OUTER SOL
THE INTERSTELLAR medium was motionless, silent, and cold. Nary a pebble-sized rock had drifted through that particular location for millions of years. It was an untouched oasis of nothing—a stagnant pond in the frozenness of the galaxy.
A shockwave erupted. Its invisible boundaries expanded in attoseconds, ensuring that anything that had been there moments before was now atomized. Attoseconds became nanoseconds, and the barrenness of empty space was filled by the solidarity of a hull, the violent burst replaced by motionless metal.
The jump was complete.
The leader of the Cruiser, a dark brown Golathoch of unremarkable build, stared at the view screen in the bridge. His body was strapped tightly to his chair amid the ship’s zero gravity.
At the front of the bridge, strapped in his own seat, a tan-skinned helmsman turned his horned head. “We are inside the heliopause, controller.” His words were spoken in the choppy guttural sounds of the Golathochian tongue. “Within the fluctuations of the termination shock.”
“Distance.”
“Forty g-sens from Earth’s current position.”
The controller made no reply. Shifting beneath his restraining strap, he stared at the solar system before him. He focused on its sun, a speck barely brighter than the millions of specks around it.
The helmsman spoke again. “Autohelm advises a thirty-nine-g-sen jump into the system’s asteroid belt based on pre-established system data. Distance to Earth after jump, eleven g-sigs.”
The controller grunted in approval.
“Initiating jump.” The helmsman’s large hands moved over the control panel. The Cruiser shuttered briefly, barely a vibration, then the forward view changed. The sun was larger, its hues reaching from one end of the screen to the next. The screen dimmed to compensate. “We are within the asteroid belt, controller.” In spite of that fact, there was no visible debris in any direction. “No vessels of any kind in sensor range.”
Pressing a small button on the arm console of his chair, the controller said, “Nish`jan-u, you are required.” A quieter voice—an Ithini’s voice—acknowledged. The controller looked on. The Cruiser remained adrift in the void, the space around it silent and cold.
After a minute’s passing, the rear door of the bridge opened. An Ithini drifted into the room, pulling itself forward on wall-mounted handrails. Its opaque eyes found the controller.
“You must connect us to the nearest Earthae upon our arrival,” the controller said as the Ithini, Nish`jan-u, drifted to him. “Do you agree to this?”
Nish`jan-u said nothing.
The controller’s lower lip curled. “I advise you to. Quickly.”
“Controller…” The hesitant voice came from a Golathoch at the navigational console along the far wall. “I am detecting a signature three g-sigs 113.72.41.9. Minimal light output—too small for a class vessel.”
The controller turned to the helmsman. “Assume tactical control.”
The helmsman acknowledged. Sliding several orbs embedded in his control panel, he caused the system map on his display to be replaced by a closer view of the Cruiser’s immediate vicinity.
The navigator suddenly shouted, “The signature belongs to an Armada beacon!”
Nish`jan-u’s eyes widened.
“Clearance burst detected, two light-seconds aft!” The navigator looked at the rear view screen as a titanic Battleship appeared where empty space had just been. “We have been found!”
Faced with the hand of the Golathochian Armada, the controller engaged the alert function. The ship’s standard lighting shifted from white to violet; a klaxon wailed through the ship’s halls.
The helmsman shifted the Cruiser into tactical skip mode. The ship shuddered, then the forward view changed. The rear of the Battleship appeared on the view screen. At the tactical weapons station, a smaller Golathoch locked onto the Battleship. It disappeared before he could fire, reappearing directly behind them.
The Cruiser shuddered once again, the helmsman engaging its skip drive as soon as the Battleship was poised to strike. This time, instead of reappearing in a position to fire on the Battleship, it emerged from its skip several g-sigs away. Within seconds, the Battleship was behind it again.
“Skip us to Earth!” the controller bellowed. The forward view shifted again as the blue planet appeared. But the maneuver was too late. Barely a g-sig away on the Cruiser’s starboard side, the massive Battleship fired its neutron cannons. The fleeing Cruiser’s advance to Earth had been anticipated—the mark of a more experienced foe.
The Cruiser was struck just as its atmospheric thrusters engaged. The hit had been glancing, but that was all it took to rupture the Cruiser’s hull and crush its engines. With the reckless momentum of an unassisted entry, the Cruiser was rocked end to end. Zero gravity vanished; the tug of Earth took control. The Cruiser free fell.
Despite the violent jostling, the command crew remained strapped in their seats. The lone exception was Nish`jan-u. The Ithini had been slammed into the wall with skull-crushing force.
The helmsman, eyes bearing down upon fast-approaching continents, struggled to regain control of the ship. Grasping the orbs through gritted teeth, he fought to pull the Cruiser’s nose up. As the auxiliary boosters came to life, the Cruiser’s downward vector began to plane.
The surface was closer now. The planet’s curvature became less definable. But steadily, the nose eased up. The crash was inevitable. It was the severity of the impact that the helmsman was fighting to lessen. If the engines could put out just enough, the crash wouldn’t be devastating. Some of the crew might actually survive. Perhaps some of the animals, too. If the engines could put out just enough…
The Cruiser crashed in the middle of a field. The ground was the last thing anyone in the bridge saw, as the impact left the forward section mangled. But indeed, the crash hadn’t killed them all. Some of the crew, all in other sections of the ship, had actually survived.
And indeed, some of the animals had, too.
 *
FIFTY MINUTES LATER
CATALINA HAD SEEN it moments before, flitting behind her in her peripherals. Even in the dark, its form was unmistakable: a necrilid. It had scampered out of the Cruiser from a hallway she’d sworn moments before had been clear. Her error was her new obligation—she had to hunt it down. As for why she was completely alone—that error was someone else’s.
“I’m gonna kill you, Peters.” The words escaped from her trembling lips. The Canadian beta private’s armor was stained with blood. Strands of sweat-soaked black hair dangled from her helmet—her brown eyes were focused. As she left the safety of the Cruiser’s interior, she panned her assault rifle to the ship’s outer hull. She spoke into her comm. “This is Private Shivers. I’m tracking one necrilid outside the vessel.”
The response she got was not a pleased one. “I thought you said your section was clear.”
“…I thought it was, sir.”
“Stand by. I’m on my way.”
Something skittered across the top of the hull. Swinging her rifle after the sound, Catalina saw the necrilid bound out of view. It disappeared toward the rear thrusters. “I have visual, in pursuit…”
A female voice crackled through. “Cat, like, didn’t the major just tell you to wait?”
“Not now, Tiff.”
“But you, like—”
“Not now!” Picking up her pace to track the creature from the ground, Catalina trotted toward the rear of the ship.
It had been the most intense mission she’d ever been on, though that said little considering her inexperience. Nonetheless, five privates had already been killed. She had no intention of being number six. Originally, she’d been paired with another soldier: Mark Peters. They were put together often, and usually formed a capable duo. But not this time. Against her advisement, he’d left her behind to assist another team. He was a good soldier, but he had a rebel streak in him. The two had developed somewhat of a working rivalry—and maybe a little something else, too.
Stopping by the rear thrusters, she put some distance between herself and the Cruiser. The craft had apparently been shot in the rear section, or at least that much could be assumed by the massive holes in its hull. Looking upward, she tried to spot the creature on the roof. But nothing was there.
“Where are you?” she asked the necrilid, swallowing. “C’mon…come down.” She adjusted her visor for thermal imaging.
Thump.
The Canadian froze. The sound hadn’t come from the roof, or from anywhere near the Cruiser. It came from right behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know what it was. But turn, she did—quickly.
She saw it the moment she’d come around. The necrilid’s body, warm in thermal imaging, cocked itself back. Its knees bent in preparation to strike. It opened its mouth.
The shot came out of nowhere. The necrilid’s head burst open, erupting in a crimson explosion. The alien’s corpse collapsed to the ground.
Mouth still opened in shock, Catalina spun around, aiming her assault rifle at the roof of the Cruiser. No necrilids were there.
“That was the only one.”
Even though the voice was familiar, it still made her flinch. Lowering her assault rifle, Catalina forced her stomach back down her throat. Then she faced him. He was walking straight toward her, his sniper rifle shouldered. The major.
“I watched it leap right over you from the roof while you were turning on your thermal,” Tacker said. “In another second, you’d have been dead.”
“I’m sorry, sir—”
“Don’t apologize to me,” he cut her off. “Apologize to your parents. They lost their daughter because she couldn’t follow commands.”
Her shoulders sagged.
“Where’s Peters?”
She gathered her pride—at least enough to pin the blame on someone else. “He left me to help Pierce and Masters, sir.”
“So is this all his fault?”
It was a trick question; it always was with him. “No, sir. I should have listened to you and held my position.”
For several seconds, Tacker said nothing. Finally, he nodded his head. “Feathers,” he said through the comm, “prep the ship. We won’t be here long.”
The same woman who’d spoken to Catalina earlier answered him. “Yes, sir.”
Catalina knew she was dismissed without Tacker having to say it. He had a way of ignoring those he was done with. She waited several seconds, just to be sure, until his attention went somewhere else. He now stared squarely at the Cruiser’s damaged hull.
She walked away in silence.
Inside the Cruiser, Colonel Brent Lilan of Falcon Platoon shouldered his assault rifle. Eleven Ceratopians killed in combat—that made twenty altogether. In a wrecked Cruiser, twenty sounded right. “White, check the bodies. Caldwell, Doucet, clear the silo and signal the sweep.”
“Yes sir!”
The colonel pulled off his helmet. His gray crew cut was damp with sweat. He wiped his forehead and spoke through his comm. “What’s it like out there, major?”
Tacker’s answer crackled through. “We’re clear, sir. Sweeper team should be good.”
“How’d we do?”
“Five dead, two wounded, one crit.”
“Veck.” Between Charlie and Delta Squads, that was too many. “Have Rhodes patch up the crit. I’m gonna check out these ‘Topians.”
A moment passed before Tacker replied. “It’s Smith now, sir.”
“What?”
“Rhodes was transferred to Hawk two weeks ago. Our medic is Frank Smith, now.”
Lilan placed his hands on his hips in disgust. Tacker was right. She had gone to Colonel Young’s crew. He’d completely forgotten.
“Sir, there’s something else I need to talk to you about…”
“Yeah, go ahead.” Lilan’s tone indicated his frustration. He couldn’t keep track of anyone anymore. Falcon Platoon was a revolving door—a unit whose sole purpose was to wet the feet of new Academy grads. Outside of a few pleasant surprises, like Charlie Squad’s Peters and Shivers, he had almost nothing to work with.
There was a lag in Tacker’s response. Something was wrong. “Remind me to recalibrate my rifle when we get back to base, colonel. It aims down and to the right.”
Lilan stopped walking. Tacker’s words weren’t a literal statement. They were code. A “recalibration reminder” was a request for his immediate presence. “Down and right” instructed him where: the rear starboard side of the Cruiser. Something was happening that Tacker didn’t want on record.
“Will do,” the colonel answered. “Lilan out.”
The Cruiser had landed on somebody’s farmland. In the distance, the farmer was shouting hysterically, angry about the damage to his property. Lilan understood the man’s irritation, but he wasn’t about to apologize—not for doing his job.
Tacker was waiting at the starboard side of the ship. Donald Bell was with him. With Rhodes gone, the black demolitionist was the only remaining holdout from the Falcon Platoon of months before—Tacker aside.
“How’s it goin’, coach?” Donald asked. He and his friends always referred to Lilan that way.
“It’s going.” Lilan shifted his attention to Tacker. “What do we have, major?”
Tacker gave Lilan a knowing look. “You need to see for yourself.” He glanced at Donald. “Keep the privates away.”
The demolitionist turned to corral the other operatives.
Lilan followed Tacker to the back of the ship. “What am I looking for?”
Tacker motioned to the damaged Cruiser. “I came back here to help Shivers, then I found where this thing got hit in the intercept.” At the back of the Cruiser, a hole exposed the engines beneath its hull. “When I first realized what I was looking at, I thought I had to be wrong. There was just no way this was possible. But I’m not wrong.”
Lilan scrutinized the hole in the vessel. The hull was dented and cracked inward, where the metal was shredded. “What am I not seeing, here?”
“Look at the edge of the impact zone. Look all the way around. Tell me if you catch it.”
The colonel narrowed his eyes in scrutiny. The engine had burst and the metal was torn. That was all typical of a missile strike. The dents, the gashes, the scorch marks—
He stopped at that thought. There were no scorch marks, not so much as a singe. “Wait a minute.” He pointed to the scar-less cavities. “What’d we hit this thing with?”
The major nodded. “Exactly. There’s not an exterior scorch mark in sight. Every air-to-air weapon we carry creates an explosion. This hull didn’t explode—it got crushed.”
“How is that possible? There’s not a weapon that can do that.”
Tacker hesitated. “Actually, there is. There’s one weapon fully capable of doing this. I’ve seen it done before, just not to a Cruiser.” Several moments passed while the major stared at the vessel. “That weapon…is a neutron cannon.”
Lilan raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t think we hit this thing at all, colonel. I think other Ceratopians did.”
PART I
1
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 7TH, 0012 NE
1945 HOURS
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA
SHORTLY AFTER
CATALINA SLAMMED her spare magazine onto the rolling ammo cart, her brown eyes viciously narrowed. Behind her, the remnants of Charlie Squad exited their Vultures to prep down. The Canadian’s armor and helmet were removed, ready to be taken in for cleanup and repairs. Her hair, still dripping with sweat, fell around her shoulders in shiny black tangles.
“Cat!”
She ignored the approaching voice.
“C’mon, Cat, give it a rest…”
Spinning abruptly, she shoved the approaching soldier as hard as she could. “Give it a rest? Are you kidding?”
Mark Peters raised his hands in protest. “You want to blame me? Fine, blame me, I don’t care. But the truth is, if you had just listened to me in the first place and—”
Laughing threateningly, she turned away.
“Cat, stop freaking out for one second.”
“I am walking away from you right now.”
He followed her. “We had a string of good missions. We knew this would happen eventually. Both of us screwed up.”
“I am walking away.”
“You’re such a little girl.”
She turned on him, her hair flying, and jammed a finger straight in his chest. “Don’t you even think of trying to spin this as both of our faults!”
“I—”
“You leave me behind out of nowhere in the middle of a Ceratopian Cruiser, and you have the gall to try and turn this on me? I’m left outside, chasing a necrilid by my vecking self, and you act like I should be fine with that?”
A second woman—a blonde in a flight suit—approached the two. Her hazel eyes were deep with concern.
Catalina went on. “I could have been dead back there! Do you even understand that?”
“But you’re not dead!”
“Ungh!” She clenched her own hair. “You drive me insane!”
“Do we have a problem here, privates?” asked a new voice. Catalina, Mark, and the blond-haired pilot all turned to find Major Tacker, who was eyeing them with disapproval from several meters away.
“No, sir,” they answered in unison.
Tacker said nothing else; the operatives resumed their prep down.
Colonel Lilan was removing his armor when Tacker approached him. “I asked Richmond Command about the intercept,” Tacker said. “Turns out there was none. Not from the continental U.S., anyway. They thought it might have been a remnant from some other intercept. Nagoya or something, just coming down here.”
Lilan tossed down his shoulder guards. “Did you tell them what we found?”
“No, sir. I thought you’d want to tell the general yourself.”
“Lizards shooting lizards.” The colonel brushed back his crew cut. “Friendly fire, you think?”
“While fighting what?”
Lilan sighed in frustration. “I don’t know. And that bothers me. I’ll talk to Hutchin tomorrow morning. We’ve got a meeting scheduled, anyway.”
“Yes, sir.”
 *
THE DOOR TO Room 419 opened; Catalina and the blonde stepped inside. As soon as the door was shut, Catalina pulled off her jersey and flung it to the floor. “I’m gonna kill him. One day, Tiff, I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna rip his red hair out by the roots.”
The brown-eyed blonde, Tiffany Feathers, unzipped her flight suit. “You two are totally meant for each other,” she said, smirking. Catalina moaned in aggravation. “Whatever, you can moan all you want. You guys are totally getting married one day.”
“Like, totally, right?”
“Har, har.” Untying her ponytail, Tiffany shook her head back. Her hair fell down in shiny locks.
Catalina looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was shiny, too, but for a different reason. It looked greased. “You look like a model. I look like a witch.”
“You so do not,” Tiffany said, inspecting her teeth in the mirror. Satisfied with their whiteness, she moved on. “So you killed a necrilid, huh? That is so cool.”
“Tacker killed it, actually.”
“Oh. Yah, not quite as cool…”
“And, of course, who got busted for breaking orders?” Catalina raised her hand. “That would be me. Never mind how Mark screwed up, he doesn’t get a word from Tacker. Just me.”
“I think Tacker has the hots for you.”
Rolling her eyes, Catalina grabbed a towel and a cosmetic bag. She stared at Tiffany again. “If I could only be so lucky. I’m going to take a shower. I’ll be back.”
“Later, gator,” Tiffany said, waving as Catalina stepped out.
Tiffany was Catalina’s best friend. The two had never met prior to Philadelphia Academy, but had been roommates during their entire stay, Catalina as a soldier, Tiffany a pilot. They weren’t opposites, per say. They were both partial to the party scene, and they shared many of the same likes and interests. But there were definitely differences.
Catalina was a self-prescribed rocker chick. She could play the guitar and actually sing quite well. Unlike most people at the Academy, she had no idea why she’d joined EDEN. The urge had struck her one day, and like any right-brained free spirit, she just went with it. She was there because she was there.
Tiffany Feathers, on the other hand, had a reason for being a pilot. She’d been born with a set of wings—literally. Her first official baby gift, as ridiculous as it sounded, was a sky blue, two-seater FunJet, courtesy of her father. She grew up learning how to fly and graduated from the Academy as a Vulture pilot. She was also a ditz—a bona fide California Valley Girl. She defied everything about the pilot stereotype.
As different as their origins were, Catalina and Tiffany were as close as best friends could be. They had been together through the best and worst of Philadelphia. That they’d been assigned to the same unit upon graduation was just icing on the cake.
Ahead of her in the hallway, a cluster of African-American operatives was gathered. Their voices were loud, prevalent. Impossible to ignore.
“Nigga screamin’ like he seein’ roaches!” Obnoxious laughter erupted from the gathering, directed at one of their own. “Nigga like, ahhhh!”
The Canadian lowered her head, making no effort to stop her hair from covering her eyes. Anything to avoid eye contact. There were five of them in total, and they’d been on the mission, too. They were her teammates.
“Coach be screamin’, N’awlins be trippin’ over hisself, all like, ahhhh!”
The target of the ridicule finally replied, “Man, what you do? Why don’t you enlighten us, King? What you do when a necrilid jumps in ya face?”
“I don’t be shootin’ the floor! Pa-pow, ahhhh!” The laughter reached new heights.
The men were gathered between Catalina and the women’s shower room; she had no choice but to walk past them. As soon as she was in their vicinity, all sound stopped.
Don’t look up. Just walk past them. She felt every eye on her, and she immediately regretted stepping out of her room in less than a full uniform. That didn’t always bother her—she liked to be looked at, to feel sexy. She didn’t mind putting on the occasional eye show for the boys. What she did mind was when boys tried to touch. Fortunately, this time, none of them did. But that didn’t stop the obligatory comment.
“Purr for this, momma.”
Hushed hooting ensued.
She knew what the remark was in reference to. On her back, behind her right shoulder blade, was a tattoo of a cat’s paw. She’d always been called Cat by everyone she knew. The ink fit. She enjoyed showing the tattoo off at the appropriate times, when she wanted to be noticed by the opposite sex. This was not one of them. She said nothing in reply to the comment—she just went about her way.
“Scaw, walk away, woman.”
Catalina had never had a problem with black people. In fact, she came from a fairly ethnic circle of friends back in Vancouver. But none of them made her nervous. This crew did.
Their ringleader was Tom King. He was an alpha private from Atlanta, Georgia. Ironically, he was one of the smallest in the gang, barely five feet and eight inches. While there were many words to describe Tom, quiet and modest were not among them. Every word out of his mouth—and there were lots—was loud and obnoxious. But the worst thing about Tom was his million-dollar smile. It gleamed like a superstar’s, and if Catalina was being honest, it was one of the most attractive smiles she’d ever seen on a man. Unfortunately, the jackass it was attached to made it almost unbearable.
The second was Donald Bell, who was actually her superior and a demolitionist delta trooper. Technically, he was third in command of all of Falcon Platoon, despite the fact that he wasn’t an officer. What he was, though, was Tom’s first cousin. The two had grown up together, and their mere presence brought an essence of family to Charlie Squad. Just not Catalina’s kind of family. Donald was actually a decent person. He didn’t flaunt his rank, remained generally quiet, and treated everyone above and below him with a level of courtesy that was both rare and refreshing.
In fact, she could say that same thing about almost all of them, with the exception of Tom. When on their own, each of the men was cooperative and personable. It was when they were together, and particularly when Tom was leading the crew, that their raucousness arose.
There was Javon Quinton, handsome and tall, with both the build and attitude one would expect from a professional soldier. He had a unique sense of style, often wearing sunglasses that looked two sizes too big for his head and hair that stuck out in all directions, like someone who’d been electrocuted.
Demorian Mott was from Louisiana. Catalina knew this because, at every available opportunity, his cohorts jokingly called him either “N’awlins” or “that trash from New Orleans.” He was the shortest of the crew, about an inch under Tom, but built like he should have been seven feet tall. He was a miniature bruiser.
Then there was Leonard Knight. In Catalina’s sincere, televisioninfluenced opinion, Leonard looked how she imagined a gang member should look. He was tall, and his arms were muscular—not the streamlined muscles of someone who lived in the weight room, but thick muscles that looked earned on the streets. He had various tattoos, none of which Catalina could make out. Complimenting his stoic expression was a head topped with cornrows, completing a package that screamed criminal record, despite the fact that he kept mostly to himself.
The five of them—Tom, Donald, Javon, Demorian, and Leonard—formed the meat of Charlie Squad. All of the men, with the exception of Donald, the demolitionist, was a soldier. The only other soldiers in Charlie were Catalina herself and Mark Peters. Perhaps that was one of the reasons she was attracted to Mark, despite their occasional spats. They were birds of a feather in a group that was different from what she was accustomed to.
They weren’t all of Charlie Squad, of course. There were a handful of operatives who weren’t soldiers. There was Leslie Kelly, a sweet girl and the unit’s technician. There was Frank Smith, a lovable and somewhat innocent medic. Then, of course, there was Tiffany. They and Mark made up the part of the crew with which Catalina felt infinitely more comfortable.
Despite the mild sexual harassment thrown her way, Catalina managed to get her shower in. When she stepped back into the hall after she was finished, she was relieved to find Tom and his friends gone. Within moments, she was back in her room.
She and Tiffany were not the first to go to bed that night, nor were they the last. One-by-one, room-by-room, the operatives of Charlie Squad and Falcon Platoon brought their battle-worn night to a close, their dreams replacing the echoes of gunfire from only hours before. For some of them, this had been their first mission. For most of them, this had been their worst. As the moon offered its twilight serenity, the promise of a new day hovered beyond the horizon. A new day—their reward for surviving the last one.
Dream, they did indeed.
2
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 7TH, 0012 NE
1402 HOURS
SIBERIA
“THEY ARE COMING!”
The cry came from the antechamber ahead. Confirming the functionality of his plasma rifle’s modulator, Wuteel slammed against the wall of his Noboat’s interior hall. The hum of calibrated plasma emanated from his weapon. Sparks popped intermittently from the exposed wall circuitry around him.
“Wuteel calling Tissana,” the Bakma hissed. “The Earthae are breaching!”
“They breach here, as well!” his alien comm crackled.
Projectile erupted in the antechamber, met by a volley of retaliatory plasma. Wuteel pointed. “Move! Hold them until assistance arrives!” The Bakma survivors trotted ahead. “Imminent emergency!” Wuteel barked through the comm. “We require immediate extraction!” Behind him, an armored canrassi growled predatorily.
“We are nine g-ticks from the homeworld, Nectae-1,” came an answer from Nectae-3, the only of the three Nectaes not already on the ground. “Stand by.”
“Standing by!”
MEANWHILE, ABOARD the also-fallen Nectae-2, Security Lord Tissana and his team of survivors fortified the outer entrance of their ship. The ground outside was cold. Howling winds whipped through the antechamber door; the bloodied Bakma rasped loudly as the Earthae engaged. “Override automatic door control. Block them out!” The Bakma by the entrance complied.
“Lord Tissana,” one of the Bakma yelled to him, “the Earthae bring titans!”
Before another word could be uttered, the outer door, still in the process of being closed, erupted in fiery orange. Bakma flew in all directions.
Falling against the antechamber wall, Tissana heard the Earthae titan fire again. Diving down the interior hallway, the security lord felt the element-melting blast of the titan’s flame cannon behind him. Flicks of debris from the walls peppered his body. He looked back—the antechamber was ablaze. Scrambling to his feet, the Bakma lord’s focus returned to his escape route.
Too late. Tissana never even noticed the Earthae assassin until he whipped back around. He’d never seen it enter the ship at all. The Earthae propelled itself straight up from the wall, its foot slamming into the side of the Bakma’s head, sending him crashing into solid metal. He spun around desperately, trying to locate the assailant. He found only death. The Earthae’s blades slid into his neck at the exposed line between his breastplate and chin-guard, then were yanked back as fresh warmth poured from the alien’s neck. The last things Tissana saw was mocha skin, brown eyes, and dark lashes.
And the faintest hint of a smirk.
WUTEEL GROWLED as a bullet tore through his shoulder. He stumbled but maintained his retreat. He’d felt the projectile go straight through—a lucky break. Behind him, the canrassi reared back and roared.
“Attack!” ordered Wuteel, pointing to the open antechamber door where his crew was fending off the Earthaes.
The beast’s roar subsided to a low, threatening growl. Lowering its body, its hind legs propelled it forward through the smoke.
Wuteel lifted his comm again. “We cannot hold here much longer!”
IN THE SKY AND approaching the scene, the third Noboat materialized. Eyes focusing on the ice-covered tundra, Operational Lord Du`racchi leaned forward in his chair. “Stand by, Nectae-1. We have arrived.” He swiveled to face communications. “Status of Nectae-2?”
“No contact from Nectae-2, lord.”
Du`racchi swiveled back around.
“Lord!” The cry came from navigations, as the officer there turned to him. “The Earthae have sent an intercept vessel, class unknown!”
“Class unknown?”
“Affirmative, lord!”
“On screen.” Moments later, the Noboat’s main view screen changed. What appeared was a long vessel constructed of sleek, dark metal. Du`racchi’s eyes narrowed. This vessel…it had armaments. Earthae mounted projectiles, wingtip ballistics. This was no ordinary Vultureclass transport. It was a gunship.
LUNGING FROM Nectae-1, the canrassi roared and charged forward, diving amid Earthae as they scattered in all directions. Wuteel raised his hand to signal the offensive.
Ka-pow!
Wuteel froze, his hand still locked in the air as his opaque eyes bulged with horror. The canrassi toppled over, lifeless, a single clean exit wound visible in the center of its skull.
It’d been felled in one shot.
“THE GUNSHIP APPROACHES!”
“Reenter the rift!” barked Du`racchi.
“It fires!”
The Noboat rumbled as it was struck; klaxons wailed through the halls. The outside world was still visible. “Why have we not shifted?” Du`racchi asked frantically from his chair.
The Bakma at engineering swiveled around. “The crystal is damaged. Rift generation is impossible!”
Visible on the view screen, the gunship turned to pursue.
BACKING FROM NECTAE-1’s antechamber, Wuteel shouted at the Bakma holding the door. “Fall back! Give the Earthae our ship—it is already lost! Our brethren in Nectae-3 will arrive soon. We must take the emergency exit to meet them!” No sooner had he said the words, the Earthae breached.
They were like nothing Wuteel had ever seen. They were like war machines. Black and vile, as if forged by the Khuladi themselves. The Earthae leader, ordained in gold trim, sang a chorus of fury through the blazing tatter of its weapon. Then it faced him. When it spoke, its voice resonated like thunder.
“Surrender unconditionally.”
It spoke his language! The war machine spoke his language, as if it were a Bakma itself! It shook Wuteel to his core—but salvation was coming from the sky. Wuteel needed only buy Nectae-3 enough time to rescue them. Then, the Earthae would be the ones retreating. Raising their weapons, Wuteel and the survivors engaged the black machines.
FOR A SECOND TIME, Nectae-3 was rocked by fire from the tailing gunship.
“Return fire!” screamed Du`racchi.
The weapons officer worked the turrets. “I am returning fire! I cannot connect. It moves too quickly!”
“Incoming ballistic!”
Nectae-3 was thrown as its port side erupted. The bridge burst into flames.
CHARGING THROUGH THE engine room, Wuteel dashed for the emergency exit. The black war machines had killed the other survivors, leaving Wuteel in a full-fledged retreat. Leaping through still-smoldering fires, he rounded the exit’s final turn. Rescue would be there—just beyond the door. He needed only to reach it. Releasing the interior lock, he kicked the door open and dashed out. Shielding his eyes from the Earthae sun, he searched the sky.
Arcing gracefully downward, Wuteel watched as Nectae-3 impacted the earth. The Noboat exploded with fire.
“No…”
There was nobody left. No one. Not in any of the Nectaes. Not in the sky. There was only him and his nearly-depleted plasma rifle. Turning around, he heard the war machines move through the engine room. They’d be there. At any second, they’d be upon him. He panicked.
Running onto the open field, Wuteel’s Bakma heart pounded. There was foliage ahead—Earthae trees. The Bakma ran as fast as his exhausted legs could carry him. If he could reach the foliage in time, maybe he could lose them.
The snarling came unexpectedly. Flinching in mid-stride, Wuteel glanced back to locate its source. His heart nearly died. It was a creature, a monster. Flesh-eating teeth chomped up and down, spewing saliva as its tongue flailed savagely. It was like a horror out of Bakmanese lore. Like a necrilid with fur. The monster’s legs propelled it forward—it lunged straight for his boots.
Wuteel screamed as it sank in its teeth.
“Down! Flopper, down!” Max ran full speed toward the dog, who was eagerly snapping at its panicked captive’s shoes. “No bite! No bite!”
Looking back with his tongue hanging out, Flopper abandoned the Bakma to charge at Max, snapping merrily at the lieutenant-technician’s shins.
“No! No bite! Stop!” Grabbing his comm—the first thing his fingers could find—Max frantically flung it as far as he could. Flopper immediately gave chase. “You crazy dog!” Ahead of Max, the Bakma scrambled to its feet. Max lifted his weapon. “I don’t think so, pal. Hold it right there.”
The Bakma’s attention shifted past Max, at the new arrival approaching the scene. The alien’s opaque bulges widened as its whole body tensed.
Scott stared at the Bakma through his black, faceless helmet. When he spoke, his voice resonated. “Laash vak`ar lentaa?”
For several seconds, the Bakma stood motionless before the goldtrimmed warrior. He hesitated before answering. “…Wuteel.”
“Wuteel,” Scott repeated, taking a single step forward. “Vilaash Remington.” The Bakma stared back in fearful understanding. Scott spoke again. “Grrushana rin`kash.”
The alien studied Scott, his bulging eyes surveying the fulcrum’s posture. Finally, it nodded its head. “Grrashna.”
“Take him back,” Scott said to Max. “Make sure he sees Sveta.”
“Aye, aye,” answered Max, shouldering his weapon and approaching the alien. “Come with me, thing.”
The renegades. The cowboys. They went by many different names, but for them, none held the same weight as their official one: the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk.
The months that had passed since Scott’s transformation into the Golden Fulcrum, as he’d come to be known, had been more than just kind to the Fourteenth. They’d been redeeming. For the first time since the death of Nicole, the former unit of Captain Clarke was a cohesive, unified team. They were also remarkably good.
“Class job, Will,” said Esther, smiling beneath her sky-blue EDEN visor. “Your timing was impeccable.”
William, still standing where he’d blown through the Bakmas’ defensive, grinned back. The hulking southerner, clad in his massive demolitionist’s armor, shouldered his hand cannon.
Such flawless victories had become commonplace. In fact, over the previous four months, no unit in Novosibirsk had suffered fewer losses than the Fourteenth, their sole death being that of Nicolai Romanov, one of their resident Nightmen. Outside of that single anomaly, the squad was experiencing an unprecedented stretch of performance.
“Tha’s bleedin’ fairy tales,” Becan said in response to a comment from David by the landing zone. “Don’t blame tha’ one on me, ’cos not a one o’ yeh expected a can-flickin’-rassi to come bustin’ through the door!”
David unloaded his assault rifle. “But the bottom line is, you screamed like a girl. We’re both lucky Jay took the shot.”
“Hey Jay,” Becan said through the comm, “Dave said tha’ was a lucky shot.”
The Texan didn’t reply.
“Leave him alone,” David said quietly. “Kid’s got enough goin’ on.”
The line between EDEN and Nightman had never been as blurred as it was in the Fourteenth—a striking contrast to the tension that had existed prior to Scott’s ascendance to Golden Fulcrum status. Dostoevsky, Auric, and Egor were as much a part of the Fourteenth’s social scene as any of the unit’s EDEN members.
The sole exception was Viktor Ryvkin, the Fourteenth’s only medicallytrained slayer. He was reviled by just about everyone. Murmurings of an affair between Viktor and Varvara Yudina had surfaced shortly after the events in Verkhoyanskiy. Rumors turned to fact when Dostoevsky, delivering a routine message to Lieutenant Ryvkin’s quarters, made the infamous mistake of not knocking first. A shaft of hallway light and the sudden shrieking of a bare-breasted Varvara were all it took to deliver the adulterous couple into the depths of unit-wide ire. It had also hurled the one-eyed Texan, Jayden, into a downward spiral that had yet to find bottom.
