but she saw the person who took his place. Her parched lips parted when Dostoevsky came into view. “Yuri…”

Placing his hand atop her leg, he said, “You are very badly hurt. You were shot in the hip. I—” His words broke off momentarily as he was jostled by a passerby, of which there were many in the packed room. “You are lucky to be alive.”

She remembered. The medical center. The battle. And…and Becan. She had saved Becan. Her goal—her mission. It was accomplished. The twisting torment of her injury washed over her like a wave; her face contorted to reflect it. But through the grimace, she spoke. “Is he okay?”

Brow furrowing, Dostoevsky opened his mouth to reply. No words came. At long last, he angled his head. “Is who okay?”

“Who do you think?” Another wave of pain—another struggle to stop herself from writhing. Tears of physical hurt welled in her eyes, despite her best efforts to stave them. “Becan,” she finally said. “Did he make it back? Is he okay?”

Dostoevsky broke eye contact briefly to look across the room, as if searching for someone. But there was something in his eyes that didn’t belong. A lost expression that shouldn’t have been there. When his gaze returned to her, the tone of his voice echoed it. “Esther…”

That pain. That anguish. How it now grew in strength. A new focus appeared in her eyes, and she glared at him. “What?”

He looked uncertain. He placed the slightest bit of pressure on her leg, where his hand still rested. She recognized it as an effort to divert her attention, even if absently. “Listen,” he said, “you need to rest right now.”

“What is it? What’s wrong?” The breaths within her. They became vehement. “Yuri, what are you not—”

“You really need to rest. You are hurt very badly.”

“What are you not telling me? Where is Becan McCrae?” Her heaving breaths grew. “Tell me you got him, Yuri. I swear to God in heaven, if you tell me you didn’t get him—”

“Esther, there was no one to get.”

His words struck her like a hammer. They hit with enough force to make her wound numb. “What do you mean?” The words came out quietly—then they seethed. “What in the bloody hell do you mean?”

“I do not know what to tell you—how else to say it.”

“He was right sodding there!” Her hand pointed off to the side, as if she was still there in EDEN Command’s medical center. “I told you to get him! I bloody pointed him out!”

“There was a man on a bed, yes—we got him. But he was just some worker. Becan was not there. He couldn’t have been.”

This wasn’t real. Lightheadedness overtook her. She gaped at him.

Eyes parted in confusion and sadness, Dostoevsky leaned closer and softly spoke. “Becan died three days after arriving at EDEN Command.”

“No…” It was barely a word. It was barely even a whisper. With the air sucked out of her lungs, Esther shook her head a single time. “No…”

“One of my team grabbed a stack of patient records on the way out. Becan’s record was in it. Esther, I am sorry, but Becan is dead. He’s been dead for almost two weeks.”

“I saw him.” Her words trembled. “I saw him.”

“Esther…”

“He saved me. He told me to comm you.”

“He did not.”

Her body lurched upward, all awareness of physical pain gone. “He was there!” Several people nearby flinched and looked at her. “He talked to me!”

Gaze shooting across the room, Dostoevsky shouted to someone in Russian. Within seconds, a doctor was rushing to the table. Esther didn’t care. Becan was somewhere in that medical bay. He’d been rescued. She’d rescued him. Whipping her head back and forth as she strained to sit up, she called out his name with frantic eyes. A nurse placed her hands on her shoulders in an effort to push her back down. Esther shoved her away, instead. The next thing she realized, she was being grabbed from all directions. She shouted nonetheless.

“Becan!”

She’d seen him. On the verge of death, she’d spoken with him. He said he’d be with her.

“Becan, I’m here! I’m right here!”

In the midst of the struggling and screaming, Esther never even felt the sedative enter her body. She never felt its effects kick in. Halfway between screaming Becan’s name and getting up to find him, she simply laid back down and went to sleep.

As doctors rushed about Esther’s bedside, Dostoevsky stepped backwards. Though he still bumped into people as he did, neither they nor he paid each other mind. The fulcrum commander’s eyes were solely on his sleeping comrade. At least, until there were too many people rushing back and forth between them for him to see her. Only then did he turn to walk away.

“What in the hell do you mean, she’s dead?” From a room just outside of the medical bay—one of the many transformed into emergency hospital rooms—the voice of Logan Marshall rose.