Dostoevsky’s gaze came to rest on one of the fallen Bakma. Its body was covered in dark red fluid, where assault rifle bullets had tattered its flesh. The alien shivered uncontrollably, clinging to a life that was on the verge of expiring. The fulcrum dropped to a knee, staring through his featureless faceplate into the alien’s opaque, bulging eyes. The Bakma’s lips quivered, and it turned its head just enough to show that it indeed registered the black knight above it. Dostoevsky unfastened his helmet, setting it aside as he met the Bakma with his real eyes. Reaching down, he cupped his hands around the Bakma’s gnarled claws. “It will be over soon.” Dostoevsky repeated the words softly several more times, squeezing the Bakma’s fingers just enough to convey his sincerity.
The alien sputtered, sucking in short, exhausted breaths, its eyes never once wavering from the human above it. Then release finally came. Inhaling a breath never to be exhaled, the Bakma’s head slowly sunk back. Its body went limp.
Dostoevsky stared at the body for several seconds, his hand never releasing the fallen alien’s. Then slowly, the fulcrum closed his own eyes. Whispered words escaped his lips as he bowed his head.
Farther away but aware of the scene, the battle-torn Bakma, Wuteel, watched the exchange. The image of the kneeling Dostoevsky reflected in Wuteel’s bulging eyes.
“This will hurt.”
The words were spoken softly. Turning from Dostoevsky and the fallen Bakma, Wuteel watched Svetlana lift his arm gently.
“Be brave.”
When her saturated cloth touched his wounds, Wuteel hissed and shrunk back. But the blond medic held on. After several seconds, the pain subsided. The wound cooled.
Wuteel watched curiously as she bandaged his arm.
Despite Viktor’s scarred reputation, he was part of a command structure that was strong. Scott had taken to captainship like a fish to water, with Dostoevsky’s experience and expertise a welcomed complement to the younger American’s more brazen style. As lieutenants, Max and Viktor were both more than capable. Scott had made it clear to the rest of the Fourteenth that Viktor was to be obeyed as a tertiary officer regardless of the unit’s negative feelings toward him. And it had been made clear to Viktor, by Scott, that he was on as thin a sheet of ice as there could be. The slick-haired Russian had been the beneficiary of good timing: he’d been promoted to lieutenant before falling from the unit’s graces. Personal sins aside, he had yet to do anything on the battlefield that would have warranted his demotion.
Looking skyward, Scott watched their transport make its approach. The Vulture Mark 2—one of the few variants at Novosibirsk—gleamed in the sunlight as it angled its nose for descent.
“Nice work up there, Travis,” said Scott through the comm. “What’s the status of the new crash site?”
“Thanks,” the pilot answered, his voice droning. “The new site’s about two kilometers west-northwest. Doubtful on survivors.”
Scott already knew the reason for Travis’s mood, but he asked anyway. “You all right, man?”
There was a pause. “Yeah.”
Scott’s expression softened, but he maintained a professional tone. “Inform NovCom. Tell them to send a cleanup crew.”
“On it, sir.”
Everything about the Vulture Mark 2, or V2, as people called it, was superior. Everything about it was sleek, sophisticated, and downright tough. Its introduction into EDEN had given a solid dose of muscle to the outdated Vulture class transport. In fact, for the Fourteenth, there was only one problem with their new ride.
It wasn’t the Pariah.
Unsalvageable. That was EDEN’s official word on their old, cursed transport. The hope and excitement of getting the Pariah back had been dashed by a single, emotionless memo. The Pariah had sustained too much damage. The feral dog had been put out of its misery.
Despite the obvious advantage of having a more reliable, sturdier, and more maneuverable transport, a real sense of loss had hit the Fourteenth with the Pariah’s demise. Yes, they could get to missions faster. Yes, they could defend themselves in the air. Yes, they could even absorb a hit or two. But the Pariah had been a special ship—it’d been their ship. This new ship didn’t even have a name.
Though the loss was felt by everyone, no one’s grief came close to Travis’s. It was like he’d lost a brother. Even to that day, the pilot wasn’t the same.
“All operatives,” Scott said on the open channel, “rally at the landing zone. We leave in five.” A chorus of affirmations came.
As far as missions went, this one had been fairly routine. A pair of Noboats, intercepted by Vindicators, isolated by the Fourteenth. It was a common callout. The third Noboat—the one shot down by the V2—was a bit of a surprise. The Bakma rarely attempted rescues of fallen vessels. Thankfully, the now missile-packing transport had been up to the task.
Scott turned off his internal heater. The air was cold, but not freezing, as Siberia had found itself in the midst of an unusually warm winter. With temperatures hovering in the forties, practically a heat wave for that time of year, there wasn’t a trace of snow in any direction. Some of Novosibirsk’s older veterans had seen this before. They deemed it an omen. Scott deemed it a relief.
Making his way through the collection of operatives, Scott found Svetlana. The blond-haired medic was hard at work tending to Wuteel’s wounds, her careful hands moving from injury to injury as the Bakma curiously observed. Scott never approached Svetlana, nor did he make his presence known. He simply watched her from afar, the fulcrum’s expression hidden behind his faceless helmet. Her hair was longer now. It dipped just past her shoulders in golden locks. He liked it that way. He liked it any way at all.
“Remmy,” Becan said through the comm, “body count’s at thirty-three. We probably killed half o’ them. Add one canrassi.”
From Scott’s vantage point, he could barely make out Svetlana’s face—just enough to see her expression. She was smiling at the Bakma. It was the same kind of smile she’d used with him many times. The kind of smile that said, “it’ll be okay.” And it always was.
“Remmy, did yeh get tha’?”
Looking away slightly, Scott answered, “I copy. Thirty-three, one canrassi. Half killed by the Fourteenth.” He’d heard Becan the first time.
When he turned back to Svetlana, she was staring at him, too. One of her hands was still on the Bakma; her other tucked her hair behind her ear.
To the Bakma, she was just another human—one with a compassionate touch. If it only knew that it was in the most sincere hands it would ever come across. If it only knew that its best interests, not hers, were at the core of her heart. There was no better place, no warmer place, for anyone to be.
Her gaze lingered on Scott for a moment longer before it broke, the slow turn of her head reflecting golden sheens of sunlight off her hair. He watched her look at Wuteel again.
If the alien only knew.
Little else of significance occurred at the crash site. As ordered, all operatives returned to the landing zone within the specified five minutes, boarding the V2 for the voyage back home. As was typical, a jovial atmosphere permeated through the troop bay, with but few exceptions. As was typical, the sounds of banter drowned out the roar of the engines.
Novosibirsk. The Machine. Home. There was no place Scott wanted to be more.
The ride back went as smoothly as the mission. Not even the Bakma complained.
3
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 7TH, 0012 NE
1549 HOURS
NOVOSIBIRSK, RUSSIA
FLOPPER WAS THE first to exit the V2, his paws peeling out before the rear door was even down. Tongue flailing about merrily, he pranced around the nearest pair of sentries.
“Go!” said Max, marching after the dog. “You gotta go, go! Stop playin’ with the murderers!”
Ears perked, Flopper abandoned the sentries for the side of the hangar, where concrete met grass. The canine’s territory was then adequately marked.
The rest of the Fourteenth was not far behind. Auric escorted out Wuteel, the Bakma prisoner; Scott followed them. “Deliver him to Petrov,” Scott told the sentries in Russian. “He stays in Confinement, not the Walls.”
“Da, Captain Remington.”
The Fourteenth’s captives were never taken to the Walls of Mourning, Novosibirsk’s torture room—by Scott’s orders. He had never returned to the torture chamber since his first encounter, and there wasn’t a bone in his body that desired to go there again.
Unfastening his helmet for the first time, Scott surveyed the dutifully prepping-down Fourteenth. Small scars decorated his face from a missile strike explosion during a forest mission months ago, along with several other “badges” he’d collected over the months. There were even a few gray hairs here and there, giving the twenty-four-year-old a look beyond his years. He looked like a veteran. Considering his involvement with the Alien War was nearing only its first anniversary, that said quite a bit. EDEN was still yet to learn of his joining the Nightmen, and he was in no rush to tell them. As for his captainship, he’d achieved it at a frighteningly fast pace, shattering every rookie-to-officer record in the books. He wondered on occasion whether his rise to leadership would have been newsworthy had he been anywhere but Novosibirsk. Thankfully, at least in his eyes, he lived in a place that the rest of the world chose to ignore. Base-wide notoriety was more than enough for him.
“He will be fine.”
Svetlana’s voice caught Scott off guard, and he turned to find her approaching his side.
“The Bakma,” she said, catching his bewildered expression with a smile.
“Ah.” He watched as the sentry escorted Wuteel out of the hangar. “Nothing too serious, then?”
“No. He is lucky. To be in such good condition and to have a captor who didn’t kill him. Both are very good things.”
“He was pretty lucky to have you, too.”
Svetlana smiled faintly. “I would not go so far as to say that…but if you insist, thank you.”
Scott was well aware of the attraction between them. He was also well aware of his sense of guilt. Nicole’s picture still sat on his nightstand, where it had been since the first day he’d received his own private quarters. She was still his fiancée—the love of his life. But that didn’t stop him from wanting to spend time with Svetlana. It didn’t stop him from increasing the frequency with which he requested medical reports, to be delivered by her to his quarters, usually ending with two hours of conversation and laughter. It didn’t stop him from occasionally deviating from his training schedule and sending the Fourteenth to the pool, just to see her in her teal one-piece. It didn’t stop him from wanting to kiss her. Though no such kiss had occurred, the want was still there. He was fairly sure she wanted that, too. The moment had just never come.
Turning back to the V2, Scott watched as the operatives bustled about. Then his stare found Jayden. The Texan, who wore a black eye patch to cover his empty left socket, hadn’t said a word during the whole flight. He was doing his prep-down alone.
Svetlana sighed sadly. “We might need to talk about him. He…” she searched for words, “…things are not going well.”
This was only Jayden’s third mission since his release from the infirmary, and only the second in which he’d been allowed to actually participate. His accuracy was still there, shockingly enough. But his body was in anything but good shape. The Texan was frail. Months in the infirmary had decimated his muscles, and a rushed recovery had cheated him a chance to fully heal. He could barely hold his own. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the bad part.
During his first phases of recovery, prior to the revelation of Varvara’s infidelity, Scott had seen a determined young man who’d refused to accept defeat. Behind occasional and understandable self-pity was a purposed and stubborn spirit. Until the affair. From that day forward, Jayden gradually fell apart. Varvara had accomplished what the loss of an eye and the destruction of a body couldn’t. She’d crushed his will. He was a shell of the man the Fourteenth had once known. The Texan was quiet now, moody. On some days he was perfectly stoic. On others he hated the world. Scott had no idea what was happening beneath the surface of Jayden’s emotions, but he feared something was psychologically wrong. For all he knew, his sniper had gone sociopath.
“I’ll talk to him,” Scott said, still watching the Texan work. “I’ll call him to my room.”
Svetlana didn’t reply audibly. She simply smiled, reached out, and squeezed his hand—her way of telling him she approved. Together and without another word, they joined the Fourteenth for prep-down.
 *
TWENTY MINUTES LATER
WILLIAM HUMMED blissfully beneath a blast of steaming shower spray. The massive demolitionist was among the first to claim a curtained stall, as he typically was. Grabbing his shampoo-bottle-turned-microphone and bristling back his wet crew cut, he closed his eyes and belted a falsetto. “And I took the devil for a riiiiide!”
“Hey Willie?” Becan asked as the curtain behind William was tugged open.
The demolitionist blinked and turned around. “Huh—?”
Poof! A white cloud erupted as flour pelted William’s face. Hacking frantically, the southerner stumbled and wiped his eyes. “Veck it, man! Again?” A chorus of laugher erupted outside.
Such juvenile post-mission antics were normal in Room 14, particularly after missions as successful as that day’s—and shower pranks led the way. William’s flour facial was only the latest instance. The previous week, Esther had hopped in only to discover, seconds too late, that her entire bottle of conditioner had been replaced with ranch dressing. Wisely, the culprit was yet to step forward.
By far the most daring display of tomfoolery had come against Max, who’d once finished a shower to discover that the entire room had been emptied of people, and more importantly, clothing. Even the bed sheets had been removed. The sole article of anything left behind had been a single piece of white lingerie. “Coincidentally,” a call had been placed to Tanneken Brunner moments earlier asking her to rush to Room 14 as quickly as possible. Needless to say, she was more amused by what she found than Max was that she’d found it.
Only a few of the Fourteenth had escaped the pranks thus far: Scott, Dostoevsky, and the slayers chief among them. That Svetlana had managed to avoid them was more notable, if for no other reason, because she had a habit of reminding Scott about it whenever they discussed unit behavior during her medical reports. “I am above that,” she always said. Only Esther seemed to care that the medic had stayed clean.
Drying her hair at the side of her bunk, Svetlana smiled as a shirtless Max approached. The lieutenant-technician tossed down his towel and pulled a white t-shirt over his head. “I saw what Flopper did today,” Svetlana said, clicking her tongue to draw the playful pooch close. “He is becoming good little soldier.”
“I think he thinks missions are a game,” said Max. “Chase the guy in the purple suit. Sit, Flop.” The dog obeyed, perking its ears. “Good boy.” Quiet fell between them before Max finally sighed. “I know it’s only been a couple of missions, but we need to talk about Jay.”
Running her hand through her hair, Svetlana eyed the Texan from afar. “I know. I told that to Scott in the hangar. He is too weak to be fighting right now.”
“It’s not even that. It’s like he’s dead, Sveta.”
“Who’s dead?” Derrick asked, approaching the two. Travis and Boris followed behind him.
“The Bakma are dead. Go mind your own business.”
Svetlana eyed Max with disapproval, then turned to the newcomers. “We are talking about Jayden.”
Derrick frowned heavily.
“We are just concerned. I am sure things will get better in time.” Her voice was weighted with forced optimism.
“You know what’d make me feel better?” asked Max. “Wrapping my hands around Viktor’s neck.” He watched Viktor and Varvara across the room. The couple was in the midst of a hushed conversation. “I wouldn’t mind turning Varya a shade of blue, too.”
Svetlana hit him. “Do not say that.”
“You’re gonna defend the girl?”
“Be mad at her, that is fine. I am mad at her, too. But do not say you will hurt her, even if you are joking. It is not funny.”
“Look at ’em,” said Travis as the couple shared a kiss. “Broad daylight, like nothing’s wrong with it at all. They’ve got some nerve.”
Max slipped on his boots. “How do you like the way she’s been cakin’ herself with makeup? Viktor must be into mimes.”
“Don’t stare,” Svetlana warned. “You will only make it worse.”
“I could break both their necks.”
She slapped his shoulder hard. “Stop that, Max, now. We just had good mission, we do not need to ruin it. This is the only problem with the unit right now—there are a thousand other good things to think about.”
“I’m not like you, Sveta,” Max said. “I can’t just turn it off.”
She sighed exasperatedly. “I am not turning it off. Do you think I am not just as frustrated as you? But we do not need this. Jayden does not need this, Scott does not need this, and you most certainly do not need this.” She looked him in the eyes. “You work with Viktor. He is a lieutenant, like you are. You must get along.” Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by Varvara’s voice.
“Excuse me.”
The younger blond medic cautiously made her way past them to reach her own bunk. No one said a word as she scooted by. At least, not until she was through.
“Whore,” said Max.
Varvara spun around. “What?”
That was all it took to make the whole room react. Every head whipped to the scene.
“I am not a whore!” said Varvara, pointing her finger squarely at Max. Then, before Max could rise to his feet, Viktor was there. The slayer-medic grabbed hold of Max’s collar, slamming him against a bunk. Max punched Viktor back. The street fight began. Grabbing Viktor from behind just as Svetlana stepped in to try and break up the fight, Becan tackled the adulterous slayer to the floor.
“Everyone, stop!” Dostoevsky, wrapped in a towel in preparation for a shower, grabbed Becan by the jersey and tore him off.
Becan maintained his balance. “He started it—”
“Shut up,” Dostoevsky cut the Irishman off, turning to Viktor. The slayer’s lower lip was busted open.
“It was not Viktor,” Varvara said. “He came here to defend me. Max called me a whore.”
“That’s ’cause you are a whore,” Max said.
Surging around Dostoevsky, Viktor charged at Max again. Dostoevsky snagged him by his collar and slung him toward the showers, where he narrowly missed Esther’s wet head.
“The next person who moves—” Dostoevsky caught his own anger. He drew a breath, then turned to his fellow Nightman officer. “Viktor, go to your quarters.”
Viktor’s eyes bore into Max. “Da, commander,” he answered, straightening out his collar and storming for the door.
“Egor, go with him.”
The hulking slayer complied.
As soon as Viktor and Egor left the room, Dostoevsky, still draped in a towel, directed his glare to Svetlana. “Sveta, how did this begin?”
The first look that hit Svetlana was shock. Desperation ensued. “Yuri, please do not make me—”
“Answer me,” he interrupted her. “Now.”
A suffocating silence blanketed the room. From those closest to the scene to those watching from afar, everyone seemed to be holding their breath.
“Don’t,” Max whispered, looking at Svetlana. “Please.”
She shook her head disgustedly. “I cannot lie for you, Max. You have a problem!”
Dostoevsky spoke immediately. “Max, go to the lounge.”
“Veck,” Max muttered.
“Go to the lounge, close the door, and defuse your temper.”
Eyeing Svetlana bitterly, Max disappeared through the lounge door.
“Do you see what you did?” Svetlana asked angrily, turning to the now red-eyed Varvara.
“Sveta…” warned Dostoevsky.
“Do you see what you did to this place?”
“Svetlana Voronova!”
Svetlana flinched, her blue eyes breaking away from her younger blond counterpart.
“Go and tell the captain what happened,” Dostoevsky said.
Throwing down her towel, Svetlana moved away from the bunks toward the front door. She slammed it in her wake.
No one said a thing—no smart aleck remark, no comforting word. Even William abstained from his usual quirky last comment. Awkwardly, the operatives of the Fourteenth ambled away from the scene, some to the lounge, some out of the room completely. Only Varvara and Dostoevsky remained.
After giving Varvara the only look of sympathy she’d received during the whole ordeal, Dostoevsky returned to his curtained shower stall.
The young medic was left alone.
 *
SCOTT SAT FORWARD in his leather chair, hand propped on his chin as he stared at the document before him. It was an official document, one that referenced things Scott knew next to nothing about—medically speaking. Though he hadn’t written the document himself, the ten words that captivated him were his own doing.
…recommends that Jayden Paul Timmons be reinstated to active duty…
Upon learning of Jayden’s original prognosis months earlier—a prognosis that doomed the Texan’s EDEN career—Scott had marched into the doctor’s office and, in no uncertain words, demanded the prognosis be altered. Altered it was, and Jayden was given a second chance in Novosibirsk. To that day, no one but Scott knew the truth behind the reinstatement document. Scott’s run-in with the doctor had been one of his more Nightman-esque moments to date. It might have also been an error. Jayden was still as accurate as ever with a sniper rifle, but did that justify the destruction of a good man? Had Scott left Jayden’s prognosis alone, there would have been no drama with Varvara. More likely than not, she and Jayden would have broken up under the understandable circumstances of distance. Though there was no way Scott could have predicted the events of the infidelity, indirectly, his involvement with Jayden’s reinstatement allowed it to unfold the way it had. He should have just let Jayden go home.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Scott sat up in his chair. He recognized Svetlana’s knock immediately. He also recognized the sound of a problem. Rising and walking to his door, he pulled it open. Indeed, it was Svetlana. And if her narrowed eyes were any indication, then indeed, something was wrong.
“Can I come in?”
Stepping aside, he allowed her to enter, watching as she ran her hand through still semi-damp hair. “What’s wrong?”
Initially, all Svetlana did was shake her head disgustedly. Then the words came out. “Max and Viktor got into a fight.”
“What?”
“In the room. Varya walked by Max, and he called her a whore.” She huffed out a single, pathetic laugh. “She did not respond well. Viktor came over, someone pushed someone, then there was a fight. Yuri broke it up.”
“You’re kidding.”
Her blue eyes met him. “I wish I was kidding. Yuri sent Max to the lounge and had Egor take Viktor to his room. That’s where we stand right now.”
Closing his eyes, Scott massaged his eyelids with his fingers. For four months, order had been maintained despite the unit’s animosity toward the adulterers. So much for that.
“You must remove Viktor, Scott,” said Svetlana. “He will not work here.”
“Wait a minute, Sveta.” It was about to get complicated. “If it went down like you said it did, this isn’t on Viktor.”
She conceded quickly. “Yes, I know, but—”
“No. There are no ‘buts.’ If Max called Varya a whore, then I don’t blame Viktor for retaliating. If someone called my girlfriend a whore, I’d have done the same thing.”
Svetlana gave him pleading eyes. “Please, Scott, just listen for a moment. Unit cohesion is important, right?”
“Of course.”
“Then you must—must—remove Viktor. There will never be cohesion here as long as he is in the unit. Varya should go, too.”
Shaking his head, Scott walked to his desk. “This is ridiculous.”
“Okay, so Varya can stay, whatever! The important thing is that Viktor is gone.”
“I’m not gonna kick a guy out the unit for defending his girlfriend. If Max started this, then Max needs to be reprimanded, not Viktor. We can’t make this a personal issue.”
The blonde growled in frustration. “But this is personal issue! Everyone has a personal problem with Viktor. They have a problem with Varya, too, of course, but she has always been easily manipulated. It is Viktor who caused this entire situation!”
“He didn’t cause Max to call Varya a whore, Sveta.”
Crossing her arms, Svetlana raised an eyebrow. “How do you Americans say? You call it like you see it?”
Scott moaned in frustration.
 *
DOSTOEVSKY SHUT OFF the hot water valve, reducing the showerhead’s steamy spray to a gentle pattering of droplets. The fulcrum slicked back his jet black hair, set his hands on his hips, and sighed. No effort was made to reach for his towel; the sliding trails of water were the only source of motion on his body. Closing his pale blue eyes, he lowered his head.
Besides the tattering of water drops behind Dostoevsky’s shower curtain, no other sounds had emanated from the bunk room over the past ten minutes. Abandoned by the majority of the unit some time ago, a shadow of solitude had been cast across the sleeping area. Reaching up, Dostoevsky snagged his towel from the curtain rod. After rubbing it haphazardly over his head and upper body, the commander tied it firmly around his waist. Sliding his feet into his sandals, he whisked open the curtain to reenter the bunk room. Then he stopped.
She was still there, sitting on her bunk, bent over with her hand cradling her face. Varvara. With the exception of Flopper, whose furry little body lay sadly at her feet, the young medic was alone.
For almost thirty full seconds, Dostoevsky watched her from behind. Beyond the lounge room door, the sound of muffled conversations could be heard. People were present in Room 14—just nowhere near Varvara.
As Dostoevsky walked away from the shower, Flopper looked up at him, the jingle of his name tag sounding loudly in the silence of the bunk room. Beheld only by brown canine eyes, the shirtless fulcrum approached.
Varvara made no outward indication that she heard Dostoevsky draw near to her. She simply sat, one hand resting on her knee while the other covered her eyes, from which drops of saline slowly fell to the floor.
Flopper lowered his head again.
Stillness once again prevailed, until Dostoevsky reached out to set his hand tenderly on her shoulder. He gave her a single squeeze. It was the faintest of gestures, the gentlest expression of compassion. But it said more than words could have. It said, I forgive you for being human.
Nothing else was exchanged between the two. As Dostoevsky resumed his walk to his closet, the only sound in the room was the jingle of Flopper’s name tag as he looked up, then laid down. After donning his Nightman uniform, Dostoevsky left Room 14. Varvara was left to the stillness.
 *
TWENTY MINUTES LATER
SCOTT AND SVETLANA had been arguing for nearly a half hour when a knock at the door interrupted them. Upon answering it, Scott found Dostoevsky standing in the hall. “Hey,” Scott said, motioning for his commander to enter. “I’m glad you came by. Sveta told me what happened.”
Dostoevsky’s eyes met Scott’s for a moment before the commander lowered his head and stepped in. No smile was offered to Scott or Svetlana as Dostoevsky stood between them. When he spoke, his voice was solemn and stern. “I did not come to talk about the fight. I came to talk about Varya.”
Further down the hall but still in the officers’ wing, a second knock occurred. Unlike Dostoevsky’s knocking, however, this knock was anything but firm. It was timid—barely a knock at all. Upon opening his door, Viktor Ryvkin found Varvara standing before him. Immediately, the slayer’s face reddened. Leaning his head into the hall, Viktor looked in both directions. Once their privacy was assured, he grabbed her arm, jerked her inside, and slammed the door.
“What Varya did was wrong,” Dostoevsky said. “No one can deny that. But this is not right.”
“Did you see?” Viktor bellowed, grabbing her face and jerking it face-to-face with his. “Did you see what happened?” He shoved her as hard as he could. She cried as her body hit the wall; she crumpled to her knees. “They treat me this way because of you! They despise me because of you!”
“It does not matter that she is guilty,” Dostoevsky said. “What matters that she is ridiculed and no one defends her. That she cries and no one consoles her.”
With every strike of Viktor’s hand, Varvara’s sobs became less and less defined. Face twisted horribly, she whined with closed eyes, her body curled protectively against the wall.
“No one should feel the hurt that she feels, captain.” Dostoevsky faced Scott fully. “You and I, we took a life to wear the uniforms we wear—I have taken many lives. Varvara broke a heart. Whose sin is worse? Yet we pray for forgiveness while persecuting her. This should not be so.”
“Please…please…” Varvara’s words were barely audible as she lay heaving on the floor, protecting her head with her hands as the beating carried on. Her tear-streaked face reddened with each strike that connected.
“Worthless, hideous woman!”
“I have heard it said that Varya gets what she deserves. What do we deserve, Scott? What do you deserve, Sveta?”
There was nowhere to flee—no one to save her. Varvara’s reprieve rested at the hands of her tormenter, whose bellows blended in with the sounds of his assault.
“Varya needs us now more than anybody else,” Dostoevsky said. “Even more so than Jayden. Jayden has been wronged, but he has his friends. Varya has no one but Viktor. She is hated.”
When the violence finally ceased, what remained was the trembling shell of a woman whose face at one time had been beautiful. Blood trailed from a place where his nails had cut her forehead. Her lips were cracked and split. She looked like a battered corpse. Viktor’s spit was always the last thing to hit her. Over the weeks, she’d grown to anticipate it—to find relief in it.
It meant it was over.
As Dostoevsky’s eyes settled on Scott, a small smile escaped. “She can be saved, Scott.” He nodded hopefully. “I feel it. No one is more ready.” Gesturing briefly with his hand, he seemed on the verge of saying something that he couldn’t quite find the right words for. He gave up and fell back to three he could find. “I feel it.”
Scott and Svetlana swapped looks of culpability, their eyes shifting to the floor beneath sheepishly arched eyebrows. Contrarily, Dostoevsky stood before them with a glow upon his face. It dimmed everything else there. “If you have any compassion for Varya,” he said quietly, “pray for her. Pray that she would see the truth, and that she would be delivered. God has gone after worse.”
Varvara stayed on the floor until Viktor left; he always left when it was over. Summoning just enough pride to push herself up, she rose shakily to her feet.
Over the next hour, the young blond medic would stumble to the sink, wash her face, and comb her hair. She’d cake on makeup that she kept in Viktor’s room for those very occasions. She’d wait for the swelling to go down. Then she’d leave.
Room 14 greeted Varvara with the same cold glares she’d come to anticipate—the kind of glares reserved for women who betrayed their men while they were in the hospital. The kind of glares reserved for whores. No one said a word to her, even as the lights dimmed and the operatives of the Fourteenth laid down their heads. She closed her eyes to the unaccusing sound of silence, and the company of a dog that—for some reason—chose that night to sleep under her bunk. And to three silent prayers, from three people who weren’t even on her mind. Three more prayers than she’d ever had in her life.
Blanketed in numbness, she found sleep.
4
THURSDAY, MARCH 8TH, 0012 NE
0645 HOURS
EDEN COMMAND
HECTOR MENDOZA scanned the T-junction where Command’s central hallway met the judges’ suites. His olive eyes narrowed, the Spaniard waited until he was certain there was no one else present—at least, no one he didn’t approve of. Without turning, he signaled the two men behind him to approach.
Mendoza was EDEN Command’s new security chief. He was darkskinned, even for a Hispanic, with slick curls of black hair and an expression that could shift between charismatic and perverse at a moment’s notice. He was a psychological chameleon, hand-picked for his new role by Judge Carol June herself. The man Mendoza replaced, an Australian named Willoughby, had been unceremoniously shipped off to Sydney. Flanking Mendoza were two other men, Tyson and Givens—his personal deputies.
All three men held elite-issue X-111 chaos rifles. Unlike the 5.56×45mmfiring, gas-operated E-35, the X-111 utilized an atomic piston mechanism and 6.8×43mm “terminal” rounds. It never jammed—never malfunctioned. With subtle elements borrowed from Ceratopian neutron technology, namely the ability to charge ammunition with reverse-gravitational energy, the chaos rifle was more than a force to be reckoned with. It was a living organism’s worst nightmare. Unfortunately for the rest of EDEN, it was a taxpayer’s worst nightmare, too—each chaos rifle cost roughly six million dollars to manufacture. Unless someone was a member of EDEN Command Security or part of an elite unit like Vector Squad, they likely never knew the rifle existed.
Directing Tyson and Givens to stand guard at the two far ends of the hallway, Mendoza positioned himself in front of one of the suites—the one belonging to Benjamin Archer. There, the Hispanic chief waited.
It wasn’t long before a new set of footsteps emerged down the hall. Turning his head, Mendoza watched as Judge Malcolm Blake passed by Givens’ checkpoint, offering the deputy a subtle nod in the process. Blake then set his sights on Mendoza.
Positioning his eye in front of the door’s retinal scanner, Mendoza waited for the chime, then pushed the door open and stepped aside. Each judge and the president had scanners built into their doors, programmed for their unique retinal signatures. A positive scan was the only way the doors could be opened from the outside. The security chief and Intelligence Director Kang were the only men with access to all rooms at EDEN Command.
As soon as Blake was inside, Mendoza sealed the door from the hall, casting a purposeful eye to his two deputies. The hall was secured.
“We have a problem,” Blake said inside Archer’s room.
Archer was standing in front of his stove, pouring a mug of hot tea. He spoke to Blake without looking. “I’m aware of the situation. What’s the latest update?”
The black Briton hesitated. “The ship was assaulted by a ground team from Richmond last night. Richmond acted under the assumption that it had been shot somewhere else and was only crashing near them. There’d been report of a confrontation between a Cruiser and some Superwolves near northern Japan only several hours earlier. We think Richmond thought this was that ship.”
“Were there any survivors?”
“Carol already contacted their Xenobiology lab. There were none.”
Turning around, Archer locked eyes with his British counterpart. Blake submissively lowered his head. “This was supposed to end with H`laar,” Archer said, “but what I find more concerning is that Richmond assaulted it without our approval.”
“I spoke with General Hutchin about that very issue. Apparently this was a new dispatcher. Someone trained him with the old protocol. It’s since been corrected.”
“The one time the rule was broken is the one time it needed to be obeyed,” Archer said.
Blake sighed. “We were fortunate the ground team killed everyone. But what if they hadn’t? It takes one, just one of H`laar’s followers to survive and to speak.”
Archer gazed at the conch lamps on his wall, then sipped his tea. “This is a contest of discipline. We cannot allow ourselves to become blindsided, not by H`laar’s group, not by EDEN, not by anyone or anything. Right now, at this moment in history, we are the most important species in the galaxy as we’ve come to know it. Everything hinges on us. Not on humanity, Malcolm. On us. On you. Me. Kang, Carol, Jason, Hector.” He turned to his desk. “Reiterate to the global network that our new policy must be taught as the new standard—no interceptions, on the ground or in the air, without the express permission of EDEN Command. This incident was a terrible mistake, but it could have been worse. We still control our fate.”
Blake nodded.
“Go.”
Stepping back, Blake turned for the door.
“Oh, one more thing,” said Archer. Blake turned, raising an eyebrow. “The last Vindicator arrived today. That means we’ve met our goal. I have you to thank for that.”
Expression blank, the black Briton asked, “At what point do you plan to tell me why we’re stealing ships from Novosibirsk?”
Archer’s answer came with a smile. “Soon enough, Malcolm.”
The smile was not reciprocated. Nodding in stoic silence, Blake exited the room.
Mendoza was waiting in the hall when Blake stepped out. Pointing his chaos rifle at the ceiling, the Spaniard moved to allow Blake to pass. Without a word, Blake strode down the hall, away from Mendoza and past his deputy’s checkpoint. The three members of the security team eyed one another, before Tyson and Givens returned to Mendoza’s position. Together, they resumed their patrol down the hall.
 *
SHORTLY AFTER
ARCHER MARCHED purposefully through Confinement, passing the low-end holding cells as he made his way toward maximum security. He allowed himself to glance at one cell in particular as he walked by: a cell with a slender—but no longer weak—Bakma inside. Nharassel watched Archer move past him, their eye contact lasting mere moments before the British judge was gone.
Unlike the low-end cell blocks, maximum security was off-limits to all but the highest scientists and officials. They were guarded to the core by security personnel, all of whom had been brought in by the new Chief Mendoza. All security under the previous administration had been transferred or released.
The supervising scientist at maximum security smiled graciously. “Good morning, Judge Archer. I did not expect you today.”
“I need to speak with Henkatha immediately.”
The scientist’s expression shifted. He lowered his voice and kept pace with Archer. “What is wrong, sir?”
“That’s precisely what he’s going to tell me.”
Archer and the scientist continued through maximum security until they reached the final cell on the block—one that only Archer, Kang, and a handful of carefully-selected scientists were permitted to enter. Ceratopian no. 12.
“Lock down this block,” said Archer. “No one else enters. Black out the cell wall.”
“Understood, sir.” The scientist opened the cell door, and Archer stepped inside. The door slid shut behind him, and moments later the glass darkened, blocking out the hallway.
The Ceratopian inside was a tan-skinned specimen, uncharacteristically slender, though not unhealthily so. Its deep brown eyes focused on Archer as it turned its five-horned head to face him. Rising to its feet, the alien spoke. “Archer.” The Ceratopian’s voice, gravelly and guttural, spoke with atypical English clarity. Just the same, the alien’s words were slow to the point of simple-mindedness.
“Good evening, Henkatha.” Glancing behind him, Archer ensured that the cell was both closed and tinted. He faced Henkatha again, all innocence in his tone disintegrating. “What the bloody hell was that?”
The Ceratopian growled lowly. “An error. Nothing else.”
“An error?”
“H`laar’s group was small. We do not know how they got a ship. It is dead now.”
Unlike the Ceratopian’s slow and thought-out words, Archer’s were fast and emotional. “That they’re dead isn’t the problem here. The problem’s the aftermath and potential. Do you have any idea how close this came to direct intervention?”
“I spoke to Conqueror Gu`racch. The ship was from the Armada. They were traitors. He destroyed them. He will destroy all traitors. Like he destroyed H`laar.”
“Henkatha,” Archer said flatly, “it only takes one error to ruin everything we’ve worked toward.”
The Ceratopian snorted softly.
“That H`laar is dead no longer matters. The purpose of killing H`laar was to stop this from happening.”
Henkatha snarled. “They cannot win. We have the Armada. Even if they take one ship, we will win.”
Archer shook his head. “You don’t understand, Henkatha. You must ensure that no one from H`laar’s group even enters our space. Even that is too close.”
“I will tell Conqueror Gu`racch.”
“Good,” said Archer, nodding. “Tell him to attack something, soon, even if it’s someplace obscure. Reinforce that you’re the enemy. Right now this is contained, but it only takes one phone call from a general to the president to ruin years of work. Tell him that.”
“I will.”
Archer allowed himself to smile faintly, just enough to express his approval. Then he stepped back to leave.
“Archer, sir…”
“Yes?”
“Good bye.”
For several seconds, Archer stared at the alien, wearing a trying-tosmile expression that teetered on the edge of genuine pity. Finally, he answered, “Good bye, Henkatha.”
Stepping from the cell, Archer slid his hands into his pockets—his first moment of comfort in hours. The scientist was there to find him.
“Did you get what you needed, sir?”
“I did,” Archer said, lowering his voice. “He needs to speak with Gu`racch again. Make it happen.”
“Yes, sir.”
The two men parted ways.
The rest of Archer’s day passed quickly. No mention was made during the afternoon Council meeting of the Ceratopian vessel, ensuring that the fine details of its crash had gone unnoticed by Pauling and the others—a direct result of having the “right people” in the position of first notification. Carol June was to thank for that.
But this was too close. There could be no more errors. No more carelessness on the part of the Ceratopians—only diligence. That was what Archer needed to fulfill the operation. It was what humanity needed to survive.
5
THURSDAY, MARCH 8TH, 0012 NE
0700 HOURS
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA
PULLING OPEN THE door to General Hutchin’s office, Lilan stepped inside. It was the morning following Falcon Platoon’s mission in Pennsylvania, a morning the colonel had anticipated since returning from the previous night’s mission. He was about to tell the general about his Ceratopian versus Ceratopian suspicion. Delivering new information like that gave Lilan a purpose beyond just training rookies. It made him matter.
Lilan’s relationship with Hutchin had seen its highs and lows over the years and was now resting somewhere in the middle. The colonel hadn’t taken well to having his unit turned into a post-graduate training course, though time had tempered his initial anger. Lilan hoped he wasn’t finally accepting his age, but was aware that it was a sad possibility.
Entwining his fingers atop his desk, Hutchin smiled at the colonel. “I hear you’ve got something for me. Let’s hear it.”
“General, I believe the Ceratopians may be engaged in a civil war.”
It was impossible to become fully accustomed to Lilan’s level of bluntness. The colonel wasn’t one to beat around the bush; he typically ripped the bush up by the roots. Hutchin lowered his spectacles, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Run that one by me again?”
“At the Pennsylvania callout last night, Major Tacker noticed severe hull damage at the rear of the Ceratopian Cruiser, opposite from the side of ground impact. The structural damage was consistent with heavy neutron weaponry. In the initial callout, Command indicated that this was a delayed crash from an earlier encounter. I don’t believe that was the case. I believe another Ceratopian vessel may have shot this one down.”
Hutchin placed his spectacles on the table. For several seconds, he simply stared at the colonel. Finally, he leaned back in his chair. “We’ve fought against these jokers for a decade now, and we’ve seen nothing to indicate a civil war among any species.”
Lilan’s tone lowered. “With all due respect, general, it took ten years to find out that the Bakma and Ceratopians were at war against each other.”
After the initial impact of the statement, the general chuckled. “True.”
“We need to tell EDEN Command about this,” Lilan said. “We need them to investigate, just in case there’s any possibility here of intraspecies combat. Something like that could be groundbreaking.”
“What if it was just friendly fire?”
“Sir, what if it wasn’t?”
Hutchin sighed. “I’m not arguing, I’m just telling you these are the questions Command will ask. Look, if a civil war theory turns out to be true, it could be game-changing. Absolutely, I’ll pass it on to Command. I’m just preparing you for what they’re going to say. Have you mentioned this to anyone else?”
“No, sir. I didn’t want rumors to start. But I know what Tacker and I saw. That was a neutron blast, and it was right by the engine. Someone hit that ship right where they needed to.”
“I’ll get it in Command’s hands today.”
“Thank you, sir.” Lilan stepped back in preparation to leave.
Holding up a hand, Hutchin said, “Not so fast, colonel. I’ve got something for you, too.” Picking up a document from his desktop, he handed it to the colonel. “You’re getting a new rookie from Philadelphia. He comes in Monday.”
Lilan raised an eyebrow. “I’m getting a rookie now? Graduation’s a full month away.”
“Not for this guy.”
Lilan eyed the general then looked at the dossier. He blinked at the very first line. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, it’s serious, colonel. Command wants to be ahead of the game with this one, slip him in under the radar. If they wait until graduation, this place’ll be a media circus. The kid doesn’t need that.”
“Strom Faerber? Falcon is getting Strom Faerber?”
The general nodded. “That’s right.”
“What’d I do to deserve this?”
“Come on, Brent,” answered Hutchin. “This is a big deal.”
Lilan stared at the document. “More like a big distraction.”
“Command wants him broken in slowly. The kid’s dad is the most decorated soldier on the planet. We don’t need anything happening to compromise that, like his son getting shot in the head.”
“Meaning…”
“Meaning he’s a part of Falcon,” Hutchin said, “but not a part of Falcon. Training only, on base, one-on-one with you. Don’t even let your other operatives know he’s there. If there comes a time when he’s ready to accompany them on missions, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. In the meantime, keep him clean.”
Lilan skimmed to the bottom of the document. Everything from grades, to professor remarks, to physical scores, screamed off the charts. Keep the kid clean? What a waste. “I’d say ‘thanks, but no thanks,’ but something tells me I don’t have a choice.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Well, ain’t that a peach?” Returning to attention, Lilan offered General Hutchin a halfhearted salute. It was returned in similar fashion. Without another word, Lilan left for the door.
 *
IT WAS ALMOST 0730 hours when Catalina’s eyelids flickered open. Moaning softly from under her covers, she arched her neck and shoulders back. The motion ended with a sigh.
Tiffany was snoring from the bunk beneath her. The blonde was one of the noisiest sleepers Catalina had ever known. But after two years with Tiffany at Philadelphia, the Canadian was all but used to it by now. Easing down the side of the bunk, Catalina’s feet touched the cold tile floor. Wincing briefly, she crept to her closet.
It was already later than she typically slept. Most of her comrades were probably already in the cafeteria. Slipping on her jersey, Catalina looked in the mirror. “Oh, come on,” she whispered. Leaning close to her reflection, she examined the newly-emerging pimple on the right side of her cheek. “Veck.” She wasn’t a fan of cosmetics, but when it came to pimples, all bets were off. Grabbing her makeup, she began masking the spot. That was one thing about Tiffany that annoyed her—the pilot was immune to acne. It was one of life’s numerous injustices. Satisfied with her efforts, Catalina tied her hair into a ponytail and made for the door.
Catalina had joined Falcon Platoon with the December class of 0011, as had most of her teammates. In the two months she’d been a soldier, she’d crawled up to the rank of beta private. According to the rumor mill, she and Mark Peters were on the verge of a promotion to gamma, a rank she wanted to beat him to at all costs. But as much as Mark was her personal rival, it was a different soldier’s accomplishments that Catalina had her sights on.
His name was Scott Remington. She’d never met him, nor did she care about him outside of one simple fact: he’d accomplished more in a shorter period of time than anyone else in EDEN history. As far as Lilan and Tacker were concerned, Remington was the golden boy of Falcon Platoon. He was a ghost who haunted the unit on a daily basis, someone whose accomplishments they’d repeatedly been encouraged to emulate.
She’d first heard of Remington in Philadelphia, where he’d been the talk of the Academy after the Battle of Chicago. What he’d done was legendary. A soldier, on his first mission, taking charge of a strike team and leading it through hell to claim victory. Everyone had watched his press conference. He’d given every cadet hope that they could make a difference—that any one of them could singlehandedly win the war.
Then he was gone.
She wasn’t sure if it was because he’d merely been a flavor of the week, because something had derailed his career, or because he was dead, but no one ever talked about him again—at least not by name. Of course, the Battle of Chicago was still talked about. But instead of the discussions being about Scott Remington, they were about “that guy who was on his first mission.” Truth be told, she’d forgotten his name, too, until she ended up in his former unit. Until she ended up in his room.
It was Major Tacker who had broken it to her that Room 419, the room she shared with Tiffany, was formerly Remington’s. That was all the coincidence Catalina needed to become totally driven. She wanted to do what he did. She wanted to do it better. After enlisting in EDEN for no good reason at all, chasing the ghost of Remington was the first driving purpose she’d felt. She wanted to catch him more than she wanted to defend Earth. It was egocentric, but it was better than no purpose at all.
According to Tacker, Remington had been transferred to Novosibirsk, one of the larger EDEN bases, located in Russia. Apparently Novosibirsk was where people called Nightmen resided, but she didn’t know much more than that. Novosibirsk was the last that anyone had heard of the alpha private who’d won a Golden Lion. For all practical purposes, he no longer existed. That made him all the more challenging to catch.
The cafeteria was bustling, like always. Everywhere Catalina looked, operatives were beginning their daily routines, eating breakfast with their units and making their way to wherever it was they were scheduled to go. Outside of the lack of creature comforts, life at Richmond wasn’t terribly different from life at Philadelphia. A day could be spent training and studying, with the only significant difference being that at any given moment, your comm could go off and you could find yourself in the middle of a field fighting loose necrilids. Comm calls happened with just enough frequency to prevent a sense of complacency.
Catalina’s Charlie Squad teammates were seated together at one of the central tables, with Tom King and the black operatives several seats down from the whites. There wasn’t outright racial tension in the squad—everyone just seemed satisfied to sit with their own ethnic group. Once she had her tray of food, she approached the table and sat down.
Mark Peters, Leslie Kelly, and Frank Smith were sitting together. The moment Catalina saw Mark, her jaw clenched. She wasn’t over yesterday. Not by a long shot. And despite her desire to join her other friends, he was the last person she wanted to be around. As soon as she sat down, Mark cleared his throat. “Well look who decided to wake up. Morning, Hellcat.”
The nickname was one she’d earned on her first mission. She’d pulled off a fairly incredible long-distance shot against a retreating Bakma during a Noboat assault. She’d tagged the alien square in the back of the head from several hundred meters out. The effort prompted Mark to blurt, “Hell, Cat,” and the moniker stuck. But if he thought throwing out pet names was going to soothe her over right now, he had another thing coming.
“Where’s your blonder half?” Mark asked.
Catalina blatantly ignored him. Looking directly at the other two, she smiled. “Good morning, Leslie Kelly. Frank.”
“Good morning, Cat,” Leslie said. She was the unit’s technician, a young woman who leaned a little on the plump side, with bright eyes and short, almost orange-red hair. She was also the only operative never called by first name alone. Everyone called her Leslie Kelly for the sake of cuteness.
If Leslie Kelly’s name owned the cuteness title, Frank Smith’s owned the generic one. The unit’s medic, he was a fairly boyish young man with a mess of curly brown hair and a smile that was both innocent and goofy. He was well-intentioned.
Of the four of them, Mark was the only one who looked like a prototypical soldier. He had muscles that were defined enough to give him an athlete’s appearance, but not obtrusive enough to make him look like an ox. He looked cocky, from his dark red hair to the seemingly permanent smirk that was plastered on his face. On a good day, she found his smirk alluring. Today was not a good day.
“What? You ignoring me?” he asked.
Catalina swallowed a bite. Her stare remained fixed on Leslie and Frank. “Would one of you kindly inform Mr. Peters that at the moment, he does not exist in my world?”
“Gimme a break,” Mark said. “You gonna do this all day?”
Catalina chewed, saying nothing, with the only indication that she’d heard him being a knowing smile that barely curved up.
“C’mon. Talk to me.”
She pointed at the other two, indicating to Mark that if he intended to communicate, it would have to be through them.
Mark’s expression said lame. He turned to Leslie. “Kindly ask Ms. Shivers if she plans to ignore me for the rest of the day.”
“Catalina,” Leslie said, “Mark would like to know if you plan to ignore him for the rest of the day.”
The Canadian nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“Yes, she does.”
“Well, that’s just great,” said Mark.
Catalina swallowed some orange juice. “You may tell Mr. Peters that, should he choose to confess his shortcomings yesterday, his silent punishment might be rescinded.”
“Mark, should you choose to—”
“I heard her, dingbat.”
“In addition,” said Catalina, “he must apologize to Leslie Kelly for calling her a dingbat.”
Leslie smiled smugly at Mark.
“So guys,” Frank interjected, “last night I read in Tech Weekly—”
“Shut up, Frank,” the other three said simultaneously.
Mark crossed his arms. “Leslie Kelly, I’m sorry you’re a dingbat.”
Catalina cleared her throat sharply.
“I’m sorry I called you a dingbat,” he corrected.
Leslie shrugged. “Semi-accepted.”
“Please express to Ms. Shivers my extreme disappointment in the events yesterday that led to her trepidation,” Mark said.
“Trepidation,” Leslie said. “Nice word choice!”
Catalina leered at Leslie as she took another bite of her breakfast.
“However,” Mark went on, “I cannot apologize for shortcomings I do not have.”
“And here’s where he blows it,” Leslie said, shaking her head.
“Perhaps if Ms. Shivers wasn’t so secretly infatuated with Major Tacker, she wouldn’t unconsciously place herself in situations where he needs to rescue her.”
Catalina glared at him. “Oh, grow up!”
“The vow of silence is broken,” Leslie said solemnly.
“Do you seriously think I would do that to myself so Tacker could rescue me?”
Mark shrugged. “If it looks like a rat, and it smells like a rat…”
“Then it’s probably you,” the Canadian said.
The conversation was interrupted when Donald, Javon, and Leonard approached them. Prior to then, they’d all been sitting together further down the table. “Hey,” Javon said, “y’all interested in goin’ over some close-quarters tactics?”
Mark nodded immediately. “After last night, hell yeah.”
“Big Don’s gonna bring it up wit’ T. See if we can’t get somethin’ set up for next week.”
Donald nodded at the slang reference to Tacker. “T’ll be cool. I’mma talk to him after here.”
Catalina stared quietly at the tabletop as the conversation continued.
“Just let us know when and where,” Mark said.
“A’ight, a’ight.” Javon looked at Catalina for several seconds, her discomfort impossible to miss. “Don’t let King get to ya, Shivs. He wish he could have what you got.”
Mark raised an eyebrow.
“Man don’t know when to keep his mouth shut.”
“What you guys talking about?” Mark asked.
Javon nodded casually. “Jus’ Tom bein’ Tom. Girl walk by, you know he gotta say somethin’.”
“I was walking to the shower,” Catalina finally said, offering Mark a flat stare. “Tom made a remark. It’s not a big deal.”
“Anyway,” said Javon, “I’ll let y’all know what’s what. We go’ head out.”
Mark nodded. “Sounds good, man.”
The three black men left. Silence prevailed after they were gone as Mark eyed Catalina suspiciously. Finally, it got to her. “What?”
“You didn’t tell me anything happened last night.”
She rolled her eyes, then stood up. “I was mad at you.”
“Hey, don’t leave!”
“I’m making a waffle, Mark.” Turning away, the Canadian disappeared through the crowded cafeteria. After tapping his fingers and bouncing his legs for several seconds, Mark pushed his chair back, stood up, and went after her.
Leslie observed his departure as she munched on her omelet. “Yeah,” she said with half a mouthful, “they’re getting married one day.”
“So anyway,” said Frank, “about that thing in Tech Weekly…”
Leslie rolled her eyes.
Catalina’s focus was solely on her waffle, its scent filling the air around her. Hands resting on the counter, she intentionally tried to ignore everything else. Unfortunately, everything else wasn’t ignoring her. She sensed Mark behind her before he even touched her. The hairs on her neck bristled as his lips hovered just above them. It was impossible for her to keep her eyes open.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, placing a kiss on her skin. She quietly exhaled. “I was wrong last night.”
It wasn’t the first time Mark had kissed her—or gone considerably farther with her, for that matter. Their relationship was both dynamic and conflicting, a constant flux between heated rivalry and recreational… something. Or maybe more than something. She didn’t know. Mark was hard to figure out, and if she was being honest, she wasn’t quite sure she knew how she felt about him, either. At times, she felt close to him. At other times, the mere sight of him raised her blood pressure. They had a certain chemistry. It just tended to be flammable.
“This isn’t even about last night, is it?” She spoke softly despite the seriousness of her words. “This is about Tom.”
“I don’t want Tom messing with you. I want you to tell me when he does.”
“So you’ll what? Get in a fight?”
He was silent for a moment. “If I have to.”
“He made a remark. That’s just what he does.”
“Not to you.”
Catalina turned around. “You really upset me last night. You left me behind. You assumed I’d be okay—you assumed. Is that all I’m worth? An assumption?”
“Cat…”
“No, Mark, I need you to listen.” When he fell quiet, she continued. “I want you to be there. That’s it. I don’t want you to leave me behind while you go off saving the day.” It was a dual-purpose statement. She wanted to feel worth something to him. She also didn’t want him stealing any potential thunder. As to which part bore more weight, she wasn’t quite sure.
“Cat, we’re soldiers.”
“I know we’re soldiers. We’re the best damn soldiers on this team. But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with you leaving me behind. What’s that translate to off the battlefield?”
His expression became annoyed.
“That’s why I’m upset. If you left me behind there, will you leave me behind here?”
“Not two weeks ago, I asked you straight up if you loved me, and you told me no,” he said. “Now what the hell is this?”
“Forget love, I’m not even talking about love. I’m talking about trust.”
“It’s burning.”
She looked at him strangely. “What?”
“Your waffle. It’s burning.”
Turning around, Catalina looked at the waffle. Gray smoke was rising from the machine as a burnt odor hit her nostrils. “Veck!” She lifted the lid, exposing the char beneath. Grabbing a spatula, she pried the burnt waffle from the maker. She switched the device off. “Nice job, Cat,” she mumbled to herself. Discarding her would-be breakfast in the garbage, she turned around.
Mark was gone.
Placing her hands on her hips in frustration, Catalina scanned the cafeteria. He was nowhere to be seen—not even at the table. He’d made his exit. “This is why I don’t love you,” she said disgustedly. “If you wanted to know.”
Catalina eventually did get her waffle, at which point she collected herself and walked back to the table. Leslie and Frank were still there, engaged in what sounded like a fairly technical discussion about medical scanners. Before too long, Tiffany joined them, and the conversation became much more frivolous. They discussed everything from the previous night’s mission, to the training Javon was attempting to organize, to how Tiffany could stomach eating an omelet with ketchup. They discussed everything a unit full of young people should.
Mark’s name never came up.
6
MONDAY, MARCH 12TH, 0012 NE
0707 HOURS
NOVOSIBIRSK, RUSSIA
FOUR DAYS LATER
ITS TEN FINGERS—talonless, crimson-purple claws—curled purposefully around the bar over its head. Tightening firmly, its wrists and forearms hardened. Amid the quivering of focused breathing, the alien pulled itself off the ground.
“Kaat.”
Exposed abdominal muscles tensed as the motion was repeated.
“Kaat-ya.”
And again.
“Kaanis.”
So far as captives were concerned, the Bakma was a marvel. The heaping muscles of its upper and lower back constricted then released as the upward and downward motions continued.
“Kyotaana. Kyonassa. Nek`raa.”
Behind the Bakma, the cell door slid open. Releasing the bar, the alien landed in a solid crouching position, one hand touching the floor as it slowly turned around.
Scott had been watching Tauthin since the workout began, unbeknownst to the alien until then. He admired Tauthin. To see the once frail and lifeless alien returning to its former condition was both satisfying and motivational. Tauthin was the only specimen in Confinement whose cell had a custom-built pull-up bar, installed by Petrov and his scientists at Scott’s request. It was the only piece of equipment Tauthin had, and apparently the only one that he needed.
“Good morning, Tauthin,” said Scott as he stepped into the cell.
“Gaad muhnig, Remata.”
“This is Esther.”
Behind Scott, the British scout stepped into the cell. Her hesitant brown eyes met Tauthin’s.
Prior to Scott’s more intimate study of the Bakma species, he—like many—had assumed all Bakma eyes were black. It wasn’t until he’d sat across from Tauthin face-to-face that he discovered the alien’s eyes were a dark shade of violet. According to Tauthin, Bakma eyes came in several shades of purple, blue, green, brown, and of course, black itself. The shades were so faint, at least to humans, that they all appeared black without careful scrutiny. Through the eyes of the Bakma, the shades were much more discernible.
Scott had also grown accustomed to the Bakma’s unique smell. The species had a musky odor, not unlike the smell of wild game, though undeniably more potent. Initially, it had been stomach-turning, though now the odor was almost pleasantly familiar to Scott. He wasn’t nearly as affected by it as his comrades.
Tauthin cocked his head curiously as Esther approached him. He then looked at Scott.
Scott understood the root of Tauthin’s confusion. The alien had never seen a human of darker skin. Despite Esther’s fairly light complexion for an African-Briton, she would still look quite different from what the alien was used to, especially in a pale environment like The Machine.
As soon as Esther was within sniffing distance, she crinkled her nose, deepening the lines on her face. “He smells utterly disgusting.”
“Yeah, well you probably smell bad to him, too.”
“Why is he staring at me like that?”
Scott sighed heavily. “He’s never seen a black person. He hasn’t seen many women, either. Now calm down.”
“If he starts feeling me up, Scott, I swear to God—”
“Good grief, Ess, he’s an alien, not a sex offender.” Taking hold of her arm, Scott tried to push her closer; she dug in her heels. “Tell him your name.”
“You already told him my name.”
“I want you to tell him your name.”
“But I don’t want to tell him my name.”
Scott eyed her warningly.
“Fine!” Shoving Scott away, Esther looked flatly at Tauthin. “Esther. My name is bloody Esther.”
Tauthin looked her over. “Blaady Estaar.”
Her face deadpanned. “Not bloody Esther. Just Esther!”
“Well, you told him bloody Esther, so now you’re bloody Esther,” said Scott, shaking his head. “That’s just terrific.”
“No!” she glared in retort. “It’s creepy enough having a Bakma saying my name, let alone attaching a bloody to it.”
“Then act like an adult and tell him again.”
Grumbling under her breath, the scout eyed Tauthin again. “My name is Esther.”
The Bakma slowly nodded. “Estaar.”
“No. My name is Esther.”
“Estaar.”
“Es-ther. Esther. Not Estaar, with this big aar in it. Esther.”
Scott rolled his eyes. “He didn’t come from Cambridge, Ess, he’s an alien. Estaar is fine. It’s closer to your name than Remata is to mine.”
“Vilaash Tauthinilaas,” said Tauthin.
“Tauthinilaas,” Esther repeated. “I can say that just fine, and he can’t say Esther without sounding like a sodding pirate?”
“Not even Sveta complained this much.”
Esther made a face. “Oh, I’m sure she loved it. I saw her patching up that purple chimp on the battlefield—she’s a proper sympathizer. By the way, I killed more than a few on that mission. Did you care to notice that?”
“Ess…”
“Just pointing out the obvious. Where’s the bloody gray? I want to get this over with.”
The gray Esther was referring to was Ei`dorinthal, or Ed as those in Confinement called him. He was an Ithini of fairly cooperative nature, so far as the typically bull-headed Ithini were concerned. Ed was the whole reason Esther was there.
Ever since the incident in the forests—Scott’s negotiation with a Bakma via Ithini connection and the subsequent rescue of Captain Gabriel and Pelican Squad—he’d been determined to have each member of the Fourteenth connect with an Ithini in the safety of Novosibirsk Confinement. Scott’s first connection had made him violently ill, resulting in his passing out on the battlefield. The thought of any of his operatives losing their awareness, and their stomachs, due to an unexpected Ithini connection was too big a risk. One by one, he’d been bringing members of the Fourteenth into Confinement to experience a connection for the first time. It had taken Scott only two connections with Tauthin to completely rid himself of all ill effects. Now, his connections were seamless.
Despite the fascination Scott felt in sharing a mental bridge with an alien, not all of his comrades had been thrilled about the prospect. Esther had been one of his staunchest holdouts. On a day when Scott wanted nothing more than to distract himself from the drama of Viktor and Varvara, the prospect of breaking Esther in had all the fun potential of a grade school field trip.
Behind them, Ed the Ithini marched obediently into the cell. He was what the chief scientist, Petrov, called an IB—an Ithini captured with the Bakma. According to Petrov, they differed greatly in intelligence and personality from ICs—those captured with Ceratopians.
Ed may have been a cute moniker, but there was nothing cute about Ei`dorinthal. IB or IC, he was an Ithini nonetheless. Vast intelligence. Prone to vagueness. More prone to near-comatose despondency. The Ithini brain was an evolving, booby-trapped riddle. Even for a particularly cooperative specimen, such as Ed, deciphering the motivations and thought processes of any Ithini was a lesson in frustration. IBs were just the watered-down variety.
Attached to the head of every captured Ithini—from Novosibirsk to Sydney—was a small cluster of wireless electrodes. Their purpose was simple: detect when the Ithini were using their telepathy. The section of their brain that controlled telepathy was under constant surveillance in the event that a captured Ithini attempted to conspire with fellow inmates. Whenever that section of their brain came to life, it registered on a computer console. If the activity was unpermitted, the Ithini was dealt with—harshly.
As Ed neared them, Esther’s breathing increased. Scott placed his hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right. You’re braver than this.”
“I don’t want my thoughts read,” she said, her voice shaking. “I don’t want to do this!”
“It’s okay.” He squeezed her softly. “Just stay calm—Ed’s not going to violate anything. He’s just going to let you and Tauthin understand one another.”
Wiping sweat from her forehead, she drew a deep breath. “Get it over with! Let’s just get it over—” Suddenly, she froze.
A quick glimpse to Ed revealed the cause of Esther’s rigidness. The Ithini’s eyes were wide, focused. Just like that, Esther and Tauthin were connected.
“Taku`ush nakai,” said Tauthin gruffly, tilting his head toward the scout. “Nuka’resh tavidaash da naas`dak shanuun, baka?”
It was an odd place for Scott to be, in the role of observer, having no idea what the foreign language meant, though knowing that the connection brought understanding to the connected. He watched Esther closely.
She swallowed and answered the alien. “I don’t know. It’s not about you. Can you even understand this?”
“Gaas,” Tauthin said, nodding. “Nekiish tu-kish la daklaar’ash vaelan.”
“This is so weird.” Esther’s words weren’t intended for the Bakma—they’d just been blurted out. “I feel it somewhat, I think. I can’t tell if…” Her expression suddenly changed. Disorientation was setting in. “Oh…”
Scott knew the sensation Esther was feeling. It was as uncomfortable an experience as he’d ever been through. Esther’s hand swayed out, as if to steady herself. Scott grabbed her arm in support. “It’s all right. It’s normal.”
“Nikaata`shto. Dukkenaash viraash kan?”
The scout glared at the alien. “No, I’m not a different species!”
“Vikoosh ka.”
Grabbing Scott’s jersey, Esther leaned into his chest. “I think…I think…”
Scott already knew. “Bucket! I need a bucket!”
The scout began to gag.
“Don’t puke on me, Brooking.”
One of the scientists rushed into the cell, a wastebasket in hand. It was immediately set on the floor.
Esther wasted no time. Leaving Scott’s grasp, she collapsed to the floor and stuck her head in the wastebasket. The vomiting began.
Scott was surprised at how quickly Esther had lost it. I’m glad she did this now. This could have killed her in combat. Her vulnerability was concerning for more reasons than one. During several connections with Tauthin, Scott had caught Ed trying to dig deep into his thoughts. Perhaps it was nothing more than innocent curiosity, as all it took for Ed to relent was a sharp look from Scott. Nonetheless, it was a reminder to Scott that in the grand scheme of things, Ed—or any alien—couldn’t be trusted.
Tears flowed down Esther’s cheeks. Her face was several shades paler.
“All right,” Scott said, kneeling beside her. “You did good.”
“I hate you, Scott Remington,” she cried.
Scott handed her a handkerchief. “I know you do.” Different operatives had different willpowers when it came to connections. Scott had actually been one of the more strong-willed. As violent as his reaction to his first connection had been, the fact that he’d lasted as long as he had before passing out was a testament to his mental fortitude. Not everyone who experienced these connections passed out, but everyone did throw up at some point. According to Ed, the longer one was able to resist the impulse to vomit, the more resistant their mental state was. Though Scott hadn’t been keeping a record, he couldn’t remember anyone who’d vomited as quickly as Esther.
The Briton swayed back and forth on her knees. “I don’t care if everyone else does this ten times, I am never doing this again! Ohhh…”
Looking at Tauthin, Scott motioned at the alien’s cot. “Can she lie down?”
The Bakma cleared the way. “Gaas.”
“His germs will be on it,” Esther protested.
“Shut up and get on the bed.”
Swaying to her feet, Esther made her way to Tauthin’s cot. Climbing atop it, she curled into the fetal position.
Scott felt Ed’s connection prick at his mind. He and Tauthin were linked.
“Our connection was insignificant,” Tauthin said. “From all other connections with your people, I have learned. With her, I learned nothing.” He looked at Scott. “Why is her skin dark? Is she ill?”
Scott sighed. “She’s a different race in our species.” This had the potential to be an awkward conversation, especially considering that Esther was lying right there. “Her race has darker skin.”
“Does she differ biologically?”
“It’s all aesthetic,” Scott answered. “Biologically, we’re the same.”
Tauthin grunted. “You share this trait with the Golathoch. We have no such variations.” He stared at Esther, then looked back to Scott. “Have you procreated with this one?”
That was one Scott hadn’t expected. “What? No, we haven’t procreated!”
Esther groaned. “This day could not get any worse.”
Time to change the subject. “We took another survivor. He said his name is Wuteel.” Scott looked across Confinement. Wuteel was standing alone in his cell, opaque eyes fixated on the events in Tauthin’s cell.
“It is an engineer’s name,” said Tauthin. “It is common.”
During the months Scott had spent talking to Tauthin, he’d learned several unique aspects of Bakmanese culture. Bakma names were apparently assigned several years after birth, according to whatever function the Bakma child would fulfill. As for any deeper explanation, such as what children were called prior to receiving a name, and why the only name functions Scott had ever heard of had been militaristic, Tauthin had given no answer. An answer was given, however, for Tauthin’s own name, Tauthinilaas. It was a name assigned to operational lords—the equivalent of human captains. Tauthin had been destined for leadership since being a child.
For as much as Scott had learned about Tauthin personally, he’d learned very little of grand-scheme significance. In areas of the Alien War, Tauthin refused to disclose information. He’d learned nothing of Noboats and their chameleon technology. He’d learned nothing of plasma-based weaponry, or the specific role of the Ithini, or the origin of the canrassi or necrilid. For those failures, he blamed mostly himself. He rarely pushed for information when it wasn’t willfully provided.
“Few species fight alongside females,” said Tauthin, staring at Esther. “Are they comparable as implements of war?”
At Tauthin’s initial remark, Scott smiled slyly. Whether the Bakma realized it or not, it had tipped Scott off to something. It had acknowledged an awareness of multiple species, presumably beyond the Ithini and Ceratopians.
“They are,” Scott answered. He resisted the urge to be chauvinistic. “Some are superior.” Tanneken Brunner came to mind, as did Esther herself. “Esther’s superior to many.” At mention of her name, the scout’s head turned a little. “How many species do you know, Tauthin?”