“I mean just what I said,” answered Bedrich, who was standing before him in the doorway. “She died in EDEN Command.”

Stitched up on a cot, the Australian’s battered condition had kept him from roaming about the base since he’d been taken in for treatment—until now. Shoving up from his cot, he leapt to his feet without so much as a grimace. “That’s not right—that can’t be right!”

“She is dead, Marshall.”

“You’re wrong.”

“She is dead!” Bedrich shouted. “Do you think I would be mistaken about the woman that saved our lives? I saw her.”

Slowly, Logan’s face began to pale.

Bedrich continued. “I asked someone what happened, and what they told me was this, that she died saving the lives of Scott Remington and the pilot girl, Tiffany. That she went after them alone—and she got them out. Now you tell me, who does that sound like to you? Do you think I am mistaken, now?”

For several seconds, Logan stared at the man across from him—until at long last, he could stand still no more. Limping forward with urgency, he pushed past Bedrich and out into the hall. Out to see for himself.

And he did.

All across Northern Forge, word of the fallen was circulating. Word of Antipov’s demise at the hands of Saretok. Word of the keeper’s death, whose body was found sprawled out and alone in a hallway near general storage. Word of two more defeated Vectors, one of whom—Marty Breaux—had been found alive, having crawled with multiple stab wounds to an abandoned E-35, which he used to take down several Nightmen before he was captured. Saretok instructed his medics to take him to Novosibirsk. Word of comrades and brethren who’d taken up arms only to die in the fight. It was an aftermath almost worse than that of Novosibirsk, if only because those who’d made it to Northern Forge were survivors already. It seemed a cruel fate, to escape certain death at The Machine only to be tracked down and massacred at the secret place that was supposed to keep them safe. The place that was supposed to be unknown.

But it was not the only unknown to fall that day. As word of the assault on EDEN Command spread across the globe, word of a new alliance proceeded it. A merger between a nation and the Nightmen who lived in it. Of newly discovered mutual interests.

It was with those same interests in mind that General Madeline Becker—the most unexpected variable to emerge from the tangled web the Nightmen had weaved—took to the podium in front of a televised, global audience. In no uncertain terms, she laid out her justification for Sydney’s presumed treachery. The recorded voice of Benjamin Archer was there to support it. Within hours of landing at Cairo, military police took Archer and the rest of the escapees from EDEN’s High Command in for questioning.

Yet it could not justify what had occurred. It could not, in the eyes of the world, justify terrorism. And so, as the hours and then the days passed, the fissure between those who were with EDEN and those who were not grew. Between those who believed that the recorded words claimed to be Archer’s were in fact his and those who insisted—as Archer himself claimed from his holding cell—that it was a deep fake. Between those who felt the need for a global military protector and those who believed that each nation should be the master of its own destiny—even against hostile invaders from other worlds. Between those who believed that the ends could justify means and those for whom the means meant everything.

But that was the state of the world. It spoke nothing to the state of those who’d partaken in the events that led up to it all. Nothing to the state of the young woman, Lisa Tiffin, who suddenly found herself the last standing member of EDEN’s most elite unit, Vector Squad. Nothing to the states of those judges who knew nothing of conspiracy. Nothing to the states of the NSU’s President Belikov, or General Becker, or the newest unknown terror to enter the scene, Thoor Saretok. Nothing to the state of the Outlaw Fourteenth.

But if it did speak to those things, it might speak of the love between a young Valley Girl pilot and her best friend, and to the embrace that ensued when they saw each other again for the first time—before the pilot departed to tell the Nightmen all she’d been told by her captors. It might speak of the shattering of a scout’s heart upon realizing that the friend she’d rescued was nothing more than an apparition—be it real or in her own psyche. It might speak of the horror of a former mercenary watching the final moments of his lover’s life through her visor camera and realizing that the eyes of the man who’d killed her looked just like his own.

Or of a gritty combat technician with a damaged throat who was sitting in a room with his dog when the woman he loved, now freed from EDEN custody in the city of Novosibirsk, walked through his door at Northern Forge. No hard luck demeanor could stop his eyes from overflowing when he took Tanneken Brunner into his arms. Her eyes overflowed, too.

Or of a man who felt too old to be there hearing the voice of his wife and two sons over a secured phone line. Hearing her say that she didn’t care about anything in the past. That she would cross hell and high water to find him. And that she was sorry. He was sorry, too.