Tauthin growled lowly—an all-too-human sign of frustration. “More than you have seen.”
“Tell me one I haven’t seen.”
Tauthin’s cheekbones shifted to protrude upward. It was one of many Bakmanese expressions that Scott had discovered. It was a sign of irritation.
Scott felt the need to press, ever so gently. “Tell me one that fights with females, like we do. I just want a name.” Tauthin had already slipped up in acknowledging their existence. A name to go with it couldn’t hurt.
Tauthin’s answer was grudging. “The Nerifinn.”
“The Nerifinn fight with females?”
“Their warriors are all females.”
This was good. For the first time since he’d rescued Tauthin from the Walls of Mourning, he was actually getting some sort of answer. It had taken a slipup on Tauthin’s part to initiate it. “Tell me about them. Tell me what they look like. How do you know them?”
“These things, I cannot disclose.”
“Why can’t you disclose them? Because you aren’t allowed to?” That would mean the Bakma themselves were subservient to someone else.
“Inquire no deeper, Remata.”
How could he not inquire deeper? Ever since his Bakma negotiation months earlier, Scott had been searching for answers. Ever since those four words had been imprinted in his mind: interference, indication, allegiance, and judgment. Those were the four mystery words he’d been left with during the negotiation in the woods. We will bring you to Khuldaris. That phrase, too, had been spoken to him. What or who was Khuldaris?
Scott had never brought up that negotiation in the woods with Tauthin. He’d never felt an appropriate time to reveal it. That time might have been now. “I have to inquire deeper, Tauthin.” Even the Bakma would have to understand the power of curiosity. “Asking questions is what makes our species grow.”
“In due time, you will know all things.”
Scott made his decision. The revelation card was played. “What is Khuldaris?”
Tauthin’s whole body tensed. His gaze snapped to Scott, then behind him to Ed. Instantly, the connection was severed.
“No!” Scott said at the sudden cut off. “Come on, Tauthin, talk to me!”
An intense dialogue began between an animated Tauthin and Ed.
“Makaash da`ra`vaash!” the Bakma snarled.
“Jesjabai ya!”
“Makaash da`ra`vaash!”
As soon as Tauthin said the words, Scott felt the prick again. Ed was in his mind. But not for a connection. Memories suddenly flashed through Scott’s conscious.
“You are unlike the warriors called EDEN.”
The Bakma was referring to the Nightmen. To hear the Bakma refer to human military factions was…strange.
“We are to bring you to Khuldaris, where you will be evaluated.”
The minute Scott realized what was happening, he shot the Ithini a look of pure fury. Ed had searched his memory banks. Now that made Scott mad.
Tauthin glared at Scott as their connection was reestablished. “You have connected with other Bakma. Why have you not told me?”
“Did you just tell him to scan me?” Scott asked, his voice rising.
“Answer the question, Remata.”
“Did you just tell him to scan me?”
Several scientists and guards hurried to the cell. The guards readied their weapons; Scott kept them at bay.
“You toy with knowledge you should not possess,” bellowed Tauthin. “You seek answers for questions you should not know to ask. The things taking place all around you have been set in motion long before our arrival—we were but the thunder. To ask further of me is to betray my purpose. I am your enemy, sworn, ordained. I will not disclose to you things you were not meant to understand. Your presence here now is in error.”
“Was it an error for me to take you alive during the assault?” Scott asked. “Was it an error to save you again when I could have let you die shamefully in the torture room?”
“You know nothing of shame, Earthae.”
Throwing his hands up, Scott said, “I’m not trying to be your enemy, Tauthin, I’m trying to understand you. I’m trying to make us understand each other!”
Tauthin’s cheekbones were on the verge of coming through his skin. “Understanding is inconsequential! Your world will fall as all worlds have fallen—as all worlds will fall. You will be judged as all have been judged.”
“As who has been judged?”
“As we have been judged!”
As they had been judged. They—the Bakma. Suddenly, Tauthin grew quiet.
“You’re subservient, aren’t you?” asked Scott. Tauthin’s eyes shifted to Ed; Scott shot the Ithini a look. “Don’t you dare sever this, Ed.” He looked at Tauthin again. “Your species was judged. You lost the judgment.”
Tauthin looked away.
“Who judged you?”
The scientists and guards watched in silence, their understanding limited to Scott’s half of the exchange. Esther, sitting upright on Tauthin’s cot, sat wideeyed.
Tauthin said nothing.
“Who judged you, Tauthin?” Scott asked again.
The Bakma’s breaths had slowed, but were still intense. His bulging eyes stayed fixed on the corner.
“Is that what’s happening to us?” Scott asked him. “Are we being judged, too?”
“The Nerifinn will declare the coming,” Tauthin said. “Your world will fall, as our world has fallen—as their world has fallen. All worlds will fall until the War of Retribution.”
“The War of Retribution?”
“Surrender and be destroyed. Resist and be sustained. You will herald the Golathochian Subjugation.”
Information overload. Impossible to process. “Who is doing the judging, Tauthin?”
“I will not answer.”
“Are you afraid to answer?”
“I will not answer.”
Scott refused to accept that. “You’re not a slave anymore. You can talk to me—nobody will hurt you.”
“Sever the link,” Tauthin ordered Ed.
“Ed, don’t listen—”
“Sever the link, slave!”
The connection was cut.
“Veck!” Scott spun away in disgust.
“Thay aah thiigs yu cahnnach undaastahnd, Remata.”
Scott didn’t want to hear it—not anymore. He’d been so close to getting the full answer. So close. Maybe closer than anyone before. “Esther, can you walk?”
The Briton groggily pushed up. “I think so…”
“Hang on.” Walking to the cot, Scott scooped Esther up in his arms. She clung to his neck.
“Thech tiim weel comach,” said Tauthin behind them. “I cahn spaech no moch.”
The time would come. He could speak no more. Scott had become accustomed to the alien’s butchered English. “You told me a lot, Tauthin. And all of it was by accident.” Snapping his fingers at one of the scientists, he ordered the alien’s cell closed. He’d had enough.
The whole while Scott walked through the halls, Esther remained firmly clung to his neck. The scout’s brown eyes fluttered between focused and half-dazed.
To say Scott had a lot to digest was a ridiculous understatement. The Nerifinn. Subservience. Something called the War of Retribution. Surrender and be destroyed? Resist and be sustained? It was too much at once—yet ironically not as much as he’d hoped to hear.
Whatever veil of secrecy Tauthin was operating beneath, it was clear that the only answers Scott was going to receive would be those conveyed by accident. That frustrated Scott to no end. He wanted Tauthin to trust him. Just once, he wanted to hear, “As you wish, Remata. Here is the truth.” Then again, if it were that easy, humanity would have had their answers long ago.
Esther tugged herself closer. “We should talk about this. About what he said.”
Scott absolutely agreed. “Let’s just get you some rest.” Up until that point, Scott had kept his extraterrestrial musings to himself. His discoveries about the Bakmanese psyche and personality. The small bits of information he’d gleaned. And the phrase not spoken by a Bakma that had haunted him for months.
Dar Achaar veraatat dech. Dar Achaar veraatat Rumigtaah.
They were the words spoken by H`laar, the Ceratopian he’d captured during the battle on the tundra. Though the message was probably never intended for Scott, it was clear that H`laar had tried to make it personal. Since then, Scott had asked Bakmas, Ceratopians, Ithinis, and scientists. None of them had heard the phrase H`laar had uttered before.
“I want to help you,” said Esther, her eyelids flickering drowsily.
“You can help me.” The itch was there again. It always came when he learned new information. More than ever, Scott wanted to know what this war was about. In honoring the interests of Sergei Steklov—the young man Scott had murdered—he’d inadvertently discovered a passion of his own. Xenorelations. Untangling the web of the Alien War. And it was time to involve the Fourteenth.
Shortly after dropping off Esther, Scott informed the Fourteenth that there was to be a unit-wide meeting that evening about the events of Confinement—one that was voluntary. One for those who wanted to be involved.
But first, Scott had something else to take care of—something of critical importance. Something that could wait no more.
7
MONDAY, MARCH 12TH, 0012 NE
1300 HOURS
“DOOR’S OPEN,” Scott said, looking up from his notebook—preparatory scribbling for the meeting later that night. “Come on in.”
His door creaked open as Jayden stepped inside. The Texan removed his cowboy hat and closed the door behind him.
In the moments that Jayden’s back was turned, Scott scrutinized his body. Jayden still looked so frail, like he was sickly or anorexic. Even when he faced Scott again, the shallowness of his facial structure was striking. His good eye was sunken in. He was a different human being.
“Come sit down, Jay.”
Slowly, perhaps hesitantly, Jayden stepped farther in. He sat across from Scott, setting his hat on the table.
“How you holdin’ up?” It was a general question. Scott would let Jayden take it any way that he wanted.
For several moments Jayden said nothing, his good eye remaining fixed on his hat. Then he spoke. “Aw’right.”
“Good,” Scott said, nodding casually. “Now tell me how you’re really holding up.” Jayden sighed and leaned back. Scott, in contrast, leaned forward. “Talk to me, man. You haven’t been yourself. You’ve got us all worried.”
There was a look of defiance in Jayden’s eye, even as it stared at the side wall. He said nothing.
“Help me help you. No one wants to see you like this.”
“Then tell ’em not to look.”
It wasn’t an answer typical of Jayden. At least not of who he used to be. It was snappy. Not like the soft-spoken sniper at all. “See, this is what I’m talking about. This isn’t who you are.”
The Texan looked away disgustedly.
“Hey—look at me,” Scott said, his voice firming. “Don’t look away while I’m talking.” If there was a weakness to Scott’s leadership style, it was his tolerance with his friends. Rarely did he enforce the rules of formality. He was just as happy to be called “Scott” as he was “sir.” But there were still occasional times when rank had to be pulled. This was verging on one of them. “I know she hurt you. I know Viktor hurt you.”
“You don’t even understand,” Jayden said.
“You really don’t think I understand?”
“No, you don’t.”
“Jay, my fiancée was murdered.”
The Texan grew firm. “And look where you are now.”
Scott cocked his head. Look where he was now? Of all the things Scott had anticipated hearing, that wasn’t one of them.
“You had ’er taken from you,” Jayden said, “and that was really bad. But she got taken. She didn’t leave.”
Scott’s heart sunk a bit. He now knew what Jayden meant.
“I woulda done anything for Varvara. I’d’a killed for ’er. But instead, I got dumped while I was in the hospital. And I know it’s different, and I know what you went through was different, but at least now you have Sveta.
“I wish I’d’a died. Viktor saved me, then he killed me when he took ‘er. I hate him. You don’t even know.” He slouched back in his chair. “I had him in my crosshairs that last mission, and I almost pulled the trigger. But I can’t kill a man who saved my life. I hate that about myself.”
“No,” Scott said firmly, “don’t hate that about yourself. Admire that about yourself. That means you’re a good person.”
“If I’m a good person, why’d she leave?”
Because she’s an idiot. “If Varvara thinks she’s better with Viktor than you, then she doesn’t deserve you. Jay, you’ve got to let this go.”
“I don’t wanna let it go!”
“You have to.” Scott was pleading now. “I need you here. I can’t run this ship without you. I need you to be the rock you’ve always been.” It wasn’t true in the literal sense. Scott had run the Fourteenth fine while Jayden was out of commission. It still felt like the right thing to say.
There was a knock at Scott’s door. A soft knock, a Svetlana knock. Doggone it, Sveta, why show up now of all times? Scott’s tone indicated his displeasure. “Come in.”
Svetlana slipped inside. “I looked over Esther—” She covered her mouth upon seeing Jayden. “Oh! I am so sorry!” She eased back through the doorway. “Would you like me to…?”
“Naw,” Jayden said, standing up. “I was just about to go.”
Scott eyed Jayden warily. The Texan was taking advantage of his first chance to leave, and both men knew it. But only one of them cared.
Svetlana’s face fell. Frowning in apology, she stepped out of Jayden’s way.
“Jay,” said Scott. The sniper stopped by the door. “Don’t forget what I said.”
Without a word, Jayden walked out the room, leaving the door open for Svetlana to close herself. As soon as she had, she closed her eyes, pressed her forehead, and fell back against its frame. “Scott, I am so sorry.”
Scott was frustrated, even though he knew it was wrong to be. Svetlana had no idea that Jayden was there. She wasn’t to blame for bad timing.
“Did I ruin it?” she asked, barely opening her eyes to peek at him.
He exhaled slowly. “No.”
“I ruined it…”
“You couldn’t have known.” Approaching her, he drew her into a hug. She surrendered into his arms. “You didn’t make him this way.” Varvara and Viktor were to blame for that one. Dostoevsky had made a good case for sympathizing with Varvara, but it was hard not to hate her after seeing Jayden like this. Her imprint was clear. “What’d you come to tell me?”
Leaning back, she blew her hair from her face. “I looked over Esther again. I moved her to Yuri’s room—he agreed to let her rest there. Room 14 is not a good place to sleep during the day.”
“She gonna be okay?”
“Yes. She just needs to rest. Did she do okay with the connection?”
Laughing sadly, Scott shook his head. “She didn’t last long at all. I think she was the most susceptible person out of everyone—she threw up thirty seconds in.”
Svetlana smiled. “I threw up, too, you know.”
“You did better than her, I can tell you that.” Svetlana had held a decent conversation with Tauthin before upchucking—she’d left the alien impressed.
“Mmm,” she purred.
“What?”
She crinkled her nose. “It is nice to be better than her at something.”
“You’re better than Esther at a lot of things.”
She couldn’t hide her wry smile. “If you say so.”
The two women were prone to these competitive games. Scott didn’t mind, as long as it didn’t interfere with their work.
“So, how did it go with Jayden?” Her tone shifted to concern. “Did he talk to you?”
“Not a whole lot. He’d just gotten here a minute before you did.”
Her frown deepened. “Scott, I am so sorry. I didn’t know.”
Scott smiled, moving her hair from her face. “We’ll figure Jayden out. We’ll get him back.”
“What if we don’t?” Svetlana asked as she sat on his bedside.
It was a familiar place for her to perch, and Scott instinctively sat down beside her. Leaning back against his pillow, he left his uniformed chest in open invitation. “We will.”
Svetlana leaned against him, her head resting sideways as she nestled against his chest. It was a blurry place between friendship and something else. Neither of them ever spoke of the closeness’s significance. It was just comfortable.
“There is always something,” she said softly. “First it was the arrival of four arrogant Americans.” Her words were lighthearted, though her tone fell serious again. “Then it was Tolya. Then Nicole. Then everything else…”
Scott looked at his nightstand. She was still there—that beautiful brunette—smiling at him even as Svetlana lay intimately close. Nicole never judged him. That task was left to Scott himself.
“And now it is this,” Svetlana whispered.
I’m sorry, Nikki. This should have been you. Guilt was a fickle thing. It came at the most inconvenient times. Perhaps that was how it was meant to work.
“When will there be peace? When will we wake up and everything will be well?”
Lying close to Svetlana wasn’t cheating. It wasn’t wrong. She was hurting, just like he was. This was life. “I don’t know,” he answered. “When the war’s over. Or when we die.”
She smiled. “Such an optimist.” Then she looked at him, and her oceanblue eyes followed his gaze. All the way to Nicole. The smile faded from her face.
Scott didn’t try to look away, to avert his focus from Nicole back to Svetlana. It would have been pointless. Instead, he allowed his gaze to linger before closing his eyes and wrapping his arms around the woman who was there, offering a gentle squeeze that both apologized and expressed hope that she’d understand.
Svetlana laid her head down in silence.
These were the moments that hurt, even more than any drama in the Fourteenth. Emotions, feelings. Nothing stabbed worse.
“I am here to support you, Scott,” she said softly. “If life had been different…maybe I would be here for something else. But if life had been different, maybe we would never have met.” She nestled in close. “She will always be your love.”
For the next fifteen minutes, neither of them spoke. Svetlana’s head remained on Scott’s chest, his hands on her back—but that was as far as they went. It was as far as they ever went.
Eventually, Svetlana rose from his bed and made her departure for Room 14. Scott was left to prepare for his meeting.
 *
TAUTHIN WAS KNEELING on the floor next to his cot, his talonless claws cupped together as he stared at the wall. He had been alone since his meeting with Scott. Though the alien’s emotions had died down, his posture was anything but relaxed. If anything, the Bakma looked tense.
His reverie was ended by the sound of his cell opening again. Instinctively rising, Tauthin turned to face the visitor. As soon as he saw who it was, he froze.
Beneath the shadowed rim of his visor cap, Ignatius van Thoor’s beady eyes stared the alien down. Ed the Ithini stood submissively at the general’s side, as the whole of the science staff watched timidly behind them. After several seconds of silence, Thoor spoke. “Do you know who I am?”
Ed’s connection relayed the words to Tauthin. The Bakma hesitated. “You are the lord of this fortress.”
“I am.” Clasping his hands behind his back, Thoor walked inside. “You are called Tauthinilaas. Is that correct?”
Tauthin remained rigid, his opaque eyes following the general’s march. “Yes.”
“You previously resided in our torture chamber. Do you remember that?”
Once again, a pause of reservation. “Yes.”
“Good.” Raising his chin, the Terror immediately began. “What is the War of Retribution?”
Tauthin’s muscles, already tense, went even more rigid. He stared at Thoor uneasily.
Thoor simply waited, staring patiently at the captive with his hands clasped together and his chin upright. No effort was made to ask the question again. The general’s bargaining chip had already been played. There was no option but to answer.
“It is the war to come,” answered Tauthin at last.
“Against the Golathoch?” The question was posed as if the answer was known.
Tauthin hesitated. “Against the Nemesis.”
Thoor eyed Tauthin perplexedly, a rare caught-off-guard moment for the general. “The Nemesis?”
“Yes.”
“What is the Nemesis?” Thoor’s question was first posed to Tauthin, then to the scientists behind him. None of them had an answer. Thoor’s attention returned to the alien, whose cooperation continued.
“The Khuladi attempted to judge the Nemesis, but were resisted. The Nemesis are the only species to have done this. This is called the Great Denial.”
“Resisted…?”
“Defeated.”
Captivated, Thoor approached closer. “The Khuladi have been defeated?”
“Only once—only by the Nemesis. All other judged species have fallen subservient.”
“Tell me about them. Tell me everything—who they are, how this defeat came to be.”
Silence filled the room. Tauthin’s eyes deviated from Thoor’s just briefly, just long enough to look at the scientists before returning to the general again. The alien shook its head. “We know of the Nemesis only in namesake. The Great Denial occurred ages ago—before our species was judged.”
“Do not lie to me, captive.”
“Honesty has served me better than deceit. Were there an answer to provide, I would provide it. The Khuladi have hidden all knowledge of the Nemesis.”
“Do the Golathoch know the Nemesis?”
“It has been speculated,” answered Tauthin. “The Khuladi no longer know the Nemesis’ location. If the Golathoch possess this knowledge, perhaps you are the Khuladi’s means to reach them. Your homeworld would make an advantageous staging point. Even now, the Creations muster for a foe vastly superior to your species.”
“The Creations?”
“The Khuladi call them the Annihl. We call them the Creations. They are machines of war—destructors. They precede the Khuladi on the battlefield of judgment. Your forces cannot match them. This world will fall quickly.”
Thoor’s eyes narrowed. “Show me the Annihl.”
A bewildered expression came over Tauthin.
“Through the connection,” Thoor said, pointing to Ed. “I have seen the Khuladi and Nerifinn. I know this can be done.”
The Bakma’s face tightened, deepening the lines on his brow. A sign of reluctance. “That would be unwise.”
“Disobedience would be unwise.” Thoor bared his teeth. “You will show me the Annihl or you will suffer.”
For several moments, Tauthin’s dark purple gaze remained on Thoor. Then, very slowly, the alien looked at Ed. Tauthin’s reflection was clear in the Ithini’s oval lenses.
The transfer began.
The first reaction to hit Thoor’s face was a distinct refocusing, as if he was suddenly staring at an illusion that only he was privy to. Then came the shift. Thoor’s eyes opened widely, and for the faintest of moments, his entire body tensed. The next look that struck him was one of total mesmerization. The scientists in Confinement observed through the cell glass as Thoor’s head slowly tilted upward, following the form of something much larger than himself. Much larger than the room. The general’s upward gaze continued until Ed’s visual transfer released. The base connection was all that remained.
Thoor’s eyes refocused as he looked at Tauthin. The general’s expression was a mixed one—part allurement and part trepidation. Uncharacteristic of the god of The Machine.
“It is as I told you,” said Tauthin as Thoor stared at him in silence. “This world will fall quickly.”
8
MONDAY, MARCH 12TH, 0012 NE
1700 HOURS
THE ATMOSPHERE in the lounge was as spirited as Scott could remember it. Word of his fiery encounter with Tauthin had escaped from Esther to the rest of the unit. Scott might have answers about the war! That was the buzz. It was an exaggerated claim—Scott hardly had answers about the war—but, nonetheless, it sparked excitement throughout the lounge. It was exactly what the Fourteenth needed to divert their attention away from Max and Viktor’s fight.
The operatives were in their usual places. Dostoevsky sat with Viktor, Auric, and Egor at the all-Nightman table. Max was settled in with Becan, David, and Esther. William, Derrick, Travis, and Boris took up their customary table in the back, as Svetlana awkwardly shared space with Varvara. The sole person not at any table was Jayden. The Texan leaned against the back corner, arms folded, cowboy hat shrouding his face. Only Flopper seemed oblivious to the seriousness of the meeting’s subject matter, his tongue hanging merrily as he danced from one operative to the next, sniffing groins and biting at shoelaces, drawing more than a few bops on the nose.
Scott wasn’t exactly sure what to expect from this meeting. Typically, when a meeting was called, some form of announcement was in order. This would be more of a group conversation, informal and not following any real precedent. Would it be groundbreaking? Probably not. But interesting? Definitely.
“All right, crew.” Straightening his collection of chicken-scratch notes against the countertop, Scott faced the Fourteenth. “Here’s the rundown of what took place today. This morning, I brought Esther down to Confinement to break her in.”
“Well, that’s not very romantic,” said Max. Turning beet red, Esther glared.
It was impossible to hold a meeting without a juvenile comment. At least it was over with early. “After she was broken in to Ithini connections,” he said, eyeing Max sternly, “I talked with Tauthin myself. You guys know I go there pretty often for that purpose. It’s always interesting, but rarely revealing. Today, that changed a little.”
He glanced briefly at his topmost note. “Before I get too far into what Tauthin told me, I did want to mention some things. Those of you who remember that whole episode with Pelican Squad might recall that I ‘negotiated’ with a Bakma commander. There were a couple things I garnered from that—I just wanted to get them out in the open.” Clearing his throat, he read his notes aloud.
“‘You are unlike the warriors called EDEN. We are to bring you to Khuldaris, where you will be evaluated.’ That was the clearest thing I remember the Bakma telling me before our connection waned, but I was able to pick out four other words from the rest of what he said: interference, indication, allegiance, judgment. It’s their context that I couldn’t understand.”
The operatives listened with businesslike expressions.
“Here’s what I gather from that, and you can tell me what you think afterward. I don’t think Khuldaris is a person—it sounded like a place, maybe even a ship or a planet. That their intent was for us to be evaluated, and by us I mean the Nightmen present, tells me that they were there to specifically try and learn something. Their intent was to capture a Nightman.”
David nodded. “We did a number on their outpost in Siberia. We also repelled that assault on the base. I’m sure that caught their eye.”
“I think so, too,” said Scott. “I don’t think that’s groundbreaking information, but at least we know that not all of their missions here are combative in nature. It was some sort of recon attempt.” He looked at his notes again. “As for those other words, I just don’t know. Interference, indication, allegiance, judgment…without any kind of context, they’re just words to me.”
Max raised his hand. “What if the allegiance he was talking about was between EDEN and the Nightmen? It’s obvious he knew we were different.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me. I think he thought that EDEN allied with us, without him realizing exactly who we were. Maybe our cooperation during that base defense last year indicated, as he put it, our allegiance. At least in his eyes.” His confident expression faded. “But that’s about as far as I’ve ever gotten. I have no idea what he meant by interference and judgment.”
Esther listened attentively, her expression deep in thought. “I’m not sure that’s correct. I’m not sure he was talking about the Nightmen and EDEN.”
“What do you mean?”
“Word order is important. He said interference, then indication, then allegiance. I think interference must indicate an allegiance.”
Becan crossed his arms. “You’re assumin’ their sentence structure is the same as ours.”
“It doesn’t need to be,” she replied. “The way connections work, we aren’t getting a literal word-for-word translation. We’re getting an overall translation of thoughts and concepts. The way I take his words, some kind of interference is indicating an allegiance of some sort, prompting judgment.” She looked at Scott. “Interference isn’t cooperation. It’s interference. Now, I wasn’t here for their attack on the base, but I’m assuming that EDEN and the Nightmen cooperated to defend it. That’s entirely different from the Nightmen—or EDEN—interfering to defend it. The only way interference would make sense would be if their war was solely against EDEN or the Nightmen, which clearly it isn’t.”
Scott was taking in every word Esther said.
She leaned back, crossing her legs. “Considering they’re at war against Earth, the only way something could interfere with anything on Earth would be if the interfering party weren’t from Earth to begin with. If you’re not from Earth, you’re an extraterrestrial. He couldn’t have meant the Ithini, because they use the Ithini. He had to be talking about the Golathoch. I think that he thinks the Golathoch have allied themselves with humanity.”
His face deadpanned, Scott stared at Esther in awe. Could she really have deduced that that simply? He was listening, but stunned.
Esther continued. “So the big question is, why does he think they’ve allied with us? Clearly, he wasn’t aware that we’re being attacked by the Golathoch. Regardless, the Golathochs’ presence here is seen as an interference to some greater purpose. And now that I think about it, that actually makes sense.”
Scott’s head was spinning. “How does that make sense?”
“Because he used the word judgment. What do you think of when you hear the word judgment?”
“…I think of someone passing judgment.”
She eyed him stupidly. “Be specific, Scott. This was your connection, not mine or anyone else’s. What do you think of?”
It was rare that Scott felt like an imbecile, but this was one of those times. He knew the answer she was trying to get from him—he knew it immediately, and she was right. But the answer was momentarily lost in the overwhelming sense for just how brilliant this young woman was. He had wrestled with those four words for months. She’d picked them apart in minutes. And just like that, this was starting to make sense. “I think of God.”
Esther smiled. “Precisely. God passes judgment, Scott. That’s what you think of when you hear that word. The Golathoch’s interference is indicating an allegiance, prompting some sort of religious judgment, as executed by the instruments of God. The only instruments of God the Bakma could be referring to, at least that we know of, are themselves. This is a holy war.”
Eyes widening, Becan asked, “Esty, did you seriously jus’ come up with all o’ tha’?”
“I must confess,” she sighed mirthfully, “I sometimes shock myself.”
Svetlana rolled her eyes.
Scott was as impressed as the majority. “All right, hold on for a minute. I want to sort this out.” It made perfect sense—every word she’d said. Now if only he could remember what she’d said. “Esther, very slowly, summarize that again?”
The scout beamed. “Of course. The Bakma think that someone’s interference—and I think the Golathoch make the most sense as candidates—is indicative of an alliance between them and ourselves. Because of this, judgment must be passed. Judgment from God, as passed by the Bakma. Now, he didn’t come out and say that this war was ordained by God, but if he was using God as a declarer of judgment, which is how Scott would have interpreted it through his custom-fit connection, then we can at least hypothesize that God has something to do with this war, at least from their perspective. At least, enough to impact the war in other areas.”
From the back of the room, Svetlana cleared her throat. “In saying this, Esther, you are assuming that all Bakma attribute elements of war to God. What if this was one Bakma’s opinion? If the connection was custom-fit for Scott, then it was custom-fit for the Bakma, too.”
“Sveta’s got a valid point,” said Scott, “and I’d be inclined to believe it, except that Tauthin mentioned judgment today, too.”
Esther smiled at Svetlana smugly.
“Tauthin took it a step further than that, though. He said that his species, the Bakma, had been judged. He said the same thing about some other species, the Nerifinn. The way he made it sound—and this is the first time I’ve ever heard anything like this—is that his species was subservient to another. It sounded like multiple species were being judged, then enslaved.”
“So, you think the Bakma are fighting on behalf of someone else?” asked David. “Could that be where Khuldaris comes into play?”
“I don’t know. It could be.”
Travis cocked his head curiously. “When you went through that whole negotiation a few months ago, didn’t you say that the Ithini looked subservient to the Bakma? Would that mean there are tiers?”
It was another question Scott couldn’t answer. “I think there have to be. Tauthin referred to Ed today as slave. Can slaves have slaves? I don’t know. All I know is that, judging from what I heard today and what Esther just pieced together, I’m actually starting to get a little bit of a picture, here.”
“There’s no way we’re the first ones to figure this out,” David said. “That’s just not possible. We’ve been at war for ten years. Not one year—ten. Someone has to know about this already.” He looked at Dostoevsky. “Do you think Thoor knows?”
The fulcrum commander sighed, concern etched on his face. “What Thoor knows is a mystery to all but the most revered Nightmen—his personal counsel.” He looked at Scott. “I know who some of these men are. Saretok is one of them.”
“Hey, wasn’t that that guy with the mohawk?” asked William.
“Yes, him.”
The demolitionist grinned. “Scott whipped his tail.”
“Oleg is one, too,” said Dostoevsky, frowning. “One or two other men come to mind…Antipov, Marusich…I know these names mean nothing to you, but they are among the general’s most trusted. I am sure there are others, but these are the most highly-regarded.” He paused. “And I know that Thoor knows more than he makes known.”
That didn’t surprise Scott in the slightest. But what did surprise him was EDEN’s side of the equation. How could a global organization of military leaders never piece together information like this? If EDEN Command truly had never considered these things, then it went far beyond incompetence. It was near-criminal negligence.
“You know,” Scott said, “this is making more and more sense now. Tauthin said a few other things, too, but one thing that stands out now is what he called the Golathochian Subjugation. If they think that the Golathoch somehow allied themselves with us, and that that creates some form of interference in a holy war, it might make sense that they’d want to conquer the Golathoch as punishment.” The zealotry was so human. “He said that we—humanity—would herald the Golathochian Subjugation. I’m not sure what else would even make sense at this point.”
Becan frowned. “Too bad yeh don’t have a Ceratopian friend to talk to.”
The Golathochian perspective—that was one angle Scott was missing entirely. For as much time as he had spent with Tauthin in Confinement, he’d never spent a moment with a captive Ceratopian. The closest he’d ever come was during his encounter with H`laar on the Battle Cruiser. Dar Achaar veraatat dech. Dar Achaar veraatat Rumigtaah. Words intended for him that he was yet to decipher. How they haunted him.
“What did you just say?”
Scott blinked back into awareness. The question had come from Auric, who now sat wideeyed at the Nightmen’s table. “What?” Scott asked.
“What you just said, captain. Say it again.”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah yeh did, Remmy,” said Becan. Others backed up the statement. “Kinda came ou’ all mumbled.”
“I did?” He must have thought aloud without realizing it.
“‘Der Achaar verratet dich,’” Auric said. “Is that what you said?”
That was it exactly. Auric had spoken the words so fluently, so naturally. Scott physically reacted. “How’d you say that so good?”
Auric looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“How can you speak Ceratopian like that?”
“Ceratopian?” The blond-haired slayer stared back. “That is not Ceratopian. It is German.”
The silence that hit the room—and flooded Scott Remington’s mind—was deafening.
“‘Der Achaar verratet dich,’” Auric repeated. “The Achaar betrays you. The Achaar betrays Remington.”
“Auric, are you serious?” Scott spoke like anything but a commanding officer. He sounded more like a stunned bystander. All this time? All this time that he had wrestled, and pondered, and sought answers from every scientist in Confinement? All this time, and the answer was right there in Room 14, just waiting to be found?
The German was adamant. “That is what you said, right? If so, it is ‘The Achaar betrays you.’”
His heart pounding, Scott approached the slayer’s table. “What’s Achaar? What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. I have never heard that.”
“It’s not German?”
“No.”
David pointed between the two men. “I just want to make sure we’re all hearing this right, because it sounds an awful lot like you’re suggesting a Ceratopian talked to you in German.”
That was exactly how it seemed. “Yeah. I mean, that’s as close to the way I can remember it.” German! How did that even make sense?
“Okay,” said Esther, “this one’s even beyond me.”
Dostoevsky cut in, as the whole room grew more animated. “Captain, when this happened, it was clear that the Ceratopian was trying to deliver a message to you, correct?”
“Yes.” It was blatantly clear. The alien—H`laar—was making it a point for Scott to understand, even going so far as to use Remington in the phrase.
“But tha’ doesn’t make sense,” said Becan. “If you’re tryin’ to get a message to Earth, wouldn’t yeh pick English or Chinese? Somethin’ a larger percent o’ the population actually speaks?”
Esther nodded. “English is either the first or second language for most people on the planet.”
There had to have been a reason for the Ceratopian to have chosen German, of all the languages on Earth. Was it the easiest for the aliens to replicate? Or was there one nationality, one person in particular they were trying to contact? Famous Germans. Famous Germans of the modern era. Scott racked his brain to come up with one. It didn’t take him long. “He was trying to find Faerber.”
The moment Scott said it, a hush struck the room.