Or of a soldier—a survivor—from Falcon Platoon carving a friend’s final three words into the bulkhead of the Pariah. Swearing to himself that he would never let another commanding officer fall on his watch. That he would rise up and be the leader she believed he could be.

Or of a sinner turned saint—a man who personified redemption—realizing that the time had come again for him to take up the reins of leadership. Realizing that until the Fourteenth’s true leader had recovered, the fate of the unit would be on his shoulders. Praying that he was up to the task. Being reassured by the one woman who understood him that he was.

Or of a young man. A teenager. A brother.

At almost no point did Mark Remington leave his big brother’s side in the medical bay. He only did so to eat and occasionally sleep, as ordered to by a certain pixie-haired nurse—one who’d herself just suffered a great loss, though one would have never known it. Only upon her insistence did Mark dare to leave the room, lest he not be there when Scott opened his eyes. And in that time spent in the medical bay, he learned—not by textbook and training regimen, but by doing. By tending the wounds of those who rotated in and out of treatment. By watching how those more experienced than him operated—both figuratively and literally. By getting his hands dirty. Because he needed to. Because he wanted to.

Many passed through the doors to the medical bay in those days. Most came to get treatment. But some came simply to visit. Scott and Esther, the latter of which was also permanently assigned to the main medical bay pending recovery, received visits from their comrades regularly—even from Ju`bajai, who visited Esther with surprising frequency for an extraterrestrial who could connect from just about anywhere. It was during those days that Mark saw true healing take place for the first time. Each day started with a prayer from Dostoevsky. Each day ended with Flopper’s wagging tail. But the most impactful moment came not from a visitor, but from Esther herself, when days into her grief, she asked Mark to roll her bed next to Scott’s so she could hold his hand. Thirty minutes into the effort, the scout fell asleep. Her hand stayed in place.

Such were the days that passed in the aftermath of the events at EDEN Command. The events that divided the world. The news stayed off in the medical bay—by and large, nobody at Northern Forge wanted to hear it. Let the world sort out its problems. The mountain base had enough of its own. That was the mindset of everyone from the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk—both its official members and its adopted sons and daughters. It became the mindset of Mark Remington, too. It wasn’t like he had anyone out there in the world, anyway. His entire family was lying on a medical bed right there in front of him. And so wait, he did. Patiently. Faithfully, as a brother should. Hopefully, until he had to hope no longer. Until he received the reward he’d been waiting for: being there when it finally happened.

When, at long last, Scott opened his eyes.

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Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-one

Date unknown

Time unknown

Ban-Hezikal, Kalar

CLOSING HER EYES, Svetlana inhaled a breath from the Zone Runner’s antechamber door—the boundary where the runa legras’s earthiness met the acetone pungency of the Bakma spacecraft. For what few minutes she would remain on Kalar, she wanted that mix of aromas—that mix of worlds—to linger.

The Kalarael had allowed several of the Bakma defectors, led by Tauthin and supervised by a squad of darishu, to return to the space station to retrieve the Zone Runner and bring it to Ban-Hezikal. It had been the Kalarael’s intention to lace Svetlana’s departure with fanfare, but at her insistence, that plan had been abolished. Svetlana didn’t want a parade or a ceremony. She wanted her last moments on Kalar to be peaceful and quiet—a proper goodbye for an introspective soul. Not even Yigôzien or Akàziendi were there. The only spectators were what few staff remained at Ban-Hezikal.

Svetlana’s road to recovery had been long, but worthwhile. Through it, she’d seen the reconciliation of a species with itself in the form of the Winduster Accords. She’d seen hope delivered to a different, hopeless species in Tauthin’s efforts toward a free Bakma nation. She’d seen herself overcome yet another obstacle, this one a recovery the likes of which few could have experienced. She had been called many things since her imprisonment under Nagogg. Now, she could call herself battle tested.

The half-mask she was wearing now was one of many the Kalarael had given to her—this one a near carbon copy of the stone blue one she’d first been given. Of the multitude of masks and garments she now possessed, all tailored for her, that mask and its matching outfit were her favorite. There was something to be said for functional simplicity. There was something to be said for not intentionally standing out. She looked forward to wearing normal clothes again upon her return to Earth. She longed for the drabness of a standard EDEN uniform.