“H`laar was trying to send a message to Klaus Faerber,” Scott went on. “Captain Faerber is the most prominent member of EDEN on the planet, almost more so than the president. If you know anything about EDEN, you know who Faerber is.”
“But would the Ceratopians know who he is?” Becan asked.
“Why not? The Bakma knew EDEN and the Nightmen.” It was a long shot—the idea that H`laar was sending a message to Klaus Faerber—but it was the only idea that made immediate sense. But why? “Auric, Achaar’s got to mean something.”
The German shook his head adamantly. “It does not. It is not a German word.”
Scott paced in front of the room. “The Achaar. The Achaar betrays. What is the Achaar?”
“Why must it be a ‘what?’” asked Svetlana. “What if it is a ‘who?’”
“Because of the. The Achaar betrays.”
“Perhaps it just spoke wrong,” Esther said. “You know. Ceratopian Engrish.”
That was a possibility Scott couldn’t discount.
“Archer,” said Dostoevsky suddenly. The rest of the room faced him. “Benjamin Archer.”
Max’s brow furrowed. “Who the hell is Benjamin Archer?”
That name rung a bell to Scott—he’d heard it before.
“A judge in the High Command,” Dostoevsky explained. “He is their newest member.” The fulcrum looked at Scott. “There must be a reason the Ceratopian tried to reach Faerber specifically, and not someone on the Council. There are no Germans in the High Command. Pauling is American, several are Britons, Russians, other nationalities. But no Germans.”
Scott felt somewhat sheepish for not knowing the name of one of EDEN’s own judges, but the truth of the matter was that the political side of the organization rarely—if ever—crossed onto the battlefield. Prior to EDEN, he probably couldn’t name a senator or congressman outside of his own state. Ignorance used to be bliss; now it was embarrassing.
“The Ceratopian chose not to speak a language of the Council,” Dostoevsky said. “There must have been a reason for this. Achaar and Archer are very close. He could have been trying to circumvent EDEN’s leadership by contacting its top soldier.”
Travis’s ears suddenly perked. “Hey, now, my memory might be a little fuzzy, but didn’t EDEN send that general to that mega-mission by direct order?”
“Wha’ general?” Becan asked.
Snapping his fingers, Scott looked at Travis. “That’s right! Shoot, what was his name?” No one had an answer. “It doesn’t matter. What Travis said is right—EDEN Command sent a general to directly intervene with that interspecies conflict in Verkhoyanskiy. They ordered us to back out of the fight.”
David looked at Max, smirking. “The Axen Technique.”
“Aw, shut up,” said Max.
“The Archer betrays us,” Scott said. “Archer betrays us. He was trying to tell Faerber that someone in the Council was betraying humanity. He went so far as to make it personal. He said the Archer was betraying me.”
Dostoevsky nodded. “And who showed up to get us away from the mission? Someone sent by EDEN Command.”
Scott didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but for the life of him, this was adding up beyond his comfort level. He hated the word conspiracy. It was a word overused to the point of ineffectiveness. But there was undeniably something going on here.
Svetlana held out her hands. “But what does that mean? Archer betrays us? Betrays us how?” She sighed in frustration. “I am skeptical of all this.”
“How can you sodding be skeptical?” asked Esther.
“Because someone must be, Esther,” answered Svetlana, glaring. She turned back to Scott. “We cannot make these leaps in logic without evidence. This could mean something completely different. Maybe the word was not Archer. Maybe he mispronounced other words. We cannot just guess our way to a conclusion—that is what crazy people do!”
Svetlana was right. Just because dots were connecting didn’t mean they weren’t being forced to. Something substantial was required, something more than a collection of hunches. If this was something significant—and that was a long-shot—it had to be approached the correct way. Scott needed to talk to the Ceratopian, H`laar, again. Wherever H`laar had gone. All Scott knew was that it wasn’t Novosibirsk. The EDEN-sent general had taken over the operation. Scott hadn’t gone home with a single captive beyond a handful of Bakma, and they weren’t even from that same battlefield.
He had to find out where H`laar had been taken. The obvious answer was EDEN Command, since it was EDEN Command who’d dispatched a general to claim the alien, but it was by no means a certainty. He had to talk to Petrov in Confinement. If anyone could find out where H`laar had gone, it would be him. But Scott would have to be careful. The last thing he wanted to do was tip off the scientist to some conspiracy theory that might have been totally wrong. If this was all legitimate, the implications were horizon-shattering. It meant the Ceratopians were privy to human politics. That meant there was communication between the two species, somehow. It meant that whatever it was that Archer was doing, it was to the detriment of soldiers like Scott and Faerber. It meant the possibility of corruption at the highest level. Get it all out of your head, Scott. It meant nothing. Not without evidence—just like Svetlana had said.
It was time for a new kind of mission. “All right, everyone. Here’s what I need.” No more poking around by himself. He had one heck of a team—he’d be a fool if he didn’t use them. “Benjamin Archer. I need to know everything about him.”
The first volunteer surprised him. It was Svetlana. “His medical records will be classified, but if nothing else, I can find his biography.”
Esther fidgeted in silence.
Nodding, Scott moved on. “The general who got dispatched by EDEN. I want to know who he was.”
“If I had the Pariah I could dig through its old transmission files,” said Travis solemnly. “I’ll have to just dig back through our personal ones. No promises they’ll have anything saved that far back, but you never know. If nothing else, maybe I can just find his name.”
“That’ll work, Trav.” Scott looked at Max. “I want you to talk to Tanneken. Tkachenok was a captain at that event. He ended up being demoted and sent to Tanneken’s unit. Find out if anything suspicious happened prior to our arrival on that mission.”
“Aye aye, cap’n.”
There was one final need to be filled. “This whole thing centers on betrayal. I want the rest of you to pore through some records. Find out everything EDEN Command has done in the past year. See if anything, even to some remote degree, could be seen as detrimental to the rest of us. Dave, I want you heading that up.”
Esther cleared her throat. “Shall I try to get in touch with Captain Faerber, sir?”
“No, not yet. We don’t have anything yet. Right now I want you helping the others.”
She sighed. “Yes, sir.”
The mission pieces were falling into place. Now it was just a matter of completing the objective—finding out what H`laar’s message meant, where H`laar went, and whether or not they were chasing rabbit trails or something significant. Dismissing the others, Scott headed straight for Confinement.
9
MONDAY, MARCH 12TH, 0012 NE
1754 HOURS
THE MOMENT SCOTT entered Confinement, he knew something was amiss. Not only was the room packed, but it pulsed with activity. Scientists were clustered across the room, flipping through pages of documentation and examining consoles and devices. The whole room was frenzied.
“Petrov!” Spotting the chief scientist across the room, Scott pushed through the crowd to reach him. “What’s going on?” Sparing a quick glance to Tauthin’s cell, Scott saw that the alien was in the midst of an interrogation. In fact, every alien in Confinement was being drilled.
When Petrov saw Scott, he shook his head. “No time for this today, Remington. Today is not a good day.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Your friend,” Petrov said, motioning to Tauthin’s cell. “He just changed the war.”
“Changed the war?”
Petrov exchanged a fiery word with a fellow scientist. He looked back to Scott. “I cannot talk to you today. And yes, I know what you are capable of, so do not try threatening me. The general is capable of worse.”
“The general? What’s he have to do with this?”
“Go to him and find out.”
Not a chance. “I just need to find out one thing,” Scott said. “It’ll take sixty seconds.”
“That is sixty seconds too many.” Marching to another cluster of scientists, Petrov spat out a barrage of orders.
Scott chased him. “I need this, Petrov!”
“And I need you to leave.”
“I can’t leave without this.” Two scientists bumped into Scott as they ferried past. “What in the world happened in here?”
The chief scientist eyed him harshly. “I am in charge of every man in this room—I do not have time to answer questions. If you want to know something, go to Thoor.”
“I’m not going to Thoor.”
“Then get out of my Confinement.”
One thing—Scott just needed one thing! “Two Ceratopians were taken captive during the interspecies conflict in Verkhoyanskiy. I need to know where they went.”
Petrov ignored him.
“I need to know this, Petrov.”
“Want and need are different things.”
“Petrov…”
The scientist faced him. “Remington! Can you not see that I have a job to do now?”
“I’m looking for two Ceratopians. I need to know where they went. It’s very important.”
Once again, the scientist engaged in another conversation.
“This could change the war, too!” Scott said.
Stopping his conversation, Petrov glared at Scott. “How could it change the war?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.
Scott had no idea how to answer. “I don’t know.” Petrov rolled his eyes. “I don’t know yet, but it might. I need you to trust me.”
“Trust you. Right.”
“Sixty seconds. I just need sixty seconds!”
Cursing loudly, Petrov slammed down his clipboard. The room flinched, then quickly got back to work. Eyeing Scott coldly, the chief scientist picked his clipboard from the floor and walked to a terminal. “Date?” Petrov asked.
Date? Oh, crap.
“Date?” the scientist repeated, voice rising.
“I’m thinking! I’m thinking!”
Petrov roared.
“It was November, late November,” Scott said. He grabbed his comm. “This’ll just take a second.” Petrov walked away just as Scott queued up Max. “Wait, don’t walk off—”
Max’s voice emerged. “Yep.”
“Max,” Scott said, trying to block out the loudness of the room. “Are you in the hangar yet?”
“Yeah, we just got here.”
“I need to know the date of that battle.”
“All right, just give me a minute.”
Scott shook his head. “I don’t have a minute.”
“Well, veck!”
The seconds that passed felt like minutes themselves. Maybe a full minute actually did pass. Maybe two. All Scott knew was that Petrov was storming about the room like a man on a mission, and fulfilling Scott’s wishes was the last thing on his agenda.
“November 25th.”
Scott snapped back to the comm amid the chaos. “What?”
“I said November 25th,” Max repeated. “Where the hell are you, at a rave?”
“No. Thanks!”
“No problem—”
Scott closed the channel. “November 25th!” he shouted at Petrov, giving chase. “It was November 25th.”
Petrov didn’t say a word; he just tromped back to the terminal, his fingers pecking away furiously at the touch-screen buttons. After a halfminute, he walked away again. “Cairo.”
“Cairo?”
“Yes, Cairo!”
“So it specifically said that Ceratopians went to Cairo—” Scott cut himself off when he saw the murderous glare in Petrov’s eyes. “No, no, it’s fine. You told me all I needed to know, thank you so much.” Not wanting to be any more of a disturbance, Scott turned to leave.
Petrov shouted after him. “Remington, wait!” The scientist’s voice was different, more purposeful than annoyed. When Scott turned around, Petrov went on. “I gave you what you wanted. Now I want you to do something for me.”
Scott didn’t hesitate. He was happy to repay the favor. “Absolutely. Just name it.”
“Go talk to Thoor.”
His face falling, Scott stared from the doorway. That favor, he hadn’t expected.
“Go from here to his chamber. Before you can find all of the answers, you first must receive some of them. You want to know what this war is about? What has changed today? Find the general. But be warned, you will never feel the same.”
Thoor had answers. Scott had always known that, always believed it. Now he was confronted with it. He had sworn long ago never to speak to the general, never to become a part of the Hall of the Fulcrums. Nicole deserved better. Scott did, too.
I would rather never know the truth.
The Alien War had been a mystery since day one. Why Earth? Why humanity? What was it about their small blue dot that attracted the wrath of two entirely different species? That had taken so many lives? That had tormented their world?
Thoor. Scott’s blood chilled at the mere thought of his name. Talk to Thoor. Were answers worth that much? As Scott stood in the still-open doorway of Confinement, his glazed expression found Tauthin. The Bakma was still being interrogated, but his opaque eyes weren’t on his interrogator. They were staring back at Scott.
Why are you here, Tauthin? The two remained locked. Why are you on our planet?
He knew in that moment what he needed to do. He needed to break a promise—to himself, to Nicole. He needed to know. Numbness set into Scott’s body as he slowly backed out of Confinement, his stare-down with Tauthin never breaking until Confinement’s metal door slid shut in front of him. Closing his eyes, he inhaled a breath.
This is it.
Thoor would accept him. He’d been the Terror’s favorite toy since the day he became a Nightman, an exception to some of the very rules that made The Machine what it was. He could defy a direct order to save trapped EDEN operatives. He could kick one of Thoor’s highest fulcrums out of his transport. What other man could get away with any of that? And even with those luxuries, the Terror owed him one. More than that. He owed him a life. Was hearing the truth an acceptable compromise?
Today, yes it was.
As Scott marched toward the Citadel of The Machine, his blood slowly boiled. It was part adrenaline and part anger, with enough uncertainty mixed in to make the feeling memorable in every horrible way. He wanted to walk fast, to move quickly. He didn’t want to give himself time to change his mind.
Nicole. Lieutenant Novikov. Galina. Joe Janson. Sergei Steklov. Whether directly or indirectly, Thoor had cost each of them their lives. And now Scott was seeking him out.
Don’t think. Just do it.
The Hall of the Fulcrums passed quickly. Soon Scott stood before the massive wooden doors of the Throne Room and the pair of sentries who guarded them. He knew of the room, but he’d never been to it before. There was a first time for everything.
The body language of the sentries revealed their surprise. “Remington,” one of them said, a bit apprehensively. “Does the general expect you?”
“No.” The firmness in Scott’s voice was enough to let them know he meant business. And that frankly, he didn’t care whether Thoor expected him or not.
Exchanging an indicatively long look, the sentries stepped aside to clear the path. Only the doors stood between Scott and the instigator of Nicole’s death.
You can still turn around.
You can still never know the truth.
Scott shoved the doors open with all the purpose of a murderer on a mission. They swung widely as the Throne Room became visible. It was done. There was no turning back now.
Clustered in the middle of the room around a table that looked strikingly out of place, a group of about a half dozen men suddenly went silent, turning their attention to the door. General Thoor’s frame was distinguishable among them. Behind him and the table, a massive stairway led to a throne.
There’s really a throne in here. I thought it was figurative. This man is insane.
The room was as antiquated as any Scott had been in. He could smell the mustiness of the limestone walls. He could feel the cold dampness of the air. It was like walking into someone’s sick fantasy. Nonetheless, Scott’s feet took him forward, and the men around the table came into view. Three of them, he’d never seen before. But two of them—in addition to Thoor—he couldn’t forget.
The first was Oleg Strakhov. The dark-haired fulcrum, his black beard trimmed precisely, glared as he recognized the intruder.
The second, whose reaction was worse, was Colonel Saretok—the very man Scott had kicked out of the Pariah on their mission in Verkhoyanskiy. The mohawked fulcrum bared his teeth, his lips curling over his canines. But none of the men said a word, their invisible chains restrained by their master.
“Captain Remington,” General Thoor said. His voice, though still autocratic as always, droned less than normal. It took Scott a second to realize why. Thoor didn’t need to be theatrical now. He was talking with his counsel.
Behind Scott, the wooden doors slammed shut. He was alone with them. There was no way to escape. He was standing before the Terror. It was a moment he never thought he’d experience—one he’d both feared and vowed never to put himself in. He was face-to-face with the root of his fiancée’s murder, the man who’d turned her beautiful face the pale shade of death. The man who’d put her in a coffin. This was the moment. The confrontation. The climax of every emotional impulse in his heart.
“General,” he said, nodding subserviently.
Oh my God. Scott’s stomach turned as he heard himself say the word. Was that it? The moment he’d been dreading? His reaction to the man who’d murdered who would have been his wife? Just general?
Thoor motioned to the table. “Come. Join us.”
More than Scott hated Thoor, more than Scott hated whoever it’d been who’d actually poisoned Nicole…he hated himself. It didn’t take Scott long to analyze his reaction—his lone word in the face of the Terror. It hadn’t been said out of fear or subservience. It had been said out of acceptance. These men, these murderers around the table, they were his kinsmen. In the battle for his soul, Scott hadn’t been defeated by Thoor. He’d been defeated by himself.
Thoor made no attempt to question Scott on his arrival. He simply began his introductions. “To my right is Captain Antipov, chief of all eidola.”
Antipov, whose scruffy salt-and-pepper beard was matched by an equally scruffy ponytail, nodded quietly. Were it not for his EDEN uniform, he would have looked like a homeless man.
“Lieutenant Krylov, sniper with the First.”
Despite the oddity of having a lieutenant among Thoor’s counsel, that wasn’t what immediately struck Scott about Krylov. What struck him was that Krylov looked like an alien hybrid. His gray eyes were slanted at abnormally high angles. His skin was pale, almost white, and his body was frail to a sickly degree. His hair, an almost colorless shade of blond, was pulled back into a ponytail. No…Krylov wasn’t some sort of hybrid. He was just a frightening looking human being.
Thoor motioned to the next man. “Commander Marusich, also of the First.”
Marusich was younger than the rest, and by leaps and bounds was the easiest on the eyes. He was the only man besides Oleg who didn’t look like a freak.
“And I believe you already know Colonel Saretok and Captain Strakhov.”
He knew them all too well. It suddenly made sense why a lieutenant and commander were in Thoor’s counsel. Both men were members of the First, which was now Oleg’s unit—for a lack of any other place to put the fallen eidolon. Much like the men of Vector Squad were regarded above their rank, so were the men of the First. There was no doubt in Scott’s mind: these were Novosibirsk’s overseers. And he was at their table.
“Is there something we can do for you?” Thoor asked.
Don’t just fall in line, Scott. Man up to this murderer. This is the man who had Nicole killed. “Confinement is in chaos. They said it had something to do with you.”
Oleg eyed several of his counterparts, then looked at Thoor. The Terror’s gaze never wavered from Scott’s.
“Have you come here looking for answers?” the general asked.
Scott was in the middle of a chess match. Thoor was choosing his words carefully—speaking with intent. Scott would have to do the same. “Yes.” Brazen. Pawn forward.
Thoor tilted his head subtly. A small grin crept up from the corner of his mouth, then disappeared. “I will give you one answer.”
It took all of one second for Scott to recognize Thoor’s game. He would give Scott one answer, of his choosing. What else, other than why Confinement was in chaos, would Scott want to know? It was as obvious as the sun.
Who murdered Nicole? Thoor was giving Scott a chance to find out, straight from the tyrant’s mouth. That, or to inquire about Confinement—a matter that Scott knew ultimately mattered more. He was giving Scott the chance to choose between a question of the heart or a question of the mind.
Scott took door number three. “No.”
The Terror raised an eyebrow.
“If you want answers,” said Scott, “you’ll have to supply me with more than just one.”
“If I want answers?” Thoor asked. A palpable tension rose around the table. “What could I possibly want to know from you?”
“What I never told you about the incident in Verkhoyanskiy.” Scott’s pieces were in place. Time to check the king.
Saretok looked immediately taken aback. Oleg’s eyes narrowed, studying Scott’s face as if he were watching Scott take a lie detector test. Everyone in the room showed an outward reaction.
Except for Thoor. The Terror showed no reaction at all—except for the tone of his voice. He was no longer amused. “You have nothing to tell me about Verkhoyanskiy.” He was calling Scott’s bluff. But Scott wasn’t bluffing.
“Judge Archer might disagree,” Scott said. He’d laid down four aces, even if Archer’s involvement was pure speculation. Name-dropping an EDEN judge out of nowhere was going to spark immediate interest.
The wheels were turning in the general’s head. Scott could see them. Thoor was putting pieces together, in particular, the fact that EDEN Command had dispatched a general to keep Novosibirsk out of Verkhoyanskiy. Scott was sure that Thoor had tried to figure out that one already. Now he might have had an answer in Scott.
Marusich spoke. “One does not march into this room and start making demands. If you have information, you will tell us.”
“Quiet,” said Thoor, raising a hand toward Marusich. “What information do you have concerning Benjamin Archer?”
Scott countered. “What happened in Confinement today?”
“You play a dangerous game, Remington.”
“You played a dangerous game when you had Nicole murdered. I know something you don’t—something that could implicate EDEN Command at the highest level. It’s time you paid me back for all I’ve done for you.” Chernobyl. The functional Noboat. Ruthless efficiency. All were things that benefited Novosibirsk, directly from Scott.
Oleg raised his nose. “You sound more like a snake than a lion.”
“You would know,” said Scott, glaring back at him.
“Captain Strakhov,” said Thoor, his cold stare still on Scott. The fallen eidolon faced him. “Enlighten Captain Remington. Tell him every thing.”
Oleg couldn’t have looked more stunned. “General, do you hear what you ask?”
“I hear the crunch of your bones if you question me,” Thoor answered.
The Throne Room fell quiet as Oleg, Saretok, and the others stared between themselves. Finally, Oleg nodded in submission.
Tell me everything? Scott wasn’t surprised that his demands had been met—Thoor appreciated the arrogance of brute force. But he was surprised that “everything” had been used. What constituted everything? He was about to find out.
His glare steadfast, Oleg stepped away from the table. The others resumed their conversation from before Scott’s arrival. “Come and listen, Nightman,” Oleg said, motioning for Scott to approach.
That Oleg failed to recognize Scott as a fulcrum didn’t escape him. The feeling was mutual. Fulcrum armor or not, Oleg would always be an eidolon to Scott. Mutual hatred aside, Scott approached him.
“I am a professional,” Oleg said, “so I will speak to you as a professional. It would help if I knew what you already knew.”
“Why does it matter?” asked Scott. “You’re about to tell me everything.” You’re not pulling a fast one today, Oleg.
The fallen eidolon smirked viciously. “You have a clever streak. Clarke had one, too, before I killed him.”
Wait—what? Before he killed Clarke? Oleg murdered Clarke? A thousand questions hit Scott at once. How? Why? Who else knew? Clarke had a family—a wife and daughters. And he’d been killed by Oleg? In the midst of his racing thoughts, Scott made the realization. There’s a reason he just told me that. He wants to catch me off guard, to get me flustered. He wants me to do something emotional and stupid, like strike him. Defeat him with restraint.
“I’m still waiting to hear ‘everything,’” Scott said.
The gleam in Oleg’s eyes faded away. His expression grew cold. “Well, then.”
Battle won. War far from over. He’d reconcile with Clarke’s murder another time.
“Stop me if at any point you don’t understand,” said Oleg. “Both our lives depend on it.”
A rare moment of honesty, eh, Oleg?
“There is an alien species called the Khuladi,” Oleg said. “Only General Thoor has seen them, through the eyes of our captives.”
We are to bring you to Khuldaris. Those were the words of the Bakma negotiator. Khuladi. Khuldaris. The latter had to be a homeworld.
“The Khuladi have over a thousand different words to define war,” Oleg went on. “They have no word for peace. War is their god.”
I wonder what they look like.
“The Bakma, the Ithini, the Nerifinn…all are species conquered by the Khuladi. There may be more.”
The omission of the Golathoch did not go unnoticed. “What about the Ceratopians?”
“They are not a conquered species.”
“But the Ithini work with them and the Bakma.”
The fallen eidolon went on. “To the best of our understanding, the Ithini are widespread. Many of them could have escaped to Ceratopian space before their species was conquered. The same may be true for canrassis, hence their widespread use.”
Besides being struck by the numbing fact that he was hearing such revealing things, Scott was also struck by the collectedness of Oleg’s delivery. Oleg seemed completely unfazed—as if he’d known this story all his life. Did EDEN even know all of this? And if the answer was no, then why not?
Scott knew why not. Because EDEN didn’t have the Walls of Mourning.
“What do you admire about Esther Brooking?” Oleg asked.
Scott blinked. Esther Brooking? What did she have to do with this? “Stay the course, Oleg.”
“I am.” He paced around Scott. “So tell me. What do you admire about her? Humor me, Remington.”
Humor you…all right, Oleg. “Do you want me to spout out a list?”
“No. I just want one thing. One character trait. What one thing about Esther has impressed you the most?”
One thing—what one, single thing? Her skills as a scout were wellestablished. She was arguably the Fourteenth’s most talented operative, even including himself. But was that what he admired most? No. Scott knew exactly what he admired most about her. “Her toughness.”
“Explain.”
“She went through hell when she got here. Khatanga almost ruined her. Not just anyone could have bounced back from that. She’s special.”
Oleg’s chin rose slightly. “So, Khatanga helped forge her?”
Forge her? Scott thought on that. Had Khatanga not happened, had she not been utterly devastated, would she have become the tough young woman he so admired? Maybe she wouldn’t have. She had come to Novosibirsk on top of the world. She was pretty, confident, and highly praised as a graduating scout. Were it not for Khatanga, she might have grown complacent. A complacent Esther. Scott couldn’t imagine that. “Yeah, I guess maybe it did. Where is this going?”
“So, Khatanga made Esther what she is now: one of your most trusted operatives—a covert killer.”
“I don’t know if I’d describe her like that.”
Oleg’s voice lowered. “Oh, I would.” His normal tone returned. “What happened in Khatanga, Remington, that almost ruined her?”
A knot formed in Scott’s stomach. Talking about this with anyone made him uneasy. Talking about it with Oleg made it disgusting. “I happened.” Esther’s comm error hadn’t been the catalyst for her undoing that day. Her undoing began when Scott struck her in the face.
“I remember that day,” Oleg said. “I remember your viciousness. I admired it.”
“Where the hell is this going?”
Oleg stopped pacing. “Esther is what she is because of you. You hit her. You stripped her of her pride, utterly defeated her.” He gestured with a hand. “And in doing so, you revealed her greatest attributes. You showed yourself—and her—what her true strengths were, that she might be rebuilt for a greater purpose. Look at her now.”
Enough was enough. “Get to the point, now.”
“You believe everything happens for a purpose, don’t you? You believe in God—destiny?”
“Yes, yes, whatever.”
“So you were purposed—destined—to defeat her, so that she might achieve her highest potential, right where she is now, under your command?”
Wait a second. That was something to chew on. Could God script out an evil destiny? Could God ordain someone like Scott to commit evil in order to bring out the ultimate potential in others? That was a dangerous line of thinking. If Scott actually believed that, he might as well go down the Fourteenth’s roster, “defeating” everyone to bring out their potential. What a horrible purpose that would be: to batter his operatives, one at a time, for the sole purpose of making them effective subordinates in his unit. Slaves in his little empire.
Slaves in his empire.
…oh my God.
The Bakma. The Ithini. The Nerifinn. Scott’s memories raced to the conversation he’d had with Tauthin.
You know nothing of shame. Your world will fall as all worlds have fallen—as all worlds will fall. You will be judged as all have been judged. Surrender and be destroyed. Resist and be sustained. You will herald the Golathochian Subjugation.
Oleg hadn’t been talking about Scott and Esther—he’d been talking about the Khuladi. The Khuladi and the species they defeated. Their slaves. “They’re defeating us to rebuild us. For them.”
“It is a concept you should know well,” Oleg said.
Oleg’s smarminess was lost in the shock of the realization, as all at once, everything came together. The Khuladi were attacking humanity to ultimately use them, to bring out humanity’s potential, to learn how they could best be used for their purposes, just as Scott knew how to use Esther after “rebuilding” her. Everything was starting to make sense—even the style of Alien War. For a decade, the world wondered why the aliens never sent the full load. But the Khuladi couldn’t. It would go against their purpose of sizing up the human species. They needed to see how humanity would react to pokes and prods, to witness Earth’s mettle firsthand. Resist and be sustained. Put up a fight and prove your worth. And what had Earth done since the Alien War began? Founded a global defense network. Set up bases across the planet. Organized the most advanced, effective, and massive military in the history of their species. Reached their ultimate potential. There was only one thing left for the Khuladi to do.
Claim their prize.
“The Khuladi are driven by religion,” Oleg said. “War is not their choice. It is their divine duty. They believe themselves to be God’s sharpening rod. Only through them can other species become all that God purposed them to be.”
Something didn’t add up. “Tauthin told me that humanity will ‘herald the Golathochian Subjugation,’” Scott said. “It sounds like the Khuladi were already looking past humanity, like we weren’t even their ultimate target. Like their true goal was to conquer the Ceratopians.”
“That is correct.”
“Do the Ceratopians know this?”
“Yes.”
Scott’s mind raced. “So if the Khuladi and Ceratopians both know that we’re not the ultimate goal, why are both species even wasting their time with us instead of focusing on each other?”
“What were Japan and America racing to control in World War II?”
Racing to control? Scott thought on that. What was critical to both nations? What had to be controlled for either side to win? The answer struck him startlingly fast. “Midway.”
Oleg held out his arms. “Welcome to Midway.”
Oh my God. Earth wasn’t a prize at all. It was a staging point. Humanity was living on Interstellar Midway.
“When God made the universe,” said Oleg sarcastically, “He put us in a very bad place.”
The Khuladi didn’t necessarily even want Earth. They just needed it. And the only way for the Ceratopians to prevent that from happening was to take Earth first. Whoever owned it owned a strategic advantage. It was all about location. In the grand scope of the universe, Scott suddenly felt unfathomably small.
“You asked what happened in Confinement today,” said Oleg. “Today, the general saw how the Khuladi conquer worlds. It made him…” The fallen eidolon’s words trailed off.
“It made him what?”
“It made him afraid.”
Thoor, afraid? Scott could never believe that. Thoor was a machine. He was The Machine. That anything could scare him was unimaginable.
Motioning to the table, Oleg said, “That is what we are discussing now. Previously, the general’s plan was to take the war to the Khuladi. Send a Noboat into Khuladi space and show them that we will not wait around for them to arrive—send them a message.” He looked at the general and his counsel. “I do not know what the plan will be now.”
The true meaning of the “Race for Earth.” Interstellar Midway. EDEN Command had to know these things already. How could they not?
“You have not heard everything yet,” Oleg said quietly. “The general learned something else today. He learned that one species held off the Khuladi. Your Bakma friend called this species the Nemesis. After pushing back the Khuladi, they disappeared. Finding them and defeating them are the Khuladi’s true goals—even more so than conquering the Ceratopians. They call this future war the War of Retribution. It is the war to come.”
Scott nodded. “The Khuladi want revenge.”
“A concept you know well.” Scott’s eyes narrowed at the dig. Oleg continued as if there’d been no dig at all. “The Ceratopians are not the Nemesis. At least, we do not think so. They have run far too disorganized a campaign. The Nemesis must be someone else.”
“So that’s everything?”
“No.” The bearded Russian stared with disdain. “Alexander Nijinsky.”
Alexander Nijinsky? “What?”
“He fought with you in Verkhoyanskiy. At least, according to the final report.”
Scott tried to remember. What Russian had fought with him in Verkhoyanskiy? He remembered Tkachenok and someone named Papanov.
Nijinsky…Nijinsky…
Yes! He remembered Nijinsky. The slayer he’d tried to save. He and Esther had gone after him. “I remember.”
Oleg said nothing at first. He simply turned his head to the general’s table. Finally, he drew a cold breath. “It was him.”
Blinking, Scott looked at him strangely. “What was him?”
No response came from Oleg. He only turned back to Scott, looking his American counterpart straight in the eyes.
And right then, it registered. Scott’s face fell as his body went numb. Lightheadedness struck him, as if gravity had suddenly been turned off.
It was him.
“Now, Nightman, you know everything.” Stepping backward, Oleg motioned to Thoor’s counsel. “When you are ready to tell us everything, join us at the table.”
Nijinsky…Nicole…
His eyes started to shimmer.
…Nicole…
The slayer he’d tried to save. The one he’d almost rescued.
Had only I known. I’d tried to save him.
“One more thing,” said Oleg, pausing in his exit to turn briefly to Scott. “When they recovered Nijinsky’s body, there were no plasma burns. Just a clean bullet hole in the center of his head.” Very faintly, the fallen eidolon smirked. “Now isn’t that interesting?”
A bullet hole? That was impossible. Nijinsky had been killed by the Bakma while Scott was moving alone through the ship. Esther told him herself.
Esther.
Scott’s numbness was replaced by a chill. Esther had lied to him. She had covered up a bullet hole. There was only one reason Scott could think of for her to have done that. Esther had known who Nijinsky was. And she’d taken his life herself.
In a single moment of vigilantism, Esther had avenged the death of Nicole. She’d taken that right away from Scott. Maybe in her mind, she’d spared him from it.
Scott closed his eyes. One strike in Khatanga. That was all it had taken to mold a promising young woman into his image. Just like the Khuladi intended to do with Earth. What kind of species would humanity become?
His thoughts were interrupted by Thoor. “Come and speak, Remington.”
“Come and speak,” mocked Scott under his breath. Speaking was the last thing he felt like doing now. But a deal was a deal. Eyes in check, Scott returned to Thoor’s table.
The gazes that met him were colder than before—unsympathetic to what Oleg had told him. Saretok, Antipov, Marusich, Krylov…a motley crew of monsters. Thoor said nothing, staring patiently at his American killer. And just like that, Scott had the floor. “Something happened in Verkhoyanskiy that I left off my report,” he said stoically. He didn’t care if that offended them or not. “While traversing the Battle Cruiser, I encountered a pair of Ceratopians. They were tattered, beaten up. One of them tried to speak to me.”
Saretok scowled. “Ceratopians do not—”
“They don’t try to speak, right?” said Scott, cutting the colonel off. “Well this one did, idiot.” Saretok’s face flushed; Scott went on. “For whatever reason, what he told me stuck with me. He said ‘Der Achaar verratet dich.’” The moment Scott said it, Thoor’s, Oleg’s, and Antipov’s eyes widened. They already knew what the German meant. “The Archer betrays you.”
Saretok turned to Thoor. “How long ago was Verkhoyanskiy? And he tells us this now?”
“Go on, Remington,” Thoor said.
Scott resumed. “The Ceratopian made it personal. He gave me his name, then asked for mine. Then he rephrased it to say, ‘The Archer betrays Remington.’”