This all started in Novosibirsk’s infirmary. It all started as I was doing my reports next to Max.

Who was to say what could have been different had she not been there, studiously doing her tasks as always? Were it not for that dedication to the role of chief medic, she might have never been in a position to get taken by Tauthin in the first place.

It was so safe there. I was updating the Fourteenth’s records. Max was asleep with his feet propped. Life was normal.

Scott had left for Cairo. Thoor had sent him on a covert mission. Her life served as the general’s leverage. No rational person would have considered any of those things “safe” or “normal.” But they were normal for Novosibirsk. They were normal for the Nightmen. They were normal for her.

“All systems on the spacecraft are ready, my lady. We may depart at your command,” said Tauthin from behind her.

What will it feel like when I step into Room 14 again? What will it feel like when I see my friends for the first time? What will they think when they look upon my face? And will I even care?

They were unanswerable questions—at least, until they were experienced firsthand. It didn’t stop them from bobbing up and down in her head like corks in water. It didn’t stop them from silencing her in thought.

“Setana?” Tauthin asked.

I ended up here, halfway across the galaxy, because I did my job back on Earth. Because of that, I became an alien among the stars.

Kalar had become arguably the most significant aspect of her life. On Earth, the greatest impact she’d had on the lives of those around her was being used against them by the Terror of Amsterdam. Being a card to be played. But here? Here, her impact was immeasurable.

Drawing in the quietest of breaths through her mask, she finally gave her comrades an answer. “We will leave in a moment.” No acknowledgment was given her. None were needed.

Stepping to the edge of the antechamber ramp, she knelt down to caress her fingers against the surface of the runa legras. Against that pink, plaster earth that was now as warm to her as the green pastures of Vilnius. She had already collected a sizable amount of it in containers to bring back to Earth—but she wanted to experience it here, one last time, under that blue sky and those vivid rings. Closing her eyes, she thought a prayer.

Only You know what the future holds. Only You know what my future holds. With what I have become, do with me what You will.

Upon opening her eyes, Svetlana rubbed the tips of her dusty fingers together then rose to a stand. It was time. Offering the sparse Kalarael audience a final look, she turned to walk up the antechamber ramp. As she drew close to Mishka, the beast purred and leaned into her.

Svetlana’s ears perked as a sudden chatter emerged behind her, and she halted. Tauthin noticed it, too, and the two of them turned back to the structures at Ban-Hezikal at the same time. The Kalarael there were no longer watching them board the Zone Runner—they were speaking frantically to other Kalarael who’d quickly run out of the structure, gesturing emphatically for those outside to go in.

“What is happening?” Tauthin asked.

Shaking her head, Svetlana answered, “I don’t know.” She stood motionless for several moments before she walked back down the ramp, Tauthin following.

From the antechamber itself, Kraash-nagun emerged. The Bakma’s cybernetic eyes zeroed in on the pair that was suddenly leaving. “Where are you going?” he called out.

Svetlana didn’t answer outright—she just held out her palm to request that he wait. In front of them, all of the Kalarael rushed inside the structure, prompting Svetlana and Tauthin to quicken their pace. Seconds later, they too were inside.

Projected onto one of the white walls of the lobby was a live camera feed. What it showed looked like a war zone. Pillars of fire and billowing smoke were visible, as the voice of a frantic Kalarael attempted to narrate, nothing of which Svetlana or Tauthin could understand. All around the lobby projection, Kalarael watched with dark yellow eyes, gasping and wailing as they clung to each other.

“What is this?” Svetlana asked, despite the language barrier. No one attempted to respond. Their terrified stares were glued to the images.

The view suddenly shifted, changing from the fires and billowing smoke to something different. Something instantly more familiar. It was a wide-angle view of a massive, spacious cavern—one filled with winding streets and crude structures, as far as the eye could see. Except, instead of being kept aglow by lanterns and bioluminescent life forms, the illumination was coming from city-wide devastation.

Sélestere.

Covering her mask as she would her mouth, Svetlana stepped closer to the projection. This was Sélestere—that beautiful, underground city. That place of such significance. What was happening?

No sooner had she posed herself the question, she received her answer. Amid the roar of the raging inferno, there came the sound of an all-too familiar weapon. As the camera shifted again, she saw the flashes of white, streaking light. Plasma.