Immediately and not rudely, Antipov took over. “There are only so many explanations for this, general. If we assume that the alien indeed tried to say Archer, then we must attribute that to interspecies diplomacy. Archer is not president, nor anyone prominent. He is a new judge. How would an alien know his name without pretense?”
Leave it to the leader of the eidola to put something together that quickly. “We think,” Scott said, “the Ceratopian was trying to get in touch with Klaus Faerber. Why else would he choose German?”
“We?” asked Thoor, raising an eyebrow.
Scott nodded. “I told my unit this same information today.”
For the first time, the Terror glared directly at Scott.
Antipov spoke again. “The Ceratopian would only know this if he knew Archer was in contact with other Ceratopians. He would not know anything about the Bakma. That begs the question, why? Why would a Ceratopian reveal a conspiracy involving his own species?” He looked at Scott. “What condition was the alien in?”
“Very poor. Little to no clothes, body badly beaten. He didn’t look good at all.”
“What was the alien’s name?” Thoor asked.
“H`laar.”
Silence came over the table. This had obviously been more substantial information than they’d expected to hear. For all Thoor had known, Scott could have been bluffing his way into the Throne Room. He wondered what was going through Thoor’s head now.
Saretok cleared his throat. “That battle site, it was intercepted by General Platis.”
Platis! That’s who that general was.
“He was sent by EDEN Command. It is likely he knew H`laar was on board.”
Antipov shook his head thoughtfully. “But how would he know? Someone would have had to tell him, and being that it was a Ceratopian ship, his source would have had to be Ceratopians themselves. That H`laar would willingly reveal Archer’s intentions makes it doubtful that he would also reveal his location to someone who works under Archer.” He paused. “What if H`laar was a prisoner?”
“Of other Ceratopians?” asked Saretok.
“Yes.”
Leaning back in his chair, Saretok folded his arms in thought.
Scott had never considered that before—but it made a degree of sense. What if H`laar and his bodyguard were prisoners of war? What if they’d come to Earth to reach Faerber but got intercepted by other Ceratopians first?
“We need more information,” said Thoor. “Where was H`laar taken? We must learn this.”
Scott already knew that answer—Cairo. But he wasn’t quite ready to disclose it yet. Anything he knew that Thoor didn’t was an advantage in Scott’s eyes. An advantage to what, exactly? He didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. The principle just seemed sound. “My crew is already working on it. We’ve been looking up other things, too, like Archer. If he’s betraying us, we need to know how. What constitutes betrayal in a Ceratopian’s eyes?”
Thoor’s displeasure was apparent. “You have taken many liberties upon yourself.”
“Yes, I have.” And there wasn’t a chance he’d apologize for it—not to this tyrant.
“Your unit has until the end of the day to find H`laar’s location,” Thoor said, “or Voronova dies.”
It took the words a moment to register. “Wait, hang on…”
“With liberties come consequences. Pray your team works with diligence.”
Scott’s heart was racing. Why would Svetlana be killed? How did Thoor even know to associate the two of them. Oleg. That devil wolf had lived with them for months. He’d been taking notes the whole time.
Thankfully, Scott knew about Cairo already. But if he hadn’t mentioned it before, he couldn’t mention it now and make it obvious that he’d been hiding something. He’d have to comm Thoor with the answer after he left and before the deadline.
“It nears 1900, Remington,” said Thoor. “You should get to work.”
As Scott walked out of the Citadel, Thoor’s threat against Svetlana burned in his mind. He had the solution for it this time, but her life would surely be used against him again. And again. And again. If the Terror knew that Svetlana was leverage, he’d hold her against him repeatedly. And there was nothing Scott could do about it. Nothing except comply. Just like Svetlana’s first boyfriend, Anatoly Novikov. Novikov had been asked to stay behind with explosives to ensure their detonation. What would Scott be asked to do?
Just like he’d planned, Scott commed Thoor before the deadline to relay the desired answer, that H`laar and the Ceratopians from that mission had been shipped to Cairo. What Thoor intended to do with that information, Scott didn’t know.
As for the other information, such as information on Archer and the possible conspiracy, the Fourteenth had indeed been hard at work searching for answers. Regarding Archer, the judge’s official biography did little to label him as anything but an ideal High Council candidate. Ironically enough, though, Archer’s most decorated field was in Xenobiology. It might have been nothing, but there was always a chance it was some sort of connection. And all of it was contingent on finding out if Achaar was truly H`laar’s word for Archer. Until verified, this was all still just theory.
Unfortunately, no one in the Fourteenth was savvy enough in lawyer speak to determine if any of EDEN’s policies stood out as “traitorous.” That particular group study had been a lesson in frustration. Just the same, the night felt productive.
And almost complete.
There was one other thing that Scott needed to do before the sun set: talk to Esther about Nijinsky. He’d already called her to his room, though the scout didn’t know why. The fact that the meeting would be held at ten o’clock at night would undoubtedly tip Esther off that something was amiss. And something was. Esther had no idea what was awaiting her in Scott’s room, that he planned to talk to her about her murder of Nijinsky. Truth be told, Scott wasn’t sure what awaited either. He scarcely had a plan on how to proceed. He just knew it had to be done. He wanted to look her in the eyes and ask her for the truth. It might not have mattered in the grand scheme of the Fourteenth, but it mattered to him. It mattered for his sanity.
It mattered for Nicole.
At exactly ten o’clock, the knock came to his door. Esther. Opening the door and stepping aside, Scott allowed Esther in. The Briton smiled nervously, tucking her hair behind her ears as she eased into the room, her dark lashes flickering to Scott, then away.
“Captain.”
Up until that moment, Scott had been able to temper his emotions. But this would be hard. Esther had looked into the eyes of Nicole’s killer. If what Oleg hinted at was true, then Esther had pulled the trigger—seen Nijinsky’s life taken away.
Anger. Confusion. Sympathy. Scott felt all of those sensations at the same time. He didn’t even know where to begin. But he didn’t have to. His eyes welled the moment he eased the door shut. He didn’t want her to see him cry—but she would notice his failure to turn around and look at her. She’d notice that he was just staring at the door.
She noticed.
“Captain…?” Surprise was in her voice.
He kept looking away. All he could see was Nijinsky and Nicole. All of this rage, all of this torture, for over six months. Half a year of turning Nicole’s picture away when he put on his Nightman uniform. Half a year of not knowing anything. But Esther…she had known. She’d avenged Nicole’s murderer. Taken Scott’s place.
Scott could barely see through the saline. He knew he’d barely be able to talk. But the question had to come out—even if forced.
“C-Captain?” Now Esther’s voice trembled. Moistened eyes or not, Scott turned around. When Esther saw the look on his face, she covered her mouth. The Briton’s own eyes started to well. As if she already knew.
“Why’d you do it?” The question strained to escape.
“Captain, what…?”
“Nijinsky,” Scott spat. “Why did you do it?”
Esther’s face twisted horribly. Her emotions broke down. She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t even speak. Staring at the floor, she shook her head and cupped her hand over her eyes. Right then, Scott knew it was true.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” His words came out angry. Scolding.
Her voice stuttered and shook. “I don’t know, I don’t know!”
Scott stormed toward her. “She was my wife! My wife, the love of my life!”
“I am so sorry, Scott!” Eyeliner trailed down her cheeks. Her voice pled with him. “Please, I am so sorry!”
“What were you thinking?”
“I…” Her words stammered away.
“Tell me!” He was losing it. “Tell me, Esther, because I’m dying to know what made you think you had the right to avenge her on my behalf!”
“I…” She was desperate for an answer. Searching, panicking. Then it came out. “Scott, I love you!”
Scott just blurted it out: “Whoa.” The first thought that struck him was that he hadn’t heard her correctly. But the Briton’s reaction confirmed it.
“I am so stupid,” she cried, looking away and shaking her head. “God, what am I thinking?”
Scott’s mind went blank. Devoid of anything but awareness of the three words she’d spoken. He felt totally numb.
“I love you, Scott!” She said again, staring straight at him. “I have wanted to say that for so long.”
No…Esther, God, no…
“I would fight for you, I would die for you! I would go to hell for you.” Whatever was inside her was all pouring out. “The way you make me feel, when I think of how right we are, how good we could be…”
He looked away. This isn’t real. He ran his hand through his hair.
“That’s why I killed him,” she said. “That’s why I didn’t even think about it. I wanted him to pay for what he did to you. He needed to pay!”
“I never asked you for this!” Scott said, voice booming as he spun around. “I never asked you to make him pay!” He pointed hard at himself. “That was for me—me—to choose. And I chose to let it go!”
The sting of those words was apparent. But she was about to be stung again. He had to say it. It would hurt, but he had to say it. She needed to know this. “I don’t love you.”
She sputtered through tears. “Scott, please, I know you’re saying that now, but if you just give me a chance to—”
“Esther, no,” he said with finality. “There is nothing you can do.”
And that was it. Her tears slowed. Her expression changed. Numbness.
The look of despondency that came over her affected him instantly. I shouldn’t have said it like that. It was too late to take the words back. It was what he’d felt. He needed to calm down for both their sakes. “Look—I’m sorry.”
She wiped her eyes. For several seconds, she made no response. Then slowly, she nodded her head. “I’ll have my things packed tonight.” The life in her voice was gone. “If you want to move me.”
“Esther…”
“I’m so sorry I did this to you, Scott. I am a fool.”
This wasn’t what he wanted at all. This wasn’t how it was supposed to have gone.
She made her way to the door. Scott reached out to stop her; she lifted her hand. “No. Please. It’s okay.”
“I’m not ready for a relationship yet,” Scott said. “Esther, I’m just not ready.”
His words went unheard. The British scout opened the door and stepped into the hall. Only when she was completely out of his room did she turn around. “Svetlana is the luckiest woman in the world.”
And that was it. That was the last thing she said. Scott couldn’t even respond.
Then she was gone.
The rest of that night was like a dream. With every motion Scott made, with every task he fulfilled before bed, his stomach felt more and more upset. His intention with Esther had been to learn the truth about Nijinsky’s death and to close the case on a perpetual distraction in the form of Nicole’s killer. Now he’d created a new distraction for he and Esther both.
How could this have happened?
Esther said Svetlana was the luckiest woman in the world. That was the first time he’d realized what their rivalry was all about. It hadn’t just been about territorial women. It’d been about him. Customarily, a soldier wasn’t supposed to be in love with their commanding officer. But what made Esther different from Svetlana? Only that Scott felt attracted to the latter.
Nicole, Svetlana, Esther. When would this stop? It was like riding a roller coaster that never turned its nose up. At some point, it had to.
Where do we go from here?
Esther was one of his most trusted and effective operatives. Her evolution had revolutionized what the Fourteenth was as a squad. The fully-functional Noboat, one of Thoor’s most prized possessions, had been captured by Esther. Esther had come to Scott’s rescue on a snowmobile to help save Max, Tanneken, and the injured operatives in the Krasnoyarsk federal building. Her deeds were painted across everything the Fourteenth accomplished. She’d always had a chip on her shoulder; that made her special. But had she just been trying to prove something to Scott? Had he been her motivation? And now, was that motivation gone?
Give her more credit than that.
A mission. That’s what Scott wanted now, more than anything else. Something to distract him by force. Something normal. Turning off the lights and tucking himself in, Scott closed his eyes and waited for sleep to find him. Eventually, it did.
He dreamed of Khatanga.
10
MONDAY, MARCH 12TH, 0012 NE
0645 HOURS
EDEN COMMAND
JUDGE LEONID Torokin watched eagerly as the blacked-out Vulture entered EDEN Command’s underground hangar, emerging from one of the many tunnels that spilled out into the massive chamber. As the transport touched concrete, a grin stretched across the ex-Vector’s face. Opening his arms widely, he approached the ship as soon as its doors opened. “Ahhh!”
The young man who met him—at least, young by Torokin’s standards—had a similar reaction. Tossing his duffle bag to the floor, he slammed against the judge in a fist-pounding embrace. The hug lasted a moment before they pulled back.
“What is all of this?” Torokin said in Russian, pointing to the overstocked duffle bag. “Are you moving in?”
The newcomer laughed, picking the bag up. “What do you think it is?”
“Tell me you did not bring your armor…”
“Absolutely, I brought it! Did you think I would leave it in Germany? This is all about first impressions.”
Torokin placed his hand against the man’s back as he led him from the hangar. “I have hyped you for two weeks—you do not need to impress them any further.”
The younger man smirked. “If you’ve been hyping for me for two weeks, I may already be in trouble.”
His name was Alexander Kireev, though to everyone who knew him, he was simply Sasha. Torokin knew him better than almost anyone. That was because Sasha was a member of Vector Squad.
And Torokin’s nephew.
Their family ties were a technicality. Ten years previously, Torokin’s oldest sister had married Sasha’s divorced father. The result was the addition of a nephew—Torokin’s only one—to the family. Despite their relation, they never referred to each other by family titles. They were simply two men with a common interest: tactical combat. It was only fitting that when the Alien War began, both men ended up in EDEN.
At twenty-seven years old, Sasha was one of the younger members of Vector Squad. He had been acquired to replace the only member of Vector squad to ever be kicked out: EDEN’s black sheep, a man by the name of Todd Kenner. Kenner had been Vector Squad’s scout, and the only scout to ever be distinguished as a Type-3, superior in tactical combat and observations. Kenner’s supremacy had demanded the unique classification. An accusation of rape had demanded his release. It was an unfortunate, if not unsurprising end to the one of the more unsettling careers in EDEN history. It had also opened the door for Sasha to replace him.
Sasha was a Type-1 scout: tactical combat. He looked anything but. Unassuming in build outside of being generally toned, Sasha bore an appearance more akin to an office worker than a lethal weapon. He was five feet and ten inches tall—relatively short for a military elite—and maintained a look that was the definition of clean cut. His brown hair was short and neatly trimmed down to his sideburns, and he had no facial hair. His face did have distinctly sharp features, including fairly sunken eyes and a pointed nose, but otherwise he looked as typical as any whitecollar on the street.
Despite both their claims to Vector, Torokin had never fought alongside his nephew. The controversy of Todd Kenner had occurred after Torokin had retired from Vector to become a judge. In fact, it was due to Torokin’s adamant recommendation that Klaus Faerber accept Sasha into Vector—much to Faerber’s delight. On more than one occasion, the Vector Squad captain had called Torokin specifically to praise Sasha’s addition to the team.
As Sasha walked down the hall, his eyes constantly roamed. “I keep looking for someone famous,” he said, laughing.
“They are not as interesting as you might think,” Torokin replied. “So, update me. How are things in Berlin?”
“Things are things, I suppose. We are still recovering from Stockholm.” He chuckled. “I don’t want to talk about Vector. I am here—I want to know what goes on in this place! How are things in the world of bureaucracy?”
“Ugh.”
“They are that bad?”
Torokin wasn’t sure where to begin. The past few months had been a lesson in frustration, beginning with Novosibirsk. The EDEN withdrawal from the renegade Russian facility had been the catalyst for a four-month span of awkwardness amid the Council. It had been an executive decision by Pauling that hadn’t been supported by anyone else. Eighty percent of EDEN’s personnel had been removed from the Russian facility already, with ten percent scheduled to be transferred by the end of the month—Pauling’s retirement. The final ten percent would be entrusted to the next president of EDEN, Malcolm Blake.
“I hate bureaucracy,” Torokin finally answered.
“Don’t be so negative,” said Sasha. “I just got here. I don’t want my expectations dashed so quickly.”
Torokin smirked. “If that is your wish, then turn around and get back on the transport.”
There was good cause for Torokin’s pessimism. On top of the neverceasing drama about Thoor, the past months had seen a decrease in overall mission success rates from EDEN ground forces. The decrease was subtle enough to remain off the lead topic list, which Torokin considered a dangerous oversight. This trend began after the Council had taken dispatch permission privileges away from EDEN bases and into their own hands. What had originally been a new protocol to test Novosibirsk’s loyalty had quickly grown tentacles.
Casualties on the ground had increased four-and-a-half percent almost from the moment that the policy had gone into effect. With Vulture callouts dependent on permission from EDEN Command, response times had slowed, giving survivors of intercepted spacecraft time to organize their defenses. Occasionally, alien vessels were not intercepted at all. To make matters worse, the whole purpose of the policy—to trap Novosibirsk—had gone nowhere. The Machine had punched EDEN Command in the face, and President Pauling had done nothing about it. All of these things Torokin had brought up to the Council multiple times. No progress had come out of it.
“Do you have any advice for me when I address the Council?” Sasha asked, readjusting the strap of his duffle bag on his shoulder.
Torokin shook his head. “Just express Klaus’s concerns. Don’t let them intimidate you—not that any of them would try to do that. Be honest, and remember that you are not here to criticize.” He smirked. “Even though you are.”
“Ha! They are fortunate they are only getting me. The captain is not a happy person. He would never publicly criticize EDEN, but it is obvious to all of us how he feels.”
“Klaus is passionate,” said Torokin. “He has always been that way.”
Sasha nodded. “He knows we are losing this war. He said Stockholm was the greatest wake-up call he has ever received. He is even willing to work with Philadelphia.” The young Vector sighed. “I am too new to understand everything coming from Vector—it is unlike any unit I have been a part of. It is almost a political entity. But I know everyone is concerned. The captain. Vincent, Minh. Everyone.” He laughed sadly. “The other day, for example. We had to rescue a platoon from Kabul Station. It was just a single Noboat. Kabul had them outnumbered, in unfavorable position, everything to our advantage.” He frowned grimly. “Had we not been called in, every member of that platoon would have been killed. It was as if they had no training at all. It is a trend everywhere. I have never seen such poor execution.”
They stopped in front of Sasha’s assigned guest suite. “What are you doing for the rest of today?” Sasha asked.
“I have business, as I do every day,” Torokin answered. “But I thought this evening we might be able to meet for preferans.”
“Preferans? Other people play that here?”
Torokin nodded. “Two of the other judges, Dmitri Grinkov and Richard Lena. It will be good for you to meet them.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Good.”
They exchanged another fisted hug. “It is good—good—to see you, Sasha. I miss Berlin more than any of you know.”
“Thank you for recommending me for Vector,” Sasha said. “I have never served with better people.”
“I will call you when Dmitri and Richard are over.”
“I look forward to it.”
Turning, Torokin departed down the hall.
Torokin relived his years in Vector Squad every night, for there was no subject of his dreams that recurred more. His name was embedded in the unit’s lore. It didn’t matter that he’d been a judge for two years. When visitors to EDEN Command shook his hand, they never marveled at the politician before them. They marveled at Commander Leonid Torokin, former second-in-command of the most elite fighting force on the planet. Klaus Faerber’s right hand.
Torokin had been the ideal executive officer—a man with no desire to be leader but more than willing to channel the leader’s authority to the lower ranks. Torokin never could have led Vector by himself, despite the occasional instances when his rank required him to. Klaus Faerber wore shoes that were impossible to fill.
It was nice to have Sasha there. It reminded him of his purpose as a judge—to serve and represent young men like that. It was a good feeling.
But not as good as what was to come. Richard Lena had won their last game of preferans. It was a night of revenge. Three Russians and one American; Lena didn’t have a chance.
The evening couldn’t come fast enough.
 *
THE CELL WAS QUIET—only the hum of the air conditioner could be heard over the deliberate, steady breathing of its lone occupant. Bulbous eyes sealed shut, the crimson-purple alien sat in the center of the floor, knees crossed as it held a hand upright in front of its face, its other hand hovering just above its thigh, a spiritually conscious body position for a traditionally agnostic species.
The low-end holding cell was as stark as the white, featureless walls that adorned it, fitted only with a metal cot and open toilet. Unlike most low-end cells, however, this one had a complete set of blankets—also white—and a small set of dumbbells pushed in the far corner. Despite the simplicity of the additions, they were enough to render the room luxurious by Spartan standards. That was the benefit of cooperation, compliments of the only judge to consistently involve himself in alien affairs.
As the cell door slid open, the alien opened its eyes—dark blue orbs with barely discernable pupils. No Ithini was needed to form a connection. The visitor could speak perfect Bakmanese.
“We tested the prototype,” said Archer. “Made the necessary calibrations, just as you specified. We saw nothing.”
Nharassel stared ahead motionlessly. “They are not vessels designed to be detectable. Calibration without frequency is futile.”
For several seconds Archer stared at the Bakma, his expression shifting to quiet curiosity. Finally, his curiosity won. “I didn’t know you were religious.”
“I am not.”
Quiet fell over the two. Nharassel’s eyes once again sealed shut as Archer stared pensively before him. The alien’s slow, steady breathing resumed.
Archer stepped in further. “There must be a standardized set of frequencies. Even if we only knew one—”
“There is no ‘set,’” Nharassel interrupted. “Generation is random. Once the rift is established, the frequency is relayed.”
“Listen. The Golathoch need this technology. There must be something, some way to ping off an established rift to determine its frequency.”
“That is impossible.”
Stooping to Nharassel’s side, Archer looked him in the eyes. “You have been so helpful,” Archer said quietly. “A godsend. Blake and Mamoru were directionless before your willingness to cooperate. Please, Nharassel. You’ve got to give me something.”
Nharassel stared back emotionlessly, until his meditative posture finally broke. Pushing up with his hands, he rose and faced Archer fully. “Noboats are designed to be undetectable. They were constructed for that purpose. Predetermined frequencies would undermine that. Had I the knowledge you seek, I would provide it, as I have provided everything upon request. It is time for you to provide for me.”
The British judge scowled, but before he could say something in reply, his comm chirped. His glare lingered on Nharassel before he rose and turned around. “Archer here.”
Kang answered back. “An urgent matter requires your attention.”
Blowing out a breath, Archer ran his hand through his hair, his champagne strands sticking up through his fingers. “Is it truly urgent?”
“It is dire.”
Archer blinked at Kang’s response. “Very well. I’m on my way.” Turning back to Nharassel, Archer gave the alien a considerate look. Finally, he sighed. “Heavier weights?”
“Canrassi meat. It has been too long since I have tasted. That will suffice for the time being.”
“Fine. I’ll have some for you tomorrow. It’s deserved.” Turning away from the Bakma prisoner, Archer paused by the door. “If you think of anything, if you remember anything, please let me know. No time is too early or late.”
“There will be nothing,” Nharassel said without looking. “But I hear what you say.”
The discouragement in Archer’s face was evident, but he made no further remark. Turning quietly, the British judge exited the cell.
 *
TWENTY MINUTES LATER
BLAKE AND JUNE arrived at Archer’s door simultaneously, hurrying inside while Mendoza stood post in the hallway. Rath was already there, standing awkwardly along the wall while Archer bustled about frenetically. The moment he saw the new arrivals, he threw a stack of papers on his table and looked at Mendoza. “I want you in here, too, Hector. Come in and close the door.”
“What in the world’s going on?” asked June.
Walking to Archer’s table, Rath picked up the topmost paper. Scanning it, he looked at Archer quizzically. “Colonel Brent Lilan? Falcon Platoon? What’s this all about?” He looked at the next paper. “Major John Tacker. These are all dossiers.”
“My fellow conspirators,” said Archer, his voice trembling faintly. “We have…an opportunity.”
Blake and June swapped wary looks.
“Kang intercepted a message this morning from General Hutchin of Richmond, intended for Pauling. The Ceratopian vessel—the one with H`laar’s loyalists—was isolated by that unit, Falcon Platoon. After the mission, their colonel met with Hutchin to discuss his belief that the vessel’s crash was not accidental, as reported, but due to neutron fire from a separate Ceratopian ship.” Panicked looks struck the others’ faces. “Colonel Lilan went so far as to suggest the possibility of multiple factions amongst the Ceratopian species. Hutchin wants Pauling to investigate.”
“Oh my God, that was last week,” said Rath quickly. “Did this message make it to Pauling?”
“No. Apparently, Hutchin didn’t consider it credible enough to reach the top of his priority list. He only sent it Sunday night. It never got past Kang’s filter.”
“Pauling can’t be allowed to know about this,” Rath said. “If he looks into this and finds something worth poking around for…”
“We need Colonel Lilan and his whole platoon to disappear,” said Archer. “Falcon Platoon is comprised mostly of young soldiers, many of whom are alphas. That means they’re inexperienced and eager, which means if word of this trickles down to the lower ranks, which it may already have, they’re going to talk. To friends, to family, to anyone who’ll lend an ear. Before we know it, Lilan will be discussing this in press conferences.”
June crossed her arms contemplatively. “We could use an interception. A false callout. Dispatch them somewhere isolated—a swamp. Blame it on purported Noboat signatures, report of a possible landing, or something, then have a squadron of Superwolves meet them halfway.”
Rath nodded absently. “You could have a Vulture happen to be passing through there at the time. Land it at the scene to take care of survivors.”
Before anything else could be said, Blake lifted his hand. “Hold on please, for one moment. Are we actually talking about assassinating a platoon? Lying to a major facility, sending a unit on a false callout, then shooting them down?”
“If it must be done,” said June.
“Listen. This goes beyond strategic organization. This is becoming actively involved in tangible operations. This is the hand of God reaching through the clouds and smiting the poor soul beneath.”
Archer eyed Blake for a moment, then looked to everyone else. “Are any of us not prepared for that step?” After no one replied, he looked at Blake again.
The black Briton held out his hands peaceably. “I’m only making sure we’re actually talking about what we’re talking about. This is drastic. This should not be taken lightly.”
“This is drastic on infinite levels,” said Archer. “There’s the public, the media, Pauling pushing back his retirement to cement his legacy by investigating a breakthrough. Right now, the population lives in a world of black and white, where the Ceratopians are evil, and that’s the end of it. Things need to stay that way at all costs.”
Blake interrupted gently, cleared his throat. “You said when we walked in that we had an opportunity. What did you mean by that, exactly?”
“I’m about to tell you,” Archer answered, eyeing Blake specifically. “As well as answer your question from yesterday. As you all know, for the past several months, we have been ‘collecting’ aircraft from Novosibirsk. It is time to tell you why.”
Mendoza raised a hand. “We have? I did not know this.”
“You weren’t in that conversation,” said June scrupulously. “If you could even call it a conversation.”
“The ships are here?”
Shaking his head, Archer answered, “No, Hector. They’re being kept off-site. This isn’t something the rest of Command know.”
“Oh.”
Archer’s gaze returned to the others. “On numerous occasions, we have attempted to draw attention to General Thoor and Novosibirsk, and on numerous occasions, the Council have failed to take action. Thoor ignored our new regulations, without reprimand. He even massacred our agents in front of Malcolm and Carol’s very eyes. His punishment? President Pauling began a transfer procedure to remove all EDEN personnel from Novosibirsk, essentially handing Thoor the base on a silver platter. It has been made abundantly clear that treasonous acts alone are insufficient to make the Council take action. So we’re going to up the ante.”
The others listened intently.
“Over the past several months, we have collected four Vindicators and two Vultures from Novosibirsk, essentially waiting for ships to be damaged enough to be discarded or sent in for repair. We then routed the ships to a private hangar instead of Atlanta. My plan was to use these vessels, all registered to Novosibirsk, to assault a civilian target.” The others sat erect. “If treasonous acts won’t affect the Council, perhaps terrorist ones will.”
“Now wait a second,” said June, “you said that this was an opportunity. Are you suggesting that we assault Falcon Platoon with these ships?”
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
June held back a smirk. “I love this plan.”
“The glory of this is that the blame goes directly to Thoor,” Archer said.
June raised a hand. “But wait. Why would Thoor attack this platoon? He’d have to have a reason to single them out.”
“Oh, believe me,” answered Archer. “He will.” Moving some of the papers aside, he selected the dossier at the bottom, holding it out for June to see.
Her eyes widened. “You must be joking.”
“Joking, I am not,” said Archer, walking back to the room’s forefront. “Strom Faerber is being assigned to Falcon Platoon.” When Strom’s name was mentioned, the whole room tensed. “I helped organize this some time ago. Klaus wanted him somewhere low profile, out of danger. He arrives on base today.”
His displeasure apparent, Blake paced. “You want to talk about problems on infinite levels? Kill Strom Faerber and that qualifies tenfold. How is Klaus going to react?”
“Exactly like we need him to,” answered Archer. “Anger, rage, hostility—everything we need directed at Novosibirsk. If we get the face of EDEN to turn on The Machine, public opinion will support a military operation.” He folded his arms. “Our job is to control the dissemination of information as it suits our needs. We deny any mission orders were sent to Falcon Platoon. We claim the dispatch originated from Novosibirsk on a hijacked EDEN Command frequency, and we back it up by saying, ‘here are the serial numbers of all hostile vessels, all registered at Novosibirsk.’ Lilan and Falcon are silenced, with the added bonus of having Vector on our side. The world turns on Thoor, and we launch a justified full-scale military assault on The Machine.”
Pressing his palms against his forehead, Blake said, “I can’t believe we’re talking about this.”
“These are the kinds of steps we’ve discussed before. It’s natural to be apprehensive before taking them.”
“This is diving headfirst,” answered Blake. “But if it’s truly an opportunity to pin blame on Thoor, we must take advantage. Even I won’t deny that.”
“We absolutely must.”
“Then I support it.”
A relieved smile appeared on Archer’s face. He stood erect. “Everyone be prepared. When news breaks out, it’s going to be big. Be ready to handle the media, Carol.”
“I always am.”
“My friends,” said Archer, “this is the moment we’ve all been waiting for. The culmination of our time and effort. It measures beyond us, into the scope of our entire species and existence. This is our coronation, our becoming…and it shall be glorious.” He smiled disarmingly. “There’s no need to meet about this again. We implement the plan, and we react accordingly. Kang and I will oversee the investigation.”
Nothing was said by the other judges as they made their way into the halls, still secured by the posted deputies. The lone exception was Carol June. The auburn-haired judge lingered behind until she and Archer were alone.
“It’s hard to fluster Malcolm Blake,” she said mirthfully. “Nice job.”
“He’s a professional.” Glancing out of his doorway, Archer ensured that Blake was nowhere near. “He’s not accustomed to improvisation like this.”
She smirked. “Then he’d better get accustomed, shouldn’t he?” Without another word, June made her departure.
Stepping into the hallway, Archer closed the door to his suite behind him, the security latch engaging as soon as the door was shut. Walking straight away from the wing of judges’ suites, he marched toward Intelligence. As promised, no more meetings were called.
 *
THAT NIGHT
SPRIG SMOKE FILLED Judge Torokin’s suite as the mixed scents of mint, tobacco, and hazelnut filtered through the air. The four men—Judges Torokin, Grinkov, Lena, and the newly arrived Sasha Kireev—were seated around a small circular table, cards in all but Lena’s hand for a night of preferans.
Preferans was a Russian card game—one forced upon Lena, the sole American of the crew, by his two Russian counterparts from the Council. It was one of the few games that was meant to be played with only three people, making it a perfect fit for the trio of judges. With Sasha as a guest, Lena had been relegated to the role of dealer—at least for this round.
“Six in seconds,” proclaimed Torokin from Lena’s left. It was a bid, with seconds a reference to the suit of clubs—the second lowest suit in the game. The hierarchy went spades, clubs, diamonds, then hearts. Torokin was betting that he could win six sets, or tricks. Six was the minimum allowable wager.
“Pass,” said Grinkov.
Sasha eyed his hand in silence. Only after several faint facial twitches did he announce his bid. “Seven in fourths.”
Both Russian judges raised their eyebrows. “Seven in fourths?” asked Torokin. It was an extremely high bid—one that wagered Sasha would win seven tricks with the heart suit and whatever else was in his hand. On the flip side, Torokin and Grinkov only had to win two. “I defend,” said Torokin. “I want to see seven in fourths.”
“I defend,” said Grinkov.
Lena nodded. “Then seven in fourths it is.”
“Diamond’s the trump,” said Sasha.
“Makes a lot of sense,” the American said sarcastically.
“If you are bluffing,” Torokin said, looking at Sasha, “you are not a good bluffer.”
The Vector scout smiled. “Who says I am bluffing? Put down your first card.”
Torokin laid down an eight of hearts. Grinkov placed a six. After a short pause, Sasha placed down a nine. Smiling, the scout pointed at his temple and claimed the cards. “Trick number one.”
Torokin exhaled a plume of hazelnut. “I still do not believe it. I have too many hearts for you to have enough, and I know Dmitri must have some.”
“And how many hearts do you have?” Sasha asked.
“I have three more. I had four hearts total out of a possible nine, and Dmitri had at least one. That is five out of nine, at least, and diamond is the trump. You had better have a lot of diamonds.”
Sasha chuckled. “Just make your play.”
Preferans had always been popular in Russia, dating back from the pre-Soviet years of the Old Era all the way to the Soviet Recapture. Outside of Eastern Europe, few others knew of the game—or knew it well enough to compete. It was a simple concept with notoriously complicated scoring.
As play continued on, the conversation shifted. “So, I have a question for the three of you,” Sasha said. “You all know why Captain Faerber wanted someone to address the Council. It is because of these new regulations. And I know from the captain that these new regulations were put in place to test the loyalty of General Thoor. He heard this from you, correct?” he asked Torokin.
Grinkov and Lena eyed Torokin, who sighed red-handedly.
Sasha went on. “What exactly is the Council’s plan for Novosibirsk? Has the test worked?”
There was a span of silence before Judge Lena answered. “If by worked you mean shown us that Thoor couldn’t care less what we do, and that he’ll stab us in the back—”
“Or the front,” interjected Grinkov.
“—at the drop of a hat, then yes, the regulations worked.”
The scout nodded. “So is there still a need for the regulations? It is the captain’s belief that, had these regulations not been in place, Stockholm and Copenhagen could have been…well, not avoided, but lessened.”
Torokin claimed a trick from the table. “Bluffer.”
Lena laughed under his breath, then answered Sasha’s question. “To understand the situation, you’ve got to understand the original idea. We weren’t even supposed to be holding anyone else to the new regulations. It was just an excuse to get something on paper against Thoor, something we could officially react to. As to why we haven’t reacted, that’s a different situation altogether.”
“It is a stupid situation,” said Torokin. “We sent two judges to Novosibirsk to confront Thoor. He physically restrained them and forced them to watch him execute EDEN operatives.”
Sasha’s eyes widened.
“He rejected our regulations, then slapped us in the face. And we did nothing.”
“He executed EDEN operatives?”
“Spies, actually,” said Lena. “We’d placed them there to take a look around, give us a feel for everything Thoor’s got going on under the covers. But operatives just the same.”
Sasha’s mouth hung open. “Why has no one heard about this?”
“It’s complicated,” Lena answered.
Torokin scoffed. “No, it is not. Thoor punched President Pauling, and Pauling was too scared to punch back. So we are fleeing—pulling EDEN personnel from The Machine, putting them wherever else in the world they are needed. We are giving Novosibirsk to Thoor.”
After several rounds of success on Sasha’s part, Grinkov began grumbling. “My hand is terrible.”
“But what will happen, then?” Sasha asked. “Will Novosibirsk even be associated with EDEN?”
“I do not know. Some judges want to start a war. Castellnou, Archer, perhaps one or two others.”
The scout raised an eyebrow. “Are you one of them?”
“The three of us here feel we should have resolved this long ago, by whatever means would have been best at the time. It is past the point where anything we say will make a difference.”
Grinkov frowned as Sasha claimed his fifth trick. “No one likes us. It is all Leonid’s fault.”
Torokin chuckled lowly. “Do not misunderstand me, Sasha. We vote, and we speak our minds when we can. But we do not have the most valued opinions in the Council, as ridiculous as that sounds. Nor do we have the opinion that matters, which is President Pauling’s. No one is in support of his decision with Novosibirsk. Were he not so close to retirement, he might have already been voted out.”
“So then, if the regulation served its purpose, why is it still in effect?” Sasha asked. “It is hindering our ability to respond.”
Lena slid his tobacco-scented sprig from his lips. “It’s difficult to understand how hard it is to let something go until you have it. The Council has this new power now. It’s like a shiny new toy. They like it. It doesn’t matter if it’s right or wrong, it matters that it’s been written in the rulebook. All three of us would like to see it rescinded. But there’s no chance of that happening now. Power’s like a drug, even if there’s no devious intent behind it. You don’t realize you’re addicted until you’re addicted.”
“And we are addicted,” Torokin said, eyeing Grinkov as he won his first trick. “I thought you had a terrible hand?”
The overweight Grinkov chuckled. “Cards like tears.”
Sasha continued the discussion. “The whole point of my being here is to convince the Council that we are available if needed. The captain has felt disregarded in this matter. If I can convince the other judges to consider rescinding the amendment—”
Lena’s laughter cut Sasha off. “Don’t waste your breath, kid. Ain’t gonna happen.”
“But I am speaking on behalf of Captain Faerber, not myself. Surely they would consider his words.”
“You’d be surprised at how quickly reverence disappears when the revered start offering different opinions. They’ll chase you outta there like a rat from a kitchen.” The American shrugged. “But try, and I’m not saying that sarcastically. If you don’t give it a chance, you’ll regret it. Just don’t get your hopes up.”
Torokin led off the next round with a throwaway spade. “The three of us will be there for you, Sasha. We are like-minded. That is why we are here together and so often. We will all support you and do our part to further the debate. As to whether or not anyone else does, that, we will see.”
“Aha!” said Grinkov, grinning as he claimed his second trick—the game winner.
Torokin cursed and leaned back in his chair. He looked at Sasha. “I knew you were bluffing.”
The scout laughed. “I would have had it had you not started with spades.”
“One more game, yes?” asked Grinkov.
Lena stood up. “Not for me, gang.”
“He wants to play one more because he finally won,” Torokin said. “And for that, he can get the hell out of my room.”
Grinkov closed his sprig and slipped it into his coat pocket. “Just do not forget, for next time we play. I do not want to be cheated.”
“Then don’t date a pretty girl.”
“That is not a problem.”
Sasha bowed after walking to the door. “It has been a pleasure, gentlemen. I look forward to seeing you at the Council meeting tomorrow.”
“I look forward to calling in sick,” said Torokin. The others laughed. “Good night, good people.”
“Good night, Leo.”
Sasha, Grinkov, and Lena filed out into the hallway. In his room, Torokin slipped off his shirt and threw it on the floor. Comfort after company was priority one.
It was good to see Sasha again, but strange to have him in the midst of an event as familiar as preferans. He usually only saw Sasha at family events, as rare as they were. Having him in the same room with Grinkov and Lena was a merger of two very different worlds: politics and practicality.
He was looking forward to Sasha’s presentation, if for no other reason, for the High Command to finally meet the man who’d replaced Todd Kenner as Vector Squad’s scout. If not a better scout, Sasha was undeniably a better man. He deserved the Council’s praise. Torokin hoped that was what waited for him. He’d find out tomorrow. As for tonight? It was time to shower and go to bed. All good nights came to an end.
Good mornings were much harder to find.
11
MONDAY, MARCH 12TH, 0012 NE
0824 HOURS
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA
CATALINA’S BOOTS SLID in the mud, her momentum stopping only when her body slammed against the concrete pillar before her. It wasn’t the most graceful tactical halt she’d ever made, but it got her where she needed to be—behind cover within ten meters of the crashed alien ship. Or at least, the wooden building pretending to be a crashed alien ship. In a training exercise, imagination was as important as the objective.
She and the rest of Charlie Squad were converging on the structure from the east and west, in the middle of a steady rainfall that teetered on torrential. The structure was located in the valley of two small hills, with terrain that could best be described as a giant mud hole, only worsened by the weather. It was surrounded by concrete pillars and partitions on all sides, creating the closest thing to a training course that Richmond had. It was dwarfed by the elaborate courses at Philadelphia, but worked enough to suit their needs.
Catalina and her team—Mark Peters, Javon Quinton, and Leslie Kelly—were approaching the building from the east, while Donald Bell, Tom King, Demorian Mott, and Leonard Knight moved in from the west. Frank Smith, their medic, was holding back.
The way the rules worked, if a player was shot in a non-lethal area, Frank could revive them if he reached them in under two minutes. Shouldering her paintball equivalent of an E-35, Catalina waited for Mark and Javon to secure their positions. Combat technician Leslie was following them from the rear.
“Come on, Bell, give us something, already,” said Mark off-comm.
Catalina understood Mark’s frustration. Donald Bell was a delta trooper and the highest ranking member of Falcon Platoon outside of Lilan and Tacker. But he was no leader. Leadership was where Mark excelled—even Catalina would confess to that. This needed to be his mission.
“In position,” Donald said over the comm. “Comin’ up the flank.”
“That’s our cue,” Mark said, leaving the safety of his pillar and tracking for the building, his hastened steps splashing in the wet mud beneath. Behind him, Catalina and Javon covered, then moved in. Within moments, all three were alongside the outside eastern wall. Leslie took up their previous post by the pillars.
The building was decent in size, fairly larger than a Noboat. While the layout wasn’t the same, the rooms inside served their purpose well enough as avenues for the enemy. As for the enemy? They weren’t exactly aliens—but they certainly had experience killing them. The “Bakma Leader” was none other than Major Tacker. As for how many comrades he had with him, and who they were, no one in Charlie knew. This wasn’t a typical training exercise; Tacker had recruited his own help.
Water streamed down Catalina’s visor. Wiping it briefly, she regripped her paintball assault rifle. Rain was on the forecast for the remainder of the week, adding a new level of gloominess to the already frigid weather. There had been courses in Philadelphia specifically designed for combat in the elements, but that didn’t make her current predicament any less miserable. Thankfully, her helmet and armor were keeping her dry, outside of her neck and a few strands of wet hair.
She rarely worked directly with Javon, but he was a welcomed addition to her party. Besides being more physically gifted than most, he had a solid sense of awareness. He could be counted upon.
“Breachin’ the back,” said Donald through the comm.
Mark positioned himself in front of the wooden door. “In on three. One. Two. Three.” Rearing back, he bashed in the door with a solid kick. Together, guns ready, the three soldiers swept into the room. The building smelled wet and musty, like rotting wood. There were no visible hostiles.
Donald spoke again. “Clear in the back.”
“Clear up front,” answered Mark. They were in a small room with three more doors, one on each wall. Javon moved ahead to prepare for entry through the left one.
Catalina listened as rain pounded the roof. Had they not been in the middle of a mission, she might have been allured by the sound. But this wasn’t the right time.
Mark motioned to the left-hand door. “Clear it.”
She and Javon did as told, Catalina moving to the side of the door while Javon got in a position to kick it open. Thrusting forward, Javon bashed the door inward. The two soldiers moved inside. Nothing in the next room—no enemies, no doors.
“Veck,” whispered Catalina as she and Javon fell back to Mark’s room.
Mark moved next to the door along the right wall. “Quinton, help me clear this one. Cat, watch that middle door.”
Javon once again complied, tracking across the room to assist Mark. Catalina wondered if the black soldier was bothered at all by Mark’s assumption of command on their end. If he was, he made no outward sign. Dropping to a knee, she aimed her assault rifle at the middle door while the other two men cleared the right. Poor Leslie, she thought. The only other girl on the team, Leslie was stuck waiting outside in the rain. She supposed that in a real situation, Leslie would have been the lucky one—away from the danger of an alien ship. Nonetheless, it was much more comforting to be inside, away from the water and mud.
Mark kicked in the designated door. He and Javon stormed into the room, assault rifles searching for targets. No shots were fired. “Stand by, Cat,” he said through the comm. “One more door over here.”
She affirmed just as Donald’s voice emerged from the other team. “Got three rooms in the back cleared. Nothin’ so far.”
Catalina remained focused on the middle door. Part of her expected it to crash in at any moment, a flurry of paintballs along with it. Her finger hovered over the trigger as she heard Mark and Javon clear the other room.
“…it’s clear,” Mark said.
She heard the frustration in his voice. She was feeling it as well. Tacker was supposed to be here. Where was he? Her trigger finger was itching.
Mark moved back into the main room and into position by the middle door. “Has anybody heard anything yet?” he asked through the open comm.
“Nothin’,” answered Donald.
“Well, veck.”
Javon shook his head. “They gotta be through that door. Ain’t no others.”
Catalina kept steady. “I’ll cover you.”
Mark and Javon prepared to breach.
All right, Catalina thought. Here it comes, for better or worse. That no one on either side had come in contact with enemy meant the enemy had to be at the center of the structure. Sooner or later, the converging parties were going to meet. At least they’d have Tacker surrounded.
Bashing in the door, Mark and Javon swept inside. Catalina watched them aim in every direction, but once again no shots were fired.
“One more door,” Mark said. Catalina rose to follow, but Mark stopped her short. “Stay back. If we go down, you’re the only thing between them and the outside.”
She hated it, but he was right. Lingering back was never her preferred choice. “Don’t go down then, eh?” the Canadian remarked.
“We movin’ in, too,” said Donald through the comm. “Ain’t seen nothin’.”
Catalina knew that Donald’s team had to be close to meeting Mark’s. She wondered if his party members—Tom, Demorian, and Leonard—were as antsy as her team.
“Breaching the door,” said Mark.
She was already preparing for the worst-case scenario: that Mark and Javon would both fall. Despite her competitive nature, she didn’t want it to happen. There was no room for competition in real missions, and this needed to be treated like one. Sloppy execution was the reason they’d arranged this in the first place.
There was a loud crash as Mark kicked the door in, followed immediately by a second crash in the same room.
“We got a door with a lock in here,” said Mark.
“What was that second crash?” she asked.
“It was Bell. We breached the same room from both ends.”
Catalina sighed and eased her stance.
Mark went on. “Rules say we can’t bash a locked door. Leslie Kelly, get over here.”
According to exercise protocol, a locked door could only be opened by a technician, thus giving them a purpose in training situations like these. At the Academy, there were real things for technicians to deal with, such as genuine alien control panels and door mechanisms. But for something like this, it was all about role playing. At least Leslie would get to do something now. In preparation for Leslie’s entrance, Catalina turned back to the front door.
It hit her dead in the face—an eruption of yellow paint that enveloped her visor, completely blocking out her visibility. Catalina jumped; it felt like her heart leapt out of her throat.
“You’re down,” said Tacker. “Go outside.”
It took the Canadian a moment to realize what had happened. Tacker had come in from outside. He’d completely flanked everyone. And just like that, she was out of the fight.
Tacker was followed by two other men, neither of whom Catalina recognized. Without so much as a glance to her, they stalked past her in pursuit of Mark and Javon. Furious and frustrated, she ripped off her paint-covered helmet.
Gunfire erupted from the far end of the building, where Donald’s team had come. They’d been flanked, too, probably from the other half of Tacker’s squad. But Catalina was too livid to care.
Walking out through the door, she slammed her helmet to the mud. The rain was still steady, but now she didn’t care. Gun at her side, she stormed toward the concrete pillars. Leslie was there, sitting rain-soaked in the mud. The technician’s paint-splattered helmet was sheltered under her arm.
“You too?” asked Catalina.
Leslie smiled sadly. “They actually came out of the roof. Shot me before I even realized what was happening. They got Frank, too.”
Wiping her hair back, Catalina looked across the muddy field at Frank. The medic was laying back in the mud, helmet on, sprawled out like a snow angel. “How the hell’d they come out the roof?”
“Musta been a door leading to the roof from inside. I didn’t even see them until they got me.”
Gunfire raged on in the building. Catalina wondered how many Charlie Squadders had been killed, and if Mark and Javon were still holding on. But now her sense of camaraderie was gone. Now she wanted them to die.
“Have a seat,” Leslie said, patting the mud.
“I want to stand.” Catalina’s eyes stayed fixated on the wooden building. “I can’t believe I was the first to get dropped in there.” It enraged her. “I know what’s coming, too. I know what Tacker’s going to say, that this was the same way I almost got killed on that mission, from behind by a necrilid. God, that makes me so mad! How many did Tacker have with him?”
“Looked like six. Half of ’em went to the back.”
Catalina watched as her teammates walked out the front door, their armor stained with yellow spots from head to toe. It was no mystery as to who won the battle. Their body language screamed their defeat.
Tacker’s voice came over the comm. He didn’t sound pleased or frustrated. Just matter-of-fact. “Everybody, form a row.”
Leslie stood up, slipping on her helmet. “Time to get yelled at.”
Tacker emerged behind the Charlie Squadders, engaged in what appeared to be a jovial conversation with one of his fellow “aliens.” She’d never seen the man before, and could say the same thing about all of Tacker’s comrades for the exercise. She only knew they weren’t in Falcon Platoon. As Tacker’s counterpart neared, she glanced at his nametag. Donner. Never heard of him.
Tacker shook the man’s hand. “Until next time, lieutenant.”
“Lookin’ forward to it, major.”
Donner walked away, the other hostiles following behind him, leaving Tacker alone with Charlie. Tacker’s stare found Catalina, who was the only one not fully geared. “Where’s your helmet?”
Before she could explain that she’d chunked it in the mud, Mark walked past her and slammed it in her hands. It was a violent motion, one indicative of displeasure. It also made it more than obvious that in the mind of the red-haired smart aleck, the failed mission was on her. Catalina glared at him as he fell in line.
“There’s not much to be said,” said Tacker. He didn’t sound as angry as he did unsurprised. “We killed all of you, you killed two of us. You outnumbered us nine to six. I didn’t set this thing up. Grade yourselves.” With that, Tacker stepped back, turned around, and walked away. He didn’t even formally dismiss them. His manner of departure was statement enough.
That was just fine with Catalina. Pulling off her helmet again, she marched toward Mark. “Way to make it not look like my fault, you dregg.”
Mark pulled off his own helmet. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was it someone else who was supposed to be watching the rear?”
Javon stepped in. “This don’t help, guys.”
“Keep it out, J,” Tom said, approaching them. “Tramp the reason we dead.”
Catalina’s mouth fell. “What did you say?”
“You heard me, rock star. We had our six covered ’till you got your boys gassed. Scat, who you think got all our kills?”
“I bet it was you, Tom,” she spat back.
“Veckin’ straight, me and D!” Tom looked back at Demorian. “Tramp can’t check her six, get us all killed!”
“Back off her, Tom,” said Mark.
Tom turned Mark’s way. “You tellin’ me to back off? What about you? You can call it like it is, but a black man gotta be quiet?”
“Guys,” Javon said, “y’all need to calm down.”
Tom shook Javon off. “No, I wanna hear this lava-top cracka. Why you can call it like it is but a black man gotta be quiet?”
“Don’t even try to pull me into that racism crap,” said Mark.
“Wait, wait,” interrupted Demorian, speaking for the first time. “Racism crap?”
“Funny thing we only heard Peters over the comm from y’all end,” said Tom, glaring at Mark. “I guess Javon never had a chance to lead, huh? Sucks to be a brother in a team full of tighty-whities.”
Mark’s rebuttal came quickly. “Command was never even a question. Javon could have taken it, but he didn’t. How’s that my fault?”
“How come you can call it like it is with your little witch, but a black man gotta be quiet? Answer that, homie.”
“I’m about to give you more than an answer.”
“I’ll bust you in your mouth.”
Catalina stepped between them. “Okay, timeout—”
Without warning, Tom slapped her in the face. She gaped in disbelief; everyone else froze.
Tom looked squarely at Mark. “I guess a black man can’t do that either, huh?”
That was all it took. Mark launched himself, veins bulging, straight into Tom’s chest. Tom landed flat on his back in the mud. The melee began.
Mark landed two punches on Tom’s nose. Leonard grabbed Mark and flung him to the ground. Demorian leapt atop him.
Catalina screamed and tried to pull Demorian off, but Tom grabbed her from behind and threw her aside, only to be grabbed himself by Javon. Everything was happening at once. It was out of control.
“What the hell is going on?”
The crew of Charlie Squad, strewn about in the mud, quickly looked up. It was Tacker. His nostrils were flared like a horse’s.
“Get up! King, get up! Peters, Mott! Shivers! What in the hell?”
The mud-covered operatives snapped to attention.
“It’s not shameful enough that you can’t pass a simple breaching exercise? You have to degenerate into this?” His veins bulged. “You can’t succeed in the field, you can’t succeed as a team. What can you succeed at?” None of the operatives breathed. “I’ve been in EDEN for seven vecking years, and I have never—never—been this ashamed to be a part of a unit. You think this is a joke? You think you’re in college, you think this is a frat party? We’re defending the Earth!”
Catalina stared down. Raindrops rippled across the puddles beneath her. She felt totally vulnerable.
Tacker pointed at the ground by their feet. “Pick up your gear, clean yourselves off, and get to your rooms.”
She felt like a child being scolded by her father. Her sunken eyes lifted just enough to stare at the wooden building behind Tacker. The whole purpose of this had been to grow as a team—to learn. She couldn’t blame Tacker for a thing he was saying. Her focus shifted to him again, just briefly, just enough to see the look on his face as he turned to walk away for a second time. She’d never seen him like that before.
As instructed, the muddy operatives of Charlie Squad picked up their gear and made their way to their quarters. This time, no one said a thing.
 *
LILAN’S BOOTS clopped as he walked through the command wing. He was one hour away from an appointment with Strom Faerber, son of the legendary Vector Squad captain. The meeting had weighed heavily on his mind since its first being mentioned, not because of who Strom was, but because of what it meant for Lilan himself. Hutchin’s words to Lilan had been to keep Strom “clean.” Keep a potentially elite soldier out of combat.
Babysit.
Underneath Lilan’s own feelings of uselessness was disdain for the preferential treatment Strom was receiving. While his other operatives would be risking their necks on the battlefield, Strom was supposed to be kept clean? He was relatively sure that Charlie Squad wasn’t concerned about “staying clean” while they were outside training in the monsoon. The contrast made Lilan sick.
The colonel was about to round a corner when one of the glass doorways in the building swung open. He glanced habitually in its direction, pausing only when he saw who stormed through it. It was Tacker. The major was soaking wet, mud splattering his boots and uniform. He looked rabid. “John?”
Tacker’s glare found Lilan immediately. “I want out.” He marched past Lilan with neither pause nor salute.
Lilan blinked. “What?”
Tacker continued walking away.
“John? John!” Lilan’s voice rose. “Major Tacker!”
Tacker stopped and turned around, his glare matching Lilan’s tone. “I want a transfer—I want out. Demote me to lieutenant and ship me to Young’s platoon, I don’t care. I’m not doing this anymore.”
Lilan stared silently.
“You had an opportunity to do something with your career,” Tacker said. “You could retire tomorrow and spend the rest of your life knowing you made a difference. What can I say? That I wasted my time trying to train children?” He pointed back to the door as if to identify the accused. “I’ve tolerated more than my fair share in this platoon. I put up with you when you lost command’s trust. I put up with Hutchin while he defecated on everything we accomplished. I put up with missions better suited for cadets than soldiers.”
“John—”
“If you respect me, if you care at all about the loyalty I’ve shown you for years, sticking with you when others would have bailed out months ago, then send me somewhere where I can actually make a difference.”
An ache crawled from Lilan’s stomach up into his throat. It was like his thoughts coming to life—his relevance crumbling in the span of a tirade. Everything Tacker was saying was absolutely true. Lilan’s unit was green. He was babysitting celebrities. He was going nowhere. How could he force Tacker—a good soldier and a better man—to share that same fate? Slowly, Lilan nodded his head.
Tacker exhaled quietly. As if in relief. “Thank you, sir.” Shouldering his still-dripping training rifle, the major turned and walked away.
When Lilan walked into his office, he closed and locked the door. He had forty-five minutes before Strom was scheduled to meet him, but now the appointment was the last thing on his mind.
He stood in the middle of his office, his gaze floating over the rows of photographs that adorned his walls. There were no pictures of a family. None of a wife—not even a dog. Every single photograph was of Falcon Platoon. And there was one that stood out above them all. It was a picture of Falcon Platoon’s last true command staff, before the once-proud unit had been decimated in Cleveland over a year ago. There, near the center of the picture, stood a young then-commander with a sniper rifle. His was the most familiar face the colonel knew.
Walking gingerly to his desk, Lilan lowered himself into his chair. He placed his elbow on the chair’s armrest, propping his fist against his mouth as his teeth clenched behind closed lips. His jaw quivered as his aching grew worse. Then, for a second time, he found a photograph—this one on his desktop. But it wasn’t the photo itself that captured his attention. It was his own reflection in the surface of the glass. As he stared at the fatigued look in his eyes, a hard realization came to him. One that’d never come quite this way before: he was old.
Sucking in gently, he pushed back his chair and opened his drawer, pulling out a form on a single sheet of paper. A transfer request.
He filled it out with trembling hands.
12
MONDAY, MARCH 12TH, 0012 NE
1000 HOURS
FORTY MINUTES LATER
LILAN’S DETACHMENT finally ended when a knock came to his door. Standing quickly from his chair, he grabbed the sides of his uniform and tugged down hard. He cleared his throat. “Come in.” He could see the blurry form of Strom’s well-framed figure through the door’s frosted glass. The boy was big.
It had taken almost the full duration of Lilan’s time alone to fill out Tacker’s transfer request. What little time that remained had been spent in quiet reflection. Despite what his schedule demanded, the last thing on Lilan’s mind was Strom Faerber. He knew that General Hutchin saw this meeting as important—it meant a lot that Strom would be garrisoned at Richmond. But even that bothered Lilan. No soldier—son of a legend or not—should have been above an entire base. There were better things Lilan could have been doing with his time, such as training his operatives. Perhaps, had he been working with Charlie Squad instead of Tacker, the major wouldn’t have wanted to leave in the first place.
When Strom walked through the door, Lilan’s jaw almost dropped. It wasn’t the fact that Strom was a spitting image of his father, from his squared jaw, to his blond crew cut, to his bright blue eyes. It wasn’t the fact that Strom literally had rectangular shoulders. Neither of those things caught Lilan off guard. What caught him off guard was that Strom was in a suit. A black-on-black, high-fashion suit, complete with matching black tie and gray dress shirt. He looked like a CEO.
Strom closed the door, then turned to face Lilan. He assumed an attention stance that looked as awkward as it did inappropriate for his wardrobe. His expression was reserved.
Lilan couldn’t stifle his words. “Why the hell are you in a suit?”
Strom shifted uncomfortably. “It’s for the press.” His German accent, though there, was not as deep as his father’s. He spoke English almost as well as an American.
“The press?”
Strom’s voice was subdued. “Yes, sir. The media wants me to do a press conference after our meeting. They found out I’d be stationed here this morning and wanted me to address them…unless ordered otherwise.”
Lilan laughed in amazement. “You mean to tell me you intend to go straight from our meeting—your first meeting with your commanding officer—to a doggone press conference?”
The German angled his head purposefully. “Yes, sir…unless ordered otherwise…”
At the repetition of those three words—unless ordered otherwise—Lilan looked at Strom strangely. Each word had been carefully emphasized, willingly laid on the table for Lilan to dissect. Strom was giving him a hint.
For the first time, the colonel scrutinized Strom’s expression. There was something buried beneath the soldier’s confidently reserved exterior. Expectancy—with a pinch of hopefulness. All of a sudden, the truth couldn’t have been more evident. Strom had absolutely no desire to go to a press conference. Not one iota. “You hate this, don’t you?”
Strom nodded his head. “Yes, sir. Very much, sir.”
Arms crossed, Lilan stared at the soldier. His preconceived perception of Strom Faerber faded. “Why are you here, private?”
“To fight,” Strom answered immediately. “To be a soldier. To become more than my father ever dreamt of becoming. And to win this war.”
There, standing in front of Lilan, was the son of Klaus Faerber. Hyped. Glorified. And in an ironic twist of fate, undervalued. What Lilan saw on Strom’s face was deeply-seeded frustration. A young man who knew his potential, but wasn’t being allowed to reach for it. He saw someone being forced into a role he was better than. Just like a certain old colonel. “You know,” said Lilan, arms still folded, “the general told me to keep you clean.”
Strom smiled pathetically.
“Get out of that suit and into training gear, and yes, that’s an order. No press conferences today.”
“Yes, sir, thank you.” The German’s grin widened genuinely. Offering a closing salute, he quickly stepped from the room.
Lilan could hear the rain pounding outside. Strom had stayed dry so far. But that was going to change. The day was young, and the training grounds were muddy. Keep Strom clean? Not a chance.
He had a feeling the young German wouldn’t mind.
 *
CATALINA OPENED Room 419’s door and tossed down the damp towel she’d used to dry her hair. She waved lethargically as Tiffany looked from her bunk.
“Where have you been?”
Closing the door, Catalina padded to the sink. “Taking a shower.”
“Duh, I meant all day.”
“We did some training this morning. I told you that yesterday.” Looking in the mirror, Catalina eyed the pimple sprouting on her cheek. “I’m about to just pop this thing.”
“Don’t pop it. Use one of my pads.”
Pulling out the sink drawer, Catalina removed a cleaning pad. She caressed the pimple.
“So how did training go?”
“Terrible. I don’t even want to talk about it.”
Tiffany remained silent.
“You know what?” said Catalina, turning in a huff. “I do want to talk about it.” Tossing the pad in the trash, she folded her arms. “Why are men jerks?”
“Mark, again, right?”
“Mark, Tom, Major Tacker, men in general. Why are they all jerks?”
Sighing wistfully, Tiffany answered, “If we knew, we could write a book, and we’d be rich.”
Catalina collapsed into a chair. “Let’s start with Tacker. We organize this thing that’s supposed to be ‘training,’ and I’m using that term so loosely right now, and the guy doesn’t even make an effort to teach us anything. He just beats the crap out of us on a mock mission, and in a span of about fifteen minutes, he’s washed his hands of us.”
Tiffany raised a finger. “In his defense, Tacker’s job isn’t to train us.”
“His job is to keep us alive, and he can keep us alive by teaching us something.”
“In his second defense, he is very hot.”
The Canadian leered. “Just the same, how does he expect us to get better if he smacks us around on an exercise, then walks away like it was a waste of his time? Couldn’t he have taken ten minutes to talk to us, to tell us what we did wrong?”
“Do you already know what you did wrong?”
“That’s not the point, but yes. We know what we did wrong. But just listen for a minute.”
The blonde produced a stick of gum. “I’m listening.”
“So he abandons us without saying anything helpful. I understand, he was upset with our performance, but he still didn’t need to walk off like that.”
“Walking off is definitely not cool.”
“Exactly,” said Catalina. “So enter jerk number two.”
“This must be Mark.”
“Yes, it’s Mark.”
Tiffany blew a gum bubble.
“So I screwed up a bit during the exercise. I wasn’t checking my rear—”
“I bet Mark was checking your rear.”
Catalina eyed her warningly. “I wasn’t checking behind me, and Tacker came around and attacked my blind side.”
“Where was he coming from?”
“We were all in a building.”
“He circled you in the building?”
“No, actually, he had left the building.”
“How’d he leave the building?”
“He came down from the roof—let me get to the point.”
Tiffany frowned. “Sensing hostility…”
“So my guard is down, and Tacker kills us, and it’s all my fault, right? I screwed up, I can accept that. I’m a big girl.” She caught her breath. “So what does Mark do? He slams my helmet in my hands in a way that blatantly shows the world I was to blame.”
“How’d he get your helmet?” asked the blonde.
“I threw it away.”
“In the garbage?”
“On the ground!”
Tiffany sighed. “I’m so confused.”
“So then after Tacker leaves, me and Mark get in this huge fight, when in steps jerk number three.”
“And that must be Tom.”
The Canadian nodded. “Of course.”
“He’s such a loser.”
“Do you know what he called me?” Catalina asked rhetorically. “He called me a tramp.”
Tiffany gasped. “He called you a tramp?”
“He called me a tramp. So he and Mark start yelling at each other, then Tom starts accusing Mark of being a racist—”
“Mark is not a racist.”
“They start yelling back and forth, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, Tom hits me.”
Tiffany’s eyes widened. “Get. Out!”
“He actually hit me.”
“I am so totally speechless.”
Catalina moved her hands impassionedly, as if retelling the story before a classroom of children. “So Tom and his crew jump Mark, there’s a huge brawl, then Tacker runs over and breaks everything up. He was livid, but I don’t blame him.”
“Good grief,” said Tiffany.
“Oh, ha,” said Catalina, pointing to her face, “and I have a zit.”
“Oh, Cat, I’m so sorry.”
Leaning her head back, Catalina blew out a breath. Running her hand through her hair, she fell solemn. “You think Remington had days like this?”
Tiffany smiled. “Like, yah. Who doesn’t?”
“You never have days like this, Tiff.”
The pilot laughed. “Whatever. I’ve totally had days like this. Remember the onion stain?”
Caught off guard, Catalina cackled. “Right, the ‘onion’ stain. That was definitely an emergency.”
The mirthful grin remained on Tiffany’s face before the corners of her lips slowly leveled, her bemused expression becoming heavier. “Some days can be worse than today,” she quietly said.
Catalina’s brow arched curiously at the Valley Girl’s change in tone, before she too was struck by a new emotion. Sitting upright, she moaned remorsefully. “Oh, Tiff. I’m so sorry, I didn’t even…”
“It’s okay.” Tiffany smiled through shimmering lids. “I know.” Silence prevailed as the pilot rolled to face the wall, her eyes hidden from view.
Catalina chastised herself disgustedly under her breath. Failed missions, bickering comrades, and pimples were indeed all bad things. But she was living with a walking reminder that, in comparison to some things, they were the definition of trivial.
The subject of Tiffany’s tears was never brought up. Catalina primped quietly in the mirror, donned her uniform, and excused herself from the room. There was no pressing matter at hand—only respect for the privacy of her friend.
Little else happened that evening, save two small details. Shortly after leaving her room, Catalina knocked on Mark’s door. She apologized. So did he.
Then the Canadian called home.
 *
THAT NIGHT
COLONEL LILAN settled into his living room chair. Propping his bare feet atop the coffee table in the center of the room, he leaned back.
Lilan owned a house not far from Richmond base. He’d never been one for extravagancies, and the house confirmed it. It was simple—a neverending fixer upper located down the closest thing to a country road that the suburbs of Richmond could offer. But it served its purpose. It was a shelter; that was all he required. Glass of milk in hand, the dressed-down colonel took in the silence.
His day with Strom Faerber had been, if not revealing, intense. Lilan had tried to break the young German during their training exercises—to push the soldier down as low as he could. To break his will in order to strengthen it. But it hadn’t turned out that way.
Strom was a machine. He never slowed. He never tired. He never so much as placed his hands on his knees. And he had done everything with an aura of respectful professionalism that the colonel had never seen before from a private. Perhaps that was what amazed him so much. Strom didn’t act like a private. He acted like a ten-year veteran. By the end of the training session, the German had been covered from head to toe with mud—only his eyes had been visible where he’d wiped the mud away. Yet somehow, Lilan felt as if the soldier had wanted more. Strom seemed to actually like being physically uncomfortable. He liked the wear and tear of war. It had been such a positive and refreshing experience for Lilan, it was almost enough to make him forget about his conversation with Tacker.
Almost.
If you respect me, if you care at all about the loyalty I’ve shown you for years, sticking with you when others would have bailed out months ago, then send me somewhere where I can actually make a difference.