There was a burst of static. The feed of the city interior was lost, immediately replaced by a view of the city’s exterior—and of the sparse few buildings on the surface. But it was not the buildings or the surface that Svetlana noticed. It was the sky above them.

Zone Runners. An armada of Zone Runners. They were everywhere.

She turned her head to Tauthin. He was already staring back at her. At the same time, a new sound emerged—one that was not from the video, but from directly above Ban-Hezikal. Like the roaring of engines. Svetlana and Tauthin rushed for the exit, many of the Kalarael following behind them. As soon as they were outside, they turned their gazes skyward.

Kalarael fighters. They were streaking through the sky at breakneck speed, their noses pointed toward the distant horizon. Toward Sélestere.

Svetlana’s mind raced. This is not like the attack on Winduster. At Winduster, they were attempting a rescue. They were trying to liberate Caragbuul. Winduster was a facility—Sélestere is a city.

This is just like Hong Kong…

Turning her gaze to the Zone Runner, Svetlana watched as Kraash-nagun, Ed, Mishka, and the other members of Tauthin’s free Bakma nation stood at the antechamber’s precipice, their gazes not on the overhead, streaking fighters, but instead locked solely onto her. Fully attuned to the lady of the Zone Runner. Waiting to see what she’d do.

Freedom was there. It was right there, with ray-like wings and a fully functional rift generator. Waiting for her to make the call to leave. To begin their long-awaited return to Earth.

Slowly, she turned her ocean blue eyes to Tauthin. His deep purple orbs peered into hers. As if he already knew.

Gaze returning to the horizon—to the city beyond the runa legras—Svetlana slowly reached for her staff.

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E7 Title Reveal

Epic 7

THE EXODUS WAR

Win the fight.

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Epic Website-1

Lee Stephen’s Official Site

www.epicuniverse.com

Social Media

https://twitter.com/epicuniverse

https://www.facebook.com/epicuniverse

https://www.instagram.com/bayouwriter/

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCycskYtl0j3pw3elL5u7ImQ

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Acknowledgments

God: That lone pair of footprints in the sand is You carrying me through this. You prompted me to make some bold choices, and I’m so glad I listened. I give You all the praise for this.

Lindsey: I don’t know how you do it. I honest to God don’t. Thank you for your undying love and support and constant encouragement, even on the hard days. You are incredible; my love for you knows no depths. Now let’s take a vacation.

Levi, Lawson, & Linden: I long for the day when you boys are old enough to read these books and that you might finally understand what all this blood, sweat, and tears has been about! The three of you have forever changed me, and I am a better man because of it. I love you more than words can convey.

My parents and family: From day one, you always believed in me. Without that confidence you instilled, this series wouldn’t exist. I love you all so very much!

My team of Jody, Fiona, and Kasia: I am blessed to have the three of you working with me. Epic wouldn’t be Epic (or epic!) without you. You’re the best part of the process!

Aaron Spuler: You have been on this ride with me from the very beginning! Thank you so much for being an awesome fan, friend, support, and help with this series—and for your willingness to beta read this book! I’m blessed to have you, man.

Michael Buonagurio: You have been a steadfast friend, voice of wisdom, and ear to listen since our paths crossed what feels like so long ago. You make me a better writer, and Epic benefits because of it. Thank you so much.

To my outstanding and ever-faithful fans on social media: What I really want to do is name you all individually (I pay attention!), but I’m terrified I might leave someone out, and that would just be too much. But you are the guys and gals who like, comment, and lend your encouragement all throughout this process as I share it. I know who you are! Each and every one of you is special to me.

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Author Bio

Author Biography

Born and raised in Cajun country, Lee Stephen spent his childhood paddling pirogues through the marshes of South Louisiana. When he wasn't catching bullfrogs or playing with alligators in the bathtub (both true), he was escaping to the world of the imagination, creating worlds in his mind filled with strange creatures and epic journeys. This hasn't stopped. A resident of Des Allemands, Louisiana, Lee spends time every day delving into the world of Epic, the science-fiction series that has come to define him as a writer and producer. Alongside his wife, Lindsey, and their three sons, Lee has made it a mission to create a series that is unique in its genre-one unafraid to address the human condition while staying grounded in elements of faith.

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