Those were the words Tacker had spoken to him. Lilan had always valued the major for his honesty. This was the first time that it hurt. Strom had been a distraction, and a good one. But not even the son of Klaus Faerber could erase the inevitable truth Lilan was facing. He was too old to be useful.
Throughout Lilan’s military career—one that spanned over forty years—he had dedicated himself to his profession. He was one of the old-schoolers. The kind of man that forsook everything—family, friends, love—for his chosen path. There was a dark reality to the Alien War, in that if it ever ended, he’d have nowhere to go. Nowhere to belong. No wife or grandchildren to spend more time with, no hobby to take up in retirement. He had nothing. And for that reason, as much as he wanted to win the war, he needed it. It was his only reason to live.
Setting down his half-empty milk glass, the colonel sat upright then bent forward, elbows over his knees as he held his head in his hands. He was tired, physically and emotionally. It wasn’t quite his bedtime yet, but it was close enough. Pushing up and groaning in the process, he rose to his feet.
Then he heard the car door.
To say Lilan rarely got visitors was an understatement. Hardly anyone even knew where he lived. But one person most certainly did, and he was the first person to come to Lilan’s mind. When Lilan looked out his side window, the civilian jeep in his driveway confirmed it—just in time for the knock at his door. It was Tacker.
Opening the door, Lilan looked at his major. Tacker was in normal clothes, a long-sleeved green flannel shirt and blue jeans. In his hand was a six pack of beer. He smiled diffidently, holding the cans up. “Hey, colonel.”
It didn’t take a psychologist to know what the visit was about. The colonel felt his heart grow a little warmer. “Come on in,” he said, pulling the screen door open.
“Were you about to turn in?”
Lilan glanced at his half-empty glass of milk. “Nah, not yet.” It was a lie he was comfortable telling.
Tacker settled down on the sofa as Lilan claimed his recliner. Placing the six pack on the coffee table, Tacker slipped one out of its plastic lining and offered it to the colonel. After Lilan accepted, he took one for himself.
Lilan cracked open the beer, covering the can’s mouth with his lips just in time to catch its carbonated hiss. Beer and milk wasn’t exactly a typical nighttime combination, but Lilan didn’t mind. Taking a sip, he exhaled and leaned back. “What brings you here tonight, major?”
Tacker set his beer down. For several seconds, he didn’t say anything. Then he sheepishly looked away. “I’m sorry, sir. About today. I…” The sentence hung for several moments, only to end in a sigh.
Try as he might, Lilan couldn’t stop a smile from emerging.
“Did you put in that transfer request, yet?” Tacker asked, looking at Lilan again.
“No, not yet.”
“Toss it out.”
Lilan raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure about that?”
Tacker’s answer was immediate. “Yeah. Oh, yeah. I’m absolutely sure.”
It was as genuine a response as Lilan could’ve hoped for, and no amount of posturing could restrain the grin that captured Lilan’s face. All of the bad feelings of the day—every ounce—was gone. Lilan set his beer down. “Right now, I am not your colonel, and you are not my major. We’re just two men having a drink. Now talk to me.”
The younger man laughed a bit. “Just talk to you, huh?”
“Yep. Just talk.”
Blowing out a breath, Tacker leaned back. Silence followed for several seconds. “I hate this job.”
Lilan looked at him strangely, the bluntness of the statement catching him off guard. Then, he laughed. “Really?”
“Yeah, really,” Tacker said, sharing the amusement. “I’m not sure there’s a single thing I like. I used to not feel that way, but now…”
“You getting ready to dust off the old resumé? Sell insurance? Fix cars?”
“I wish.” Tacker shook his head in wonderment. “How can you stand it? With the scatload of garbage that’s been tossed at us, how in the world can you keep at it, day after day?”
“Well,” Lilan said, drinking again, “I think I’m struggling as much as you are.”
“Really?”
“I’m telling you the truth. I’ve never seen anything that even remotely resembles what we’re dealing with right now in Falcon. For a whole EDEN platoon to be turned into a post-graduate course, it’s astounding to me.”
The major huffed. “I wish you could have seen them today, in that exercise they set up. Terrible. It was terrible. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen something like that post-Philadelphia.”
“That bad, huh?”
“If that had been a real mission today, they’d all have been dead. Pitiful planning, pitiful tactics. They were supposed to be doing a ship infiltration, and my team could literally hear every step they took. I don’t think there’s a door they didn’t kick in.”
Lilan smiled. “Makes you appreciate what we had back in Chicago, doesn’t it?”
“Unbelievable,” Tacker answered, shaking his head. “What those boys did, the potential they had. Do you realize what we could’ve been?”
“I know it.”
“What Remington did with those guys, you can’t teach that kind of stuff.”
“I know it.”
Tacker leaned forward. “Speaking of which, guess whose team worked with me today? John Donner’s.”
“Get outta here,” Lilan said.
“He’s got ’em trained, I tell ya. I wish you could have been there to see it.”
“Well, he’s a lieutenant already, isn’t he?”
Tacker nodded.
“Pretty doggone fast.”
“He’s gonna be somebody’s XO before we know it. He’s just got it.”
Sipping his beer again, Lilan leaned back. “So who do we have to look forward to? Who’s our next Remington and Donner?” He already had a name in mind—Strom Faerber. But he’d save it until after Tacker’s input.
“You really want to know what I think? No one. Before today, I’d have said Peters or Quinton. That exercised cured me of that.” The major hesitated for a moment. “Today ruled Shivers out, too.”
“Why the pause?”
Tacker shook his head. “She gets tunnel vision. Easily distracted. She can fire a weapon, though. Every now and then she catches my eye.”
Ever so slightly, Lilan smirked.
The major caught it. “Not like that. Not that it wouldn’t be fun to go a round or two. Just a little too young for my taste.”
“What happened to that girl you were seeing? I don’t remember her name.”
“Alicia,” Tacker answered. “We split a few weeks ago.”
“Mutual?”
He took another drink. “For the most part. You know how women are.”
“More trouble than they’re worth.”
“Ain’t it the truth?” Tacker sighed. “Gave that woman every…” he cut off his own sentence, pausing for a moment before going on. “She just couldn’t deal with the callouts. That’s not her fault.”
Lilan knew the emotions Tacker was feeling. Most civilian women had no concept of the level of obligation it took to be a part of EDEN. Birthdays, anniversaries, even weddings were secondary to that beeping comm that never left your side. It outranked everything.
Tacker cracked open a second beer. “But to answer your question, no, I don’t think we have another Donner or Remington.”
Lilan smiled a bit. “Well, we might now.” When Tacker raised an eyebrow, he continued. “Faerber’s for real.”
“No joke.”
“The kid’s for real. I worked him today harder than I’ve worked anyone else. I couldn’t make him slow down. So far as physical specimens go, I’ve never seen anyone like him.”
“Attitude’s good?”
The colonel nodded. “It’s outstanding. He’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of Philadelphia. Hates the media, hates the hype. Can’t wait to get working.”
“That’s excellent.”
“Only problem is,” Lilan went on, “Hutchin’s orders are to ‘keep him clean.’ He doesn’t want him seeing any action—scared of what might happen if he gets killed.”
Tacker looked at him strangely.
“So we need to find some kind of way to get use from this kid. I think he has potential, real potential. Orders are orders, but we’ll figure out something.”
“Un-vecking-believable.”
Lilan took another drink. “We’ll figure something out—write it down.”
In the midst of the conversation, Tacker’s personal comm chimed. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled it out and examined the name on the display. “Speak of the devil. That’s Alicia.” He stood. “You mind if I…?”
“No, no,” Lilan said, waving his hand, “take the back room.”
“Thanks.” The major excused himself from the room. He shut the door to the back bedroom, his voice muffled by the wood.
As Tacker carried on his private conversation, Lilan rose from his sofa and walked to the window. Looking out into his yard, past the driveway where he and Tacker’s vehicles sat, the old colonel released a long, tired sigh. He was glad that Tacker had come, the memory of the major’s earlier tirade already purged from his mind. He was glad for Strom Faerber. He was glad to have a soldier to look forward to and a friend in the major to help break him in. But even with all of that gladness, there was a new sense of disheartenment that struck Lilan. Outside of Tacker, and outside of the career he was married to, he was alone. At the very same time that he was staring into the emptiness, Tacker was in the back talking to someone who obviously cared for him, at least enough to call him postbreakup. Who did Lilan have?
The negative emotions that had assaulted him recently were new for him. Throughout his career, he had been all business, all the time. No time for family. No time for a woman. No time for friends. Just get in, get the job done, and help humanity win the war. And that had always been fine.
Until Cleveland. That was when everything began to fall apart. That was when Falcon Platoon turned from a symbol of veteran experience into a turnstile for Academy graduates. And if Cleveland was to blame, the buck stopped with Lilan. He failed in that mission. He didn’t get the job done. Had Falcon performed well enough under his leadership, the city would have been saved, Falcon wouldn’t have fallen back, and he’d still have his group of veterans. At the time, he had blamed the mission’s failure on bad information—underestimation by Richmond Command. But even then, he knew that line of thinking had been a cover. Cleveland was a failure because he’d failed. The situation he was in now was one he’d rightfully earned.
There was no gratification in self-pity, nor could there ever be resolution. Lilan needed both. Emotions were blindsiding like they never had before. It was time to get a grip on that.
Turning around, he looked at the closed door to his back room, where Tacker’s muffled voice could still be heard. The major was a good man. The woman—Alicia—would be an idiot not to take him back. He hoped she would.
And just like that, the door opened.
“Yeah,” Tacker said quietly into his comm. “All right. I’ll be there soon.” The major closed the channel. Looking at Lilan, he blew out a heavy breath.
Lilan smiled. “Maybe some are worth the trouble.”
Laughing softly, Tacker nodded. “Yeah, we’ll see. I’m sorry, sir, I hate to jet like this…”
“Back together?”
“No. Not yet. But we’re going to talk, so. That’s better than nothing.”
“You okay to drive?”
Nodding, Tacker threw away his beer can. “Yeah, good enough, I think. I should be fine.”
“Go get her, major.” Extending his hand, Lilan met Tacker with a solid handshake. It was a rarity so far as gestures were concerned, as the two usually lifted hands only for salutes. It was a fairly new sense of casualness, even for them.
Walking out the door, Tacker climbed into his jeep and backed out the driveway. The colonel listened as the jeep distanced down the road.
Lilan didn’t remain up for very much longer. Having placed the unopened beer cans in the refrigerator, the colonel dressed down for the night and climbed into bed.
Tomorrow would be an interesting day. Not only would it be a second day to work with Strom Faerber, but it would be an opportunity for him and Tacker to sit down and come up with creative ways to sneak the rookie into action. Hutchin could go to hell. If he truly thought that Lilan was going to be handed a promising young soldier only to do nothing with him, he had another thing coming.
The squabble amid Charlie Squad wasn’t a concern. He’d leave Tacker to handle that unless the major requested his help. He respected Tacker enough not to butt in unless absolutely necessary. He had a feeling it wouldn’t come to that.
That was the rundown of the day and the agenda for tomorrow. Lilan may have earned himself into his current situation, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t earn himself out of it. And that, he had every intention of doing.
13
TUESDAY, MARCH 13TH, 0012 NE
0609 HOURS
NOVOSIBIRSK, RUSSIA
THE NEXT MORNING
SCOTT COULDN’T remember the exact time that he’d fallen asleep, but he knew exactly what time he’d been awoken. It was 0600 hours when his comm sounded, not with a mission callout, but with a communication prompt. It was General Thoor, ordering him to report to the Citadel. No explanation was given, but when Thoor was the one dishing out orders, none were required.
And so morning began, not with a training session, but with the donning of his Nightman uniform and his reporting to the Terror.
As impossible as it was to fully remove his incident with Esther from his mind, Scott tried his hardest to at least push it to the back burner. The ache was still there, and he still wanted to pretend that everything had been a bad dream, but reality spoke otherwise. He was afraid of seeing her again. She was probably just as afraid of seeing him.
With the entrance to the Citadel so close to his room, it took Scott no time at all to descend down its limestone stairwell. He was standing outside General Thoor’s door within ten minutes of being called.
The general was waiting for him atop his throne. Gone was the casualness of yesterday. Visor cap shrouding his eyes and cloak flowing around his body, Thoor was back in his theatrical element.
“General,” Scott said. It struck him at that moment just how dysfunctional his relationship with Thoor was. He hated Thoor, but he obeyed him. Thoor was brethren and foe. Would Scott kill him if he had the chance? He honestly didn’t know the answer.
“Prepare yourself, Remington,” Thoor said in his methodically droning voice. “Your flight leaves at 0715 tomorrow.”
Scott blinked. His flight? “Come again?”
“I am dispatching you to Cairo under the guise of a base transfer. Your objective is to identify and secure the Ceratopian prisoner for transportation to our facility. Once the target is secured, you will be extracted.”
He wants me to bring back H`laar!
The Terror went on. “EDEN is eager to remove their personnel from this base. Arrangements for transfer have already been finalized. Despite your present position, your last rank on record with EDEN was that of lieutenant. You are being transferred under the pretense of a new promotion to commander. Upon arrival at Cairo, you are to orient yourself with the base’s layout and establish relationships with Confinement personnel.”
Thoor was serious. He was literally sending Scott on a covert operation, disguised as EDEN, to recover a prisoner Thoor felt he’d wrongly lost to EDEN. He wasn’t even leaving room for debate.
“Recovering H`laar is your only priority. Everything else is irrelevant. You may select four operatives from the Fourteenth to accompany you, one of which must be promoted to lieutenant. You will join Captain Rockwell in Cairo for the formulation of a new squad, with all other chosen assets from the Fourteenth remaining here. No additional operatives from Novosibirsk will be accompanying you. Captain Rockwell is not aware of our operation.”
A million thoughts were flying through Scott’s head. He was about to leave Novosibirsk. He was about to double-cross EDEN. He was about to divide the Fourteenth.
Thoor continued without missing a beat. “You may choose whatever operatives you wish, with one stipulation: Voronova must remain.”
At that, Scott cocked his head.
“Failure to accomplish your task in a prompt manner will result in her execution. Let this serve as motivation for you to work efficiently.”
That Thoor was using Svetlana as leverage was of zero surprise. He’d done it the day before. “I already lost my fiancée,” Scott snapped. “Do you really think losing Svetlana would affect me?”
“Yes.”
…I hate you.
“Control of the Fourteenth will be turned over to Commander Dostoevsky, who will serve as acting captain until your return.” Thoor paused. “Were it not for the fact that the Fourteenth has been stable under your leadership, Dostoevsky would have been terminated months ago. Advise him to tread carefully while you’re absent.”
“Permission to speak freely?”
Thoor’s answer was flat. “Denied.”
“I’m the wrong one for this job,” Scott said in defiance. “I belong on the battlefield. I’m not covert. You have the eidola, use them!” How could he possibly prepare for an assignment like this in a single day? How would he explain this to the Fourteenth? He hadn’t even revealed to them the truth behind the Alien War—at least not as much as he’d heard from Oleg.
“Are you finished?” Thoor asked.
Wonderful. “I’m finished.”
“Your transport will depart at 0715 tomorrow morning. Your EDEN armor will be waiting by the transport. Finalize your decisions tonight. You are dismissed.”
Scott didn’t even spare Thoor a Nightman salute. Without another word between them, Scott turned away, marched out of the Throne Room, and left the Citadel.
I’m going to Cairo. That statement resurfaced in Scott’s mind over and over. I’m going to Cairo. Were Svetlana’s life not at stake, he’d have had no issues circumventing Thoor’s order. But the general was right: her wellbeing affected Scott. Thoor could play that card anytime, and Scott would follow whatever orders he was given, just like Lieutenant Novikov had.
Thoor had told him he’d be allowed to take four operatives with him to Cairo, and that his list needed to be finalized by that night. He had no intention of waiting that long. Going straight to his room, he promptly locked himself in and sat at his desk. Though he often sought out the Fourteenth’s opinions when making decisions, this was one he knew he had to make himself. This was going to be a shock to the unit. He didn’t need a lounge-full of operatives begging not to go or vying for a spot. Things would work much more efficiently if he could walk in and just say, “Here’s who’s going.” With that mindset, he pulled out a notepad and pencil and began scribbling.
Essential.
This was a covert assignment—the kind of mission suited for the stealthy. He needed someone who could get into places unnoticed, be his eyes in places he couldn’t go.
He needed Esther Brooking.
“Doggonit!” Scott slammed his pencil down. There has to be someone else. Someone else who can do what she does. There wasn’t. No one else even came close. Who else was he supposed to bring for that, William Harbinger?
Exhaling in frustration, he picked up his pencil and scribbled Esther’s name. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t have a choice. Esther filled the role of infiltration. What else was essential? Who would he need to make contact with H`laar?
Someone who speaks German. He scribbled Auric’s name.
He looked at the word Essential again. What else was absolutely essential? Not a medic. Not big guns. Not another officer, though he would need to promote one of his choices to complete the illusion. I’ll promote Auric. The German could easily pass for a lieutenant.
“Who else do I have to have?” he asked himself quietly. “Who else is a must?”
This wasn’t a smash mouth job; it was a quiet one. That eliminated Becan from the mix. Jayden was quiet, but not necessary. He scribbled down Flopper’s name out of spite for the situation, but he knew not to take it seriously.
“Boris,” he said. They would probably need to get information, to access files. Maybe log into mainframes and records. Maybe even grease a few creaky doors. He scribbled the technician in.
David…no.
Max…no.
Travis…maybe.
No, not Travis. Thoor hinted that extraction would be handled. Scott didn’t need to bring his own pilot. Besides, who else could fly around the Fourteenth?
Name by name, Scott went through the unit, but no one else was absolutely essential. He could do this just with Esther, Auric, and Boris. Thoor hadn’t even needed to eliminate Svetlana from eligibility. Scott wouldn’t have brought her, anyway. This was far too dangerous. Thoor never said Scott had to take four. For something like this, the fewer the better. Was there anyone else who would serve a purpose besides just being there?
“That’s it,” he said, plopping his notebook down. Including himself, there were four total. To say this was going to be interesting would be an understatement. Picking up his comm, Scott prompted Dostoevsky. The commander’s voice emerged seconds later.
“Good morning, captain.”
Scott wasn’t sure about the good part. “Yuri, I need everyone awake and in the lounge, now.”
“I am en route.”
By the time Scott arrived in the lounge, the room was full. There was a sense of anticipation in the air, and it became immediately apparent to Scott that the unit thought they were being called on a mission. “This isn’t a callout,” he said in clarification. He surveyed the group for his chosen operatives, glancing briefly to Auric, Boris, and…no Esther. He scanned the room again. The scout was nowhere to be seen. “Where’s Brooking?”
Dostoevsky shook his head unknowingly.
“She wasn’t here when we woke up,” Becan said. “She was here last nigh’, but none o’ us saw her leave between then an’ now.”
The knot returned. Esther had told him she’d have her things packed so that Scott could transfer her to another unit. Scott walked from the lounge back into the bunk room, straight for the scout’s bed. Sure enough, her duffle bag was packed—but the fact that it was still there told Scott she intended to return at some point. She hadn’t moved on completely.
Where are you, Esther?
He’d track her down and deal with her later. With everyone else gathered, he cut right to the chase. “There’s no easy way to say this, so it’s just coming right out. Some of us are about to be transferred to Cairo.”
Shocked gasps swept the room—none louder than Svetlana’s.
“It’s a covert assignment intended to recover H`laar, the Ceratopian Novosibirsk lost. We’re going there under the guise of a transfer to a newly formed unit. Myself, Auric, Esther, and Boris will be making the move.” At the mention of their names, Auric and Boris’s faces fell. “Officially, I’m still a lieutenant with EDEN. The promotions I’ve received since becoming a Nightman were apparently never put on record. I’ll be assuming the role of newly-promoted commander to a Captain Rockwell.” He looked at Auric. “You’re going in as my lieutenant.”
Auric’s mouth hung wordlessly.
Continuing on, Scott looked at Boris. “I’m going to need your technical savvy, so pack whatever equipment you need to hack into an EDEN base.” Boris’s face paled instantly. “Don’t even ask me to elaborate, because I don’t know how to. Get with Max, I’m sure he can give you some pointers.”
“Maybe I should go,” Max said, lifting his hand.
“No. If something happens to us, I want to know that the Fourteenth is in good hands,” Scott said. Boris stammered in Russian. “Not that anything is going to happen to us, Boris!”
Standing up, Svetlana’s fidgeting finally turned into words. “Scott, I do not understand this. Why must it be us who go to Cairo? Are there not the eidola for that very purpose? Why must we do what they are made to?”
Because Thoor is proving a point to me, and he threatened to kill you. “I dug this hole when I brought up H`laar to him. I have to climb out of it.”
“But—”
“There are no ‘buts,’ Sveta. Now sit down and listen.” Cheeks flushing angrily, she did as told. “I don’t know how long this job will take, but I do know time is critical. However, while I’m gone, Yuri, you’re going to be acting CO. Max, you’ll be acting commander.” The two men nodded silently. “Guys, play it extremely safe. Don’t do anything to bring negative attention to the unit. Thoor will be watching.”
The whole room emanated nervous energy. Murmurs were starting. He had to start taking some questions, if for no other reason, to get them all focused. “I know you guys must have some questions, so fire away. I’ll answer as best I can.”
Max lifted a hand. “How exactly are you guys gonna break out that alien? Last time I checked, none of us are spies.”
“Esther’s the closest thing we have to an infiltrator. I’m going to find her and explain to her the situation. I just have to trust that she’ll contribute with her expertise to whatever extent that she can.” And that I can find her.
“And this captain you’re going to,” Max said. “Does he know what’s going on?”
Scott shook his head. “No.”
“Well ain’t that interesting?”
“Why’d you agree to this, Scott?” asked David.
Because if he didn’t, Svetlana would die. How could he say that without saying it? He let his and David’s eye contact linger. “Sometimes you’re not allowed to refuse.”
It took all of one second for David’s face to fall; Max had a similar reaction. They got the hint.
“How will you get back once you have this Ceratopian?” asked Dostoevsky.
“I don’t know. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Ironically, that was the least of Scott’s concerns. Thoor wanted this Ceratopian badly. He’d get them back home whatever the costs.
Raising her hand hesitantly, Svetlana eyed Scott and leaned forward. “Where is Esther?”
Silence hung—every eye beaded on Scott, as if his knowledge of her whereabouts was a foregone conclusion. Or at least his knowledge of what was behind it. “I don’t know. I know she’s going through something right now, and it’s something personal. It’s not my place to talk about it.” End this on a good note. “But she’s a consummate professional. She’ll handle this mission fine.” He hoped.
“All right,” Scott said, “we have a lot to do. I know how many more questions you guys must have, but I’m going to be honest in saying that I probably don’t know the answers to half of them. This has caught me just as off guard as you all.” He looked at Auric and Boris. “I need you two to get packed. Pack everything, make it look like a legitimate move. We need to sell this.” They affirmed. “I’m going to relay my choices to Thoor and hopefully meet with you guys and Esther tonight to go over a more thorough plan. Until then, get packed and get your minds prepared. This is going to be a fun one. All right, everyone, dismissed.”
Chatter rose from all of the tables. The operatives rose to their feet. Svetlana beaded in on Scott immediately. The look she gave him was stern, but sympathetic. “There is something you are not telling me, Scott. I know you.”
“Look, Sveta—”
“I am not arguing, I am just saying. You know you can talk to me.” She paused apprehensively. “I want to go with you.”
“Hell no. Absolutely not.”
“But—”
“Sveta, no.”
“Hey, Scott!” Jayden said, weaving through the crowd. “Hey man, I wanna go.”
“People, this isn’t a field trip!”
“Please, man, I’m beggin’ ya.”
I need to get away from this. I need to find Esther. Moving through the cluster of operatives, Scott stepped out of Room 14. He made a beeline down the hall. He’d barely gone ten steps before Jayden’s voice called him.
“Scott!”
Scott stopped and turned. Jayden was jogging toward him. He looked desperate.
“Please, Scott, please! Please let me come with you.”
He sighed. “Jay—”
“All this time, man, I’ve just needed to get away from here. Even if it’s just for a few days.” His voice quieted, but his intensity remained. “Just give me this chance. I know I can help you guys, I know I can. Every day here, I wake up in the same room with the girl who dumped me, and I take orders from the guy who stole ’er. Please let me get away.”
It was the most eager Jayden had looked in as long as Scott could remember. But this mission wasn’t for him. “You don’t want to come on this one.”
“I can be packed in five minutes, man, just five minutes!”
“No.”
“Please!”
“Jayden—you can’t.”
The Texan’s face fell, but Scott couldn’t allow himself to care. This mission didn’t call for a sniper. Jayden would be a needless risk both to the mission and himself. “These guys need you. Keep them safe.” Stepping back and turning around, Scott resumed his trek to find Esther.
Jayden was left behind in the hall.
The first place that came to Scott’s mind in his quest to find Esther was the pool. The running joke was that the scout had gills—if she needed to work off stress or escape the rigors of EDEN life, she typically went in the water.
For the duration of Scott’s trek, the only thought that lingered in his mind was how am I going to tell her? They’d just taken part in arguably the most uncomfortable conversation he’d ever been a part of. She’d confessed her love to him. He hadn’t reciprocated it. Now he had to approach her and ask for her help. He’d called her a “consummate professional” back in the lounge. He hoped he was right.
When Esther wasn’t in the pool, Scott knew the situation was bad. The only other place Scott could think to look was the gym. Esther was almost as much of a workout machine as he was, and while her forays in the water were far more frequent, the gym was also a part of her routine.
It took Scott only a single step into the gym to prove his second guess right. He could hear the furious sound of gloves on a punching bag as soon as he entered. And as sure as his ears had indicated, Esther was there.
She wasn’t punching a bag; she was destroying one. With every strike, mists of sweat exploded from her taped hands in liquid bursts. The soaked hairs above her forehead bounced wildly across her face. Glaring through the bag with clenched teeth, the scout let loose a shriek of adrenaline. Then she saw Scott. The flurry ceased; she swayed away from the bag. Through dangling strands, she stared straight at him.
Silence.
There was no appropriate way for him to start. What was he supposed to do, open with humor? She didn’t quite seem in the mood for that. So, Scott did the only thing he could do: just come right out with it. “I need you.”
The scout slammed a fist against the bag. Turning away, she walked to a small collection of bottled waters at a nearby bench. Finishing off a half-empty bottle, she screwed the lid back on and slammed it to the floor. She said nothing.
“I said I need you.”
Esther still didn’t answer. Grabbing a towel, she passed it over her head then rubbed her face with her hands. She was completely ignoring him.
That was all Scott could take. “All right, that’s enough.”
Pushing her hair from her face, Esther’s anger was unleashed. “I can’t even summon the dignity to look myself in the mirror, and the first words I have to hear today are you telling me you need me?”
“Esther—”
“You call me into your private quarters at ten o’clock at night, an hour past curfew, just so you could tear into me? Is your rage fetish that strong that it couldn’t wait till morning? It couldn’t wait till you heard a bloody explanation?”
“Brooking—”
The scout rose to her feet. “You didn’t even give me a chance to prepare! You called me to your room and completely cornered me.”
“Enough!” This was wasting their time. “I’m sorry last night happened, but that’s not why I’m coming to you now. We have an assignment.”
She looked away in disgust.
“Thoor just informed me that he’s sending me and three others from the Fourteenth to Cairo. He wants us to retrieve H`laar. It’s a covert operation. We’re supposed to get in, get H`laar, and get back home. I need you for this mission.”
“Un-bloody-believable.”
She was testing his patience. He was testing hers, too. “Auric and Boris are coming, too. We’re going under the pretense of a transfer to a new unit. Our flight leaves tomorrow morning.”
Looking at him deadpanned, she said, “I’m not going.”
“You don’t have a choice. I’m ordering you.”
“Why in the hell are we going on a spy mission? Thoor has the eidola, tell him to send them! This is the last kind of assignment we’re suited for.”
He was losing his patience. “Thoor wants it to be us. We made contact with H`laar, we investigated on our own, this mission is ours.”
Shaking her head defiantly, she said, “We didn’t make contact with H`laar. You did. So pardon me if I’m not exactly euphoric over the idea of risking my neck to satisfy your little side quests.”
“I don’t think you understand how rank works, Esther.”
“Do you know what I understand?” she asked bitingly. “I understand that I put my heart on the floor for you, and you stepped on it. That I exacted revenge on someone so that you wouldn’t have to, and you berated me for it. That I have done every sodding thing you have ever asked from me, for nothing in return!” She slung down her towel. “Wait, let me correct that. I have gotten things in return. A punch in the head in Khatanga. Porridge and a pie in the face courtesy of your favorite tart. Just for the record, that’s more than she got.”
“Look, an order is an order whether you like it or not.”
Eyes narrowing, she leaned forward. “There’s something I think you’re forgetting. An order is an order in EDEN. Take a look around. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they’ve been transferring EDEN operatives out of here for months.” She cocked her hips. “What are you going to do, court martial me wearing your fulcrum armor?”
Scott exhaled in frustration, looking away.
Esther wasn’t finished. “I could walk out of this base right now and to the rest of the world it’d be like I’m defecting. And do you honestly think Novosibirsk would stop me from leaving? They’re as anxious to cleanse themselves from EDEN as EDEN are to pull themselves out. So bluster all you want. Unless you’re planning on dragging me to a torture chamber, I’m quite certain I don’t care.” She stepped back through the door. “Good day.”
“Doggonit, Esther, stop!” Everything she said was completely true. In The Machine, Scott had all the power in the world. But if she walked out, no one would stop her. With him being a Nightman, she had more on him than he had on her, regardless of whether or not she’d killed a man, too. That couldn’t be proven. Scott’s black armor proved everything. Every card was in her hand. “I need you to come on this mission. Please.”
Halting by the doorway, Esther settled her hands on her hips. She turned around and stared at him. “What happens if I’m not on this mission?”
“It fails.”
“Then what happens if it fails? We don’t have a new Ceratopian? We don’t uncover a conspiracy? What’s the bottom line?”
Looking down, he drew a long breath and placed his hands on his own hips. How was he going to say it?
“What?” she asked.
Just say it. “Thoor is using Sveta as leverage against me. If I fail, he’s going to kill her.”
There were a dozen possible reactions Esther could have given him. Shock, an explosion, disbelief. But the reaction he received was the one he feared most: a total lack of one. Slowly, deliberately, she folded her arms. “You’re asking me to put my life on the line to save Svetlana.”
She hadn’t posed it as a question. It was a revelation. Glancing away, Scott braced for what he knew was coming.
Easing her way back toward Scott, Esther said, “You are asking me, Auric, and God bless him, Boris, to put our lives on the line for Svetlana.”
“This is bigger than Svetlana.”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”
Staring at her in silence, he didn’t know what to say. What did she want to hear?
“Do you realize that the four of us could die because of her? That because of that,” she bit her lip, “that silly little bimbo, four operatives who are actually worth something could have their lives ended?”
“Okay, that’s enough.”
Dipping her chin slightly, the scout said, “I just have one question for you, Captain Remington: would you do the same thing for me?”
That wasn’t a question he’d expected, but it was one he could answer. “Yes, I would. I hope you know that.”
For almost ten full seconds, Esther just stared at him, silent and emotionless, as if her cold gaze alone could convey as much as words could. It told him she was angry. And jealous. It told him she hated Svetlana to her core. Perhaps worse than all of those things, it told him she was thinking. Approaching Scott by a single step, Esther asked, “If I refuse this mission, will Svetlana die?”
Svetlana’s death was a certainty. This was a mission suited for the covert, and she was the only remotely covert member of the Fourteenth. Thoor had made it fairly clear that Scott was going in alone. No additional operatives from Novosibirsk will be accompanying you. The general’s own words. This was both a mission and punishment. “Yes. If you don’t come, this mission fails. When it does, Svetlana’s going to be killed.”
An unsettling quiet captured the air around them. Esther’s brown eyes stared straight at Scott, but her mind was churning fervently. She was calculating. When the calculations finally ceased, she uncrossed her arms. “I will do this mission for you, under two conditions.”
Scott was struck by both relief and fear. “What are they?”
“Upon our return, you will officially transfer me to London.”
As she’d threatened, she could have gone to London with little more than a tale of the horrors of Novosibirsk, and she’d have been welcomed with open arms and promptly reassigned. But an official transfer was much cleaner on her record. “Done,” he said. That she wanted to be transferred wasn’t a surprise. She and Scott’s relationship was damaged beyond repair. “What’s the second thing?”
Esther’s eyes narrowed purposefully. “You love Svetlana. So decide to love Svetlana.”
“What?” Scott asked bewilderedly.
“I want you to go to your quarters, take your photograph of Nicole, and put it away.”
It hit his gut like a hammer. He’d expected her second request to be a plethora of things. But none of them had been that.
“What’s wrong, Scott?” Esther asked. “It’s not a difficult request. Put away Nicole and commit to Svetlana. Nicole’s been dead for almost a year. Isn’t it time to move on?”
Scott looked away. What she was asking him to do cut him to his core. Nicole’s photo had been sitting on his nightstand since day one of his EDEN career. That beautiful, blue-eyed brunette, smiling with those glistening pearls. Telling him how much she loved him.
Damn you, Esther.
Slowly, she paced around him. “What’s wrong, Scott? Afraid of commitment? Not ready to spend the rest of your life with the Queen Dullard of Soviet Russia? Not quite prepared for Svetlana Remington?”
“Okay. You made your point.”
“Did I?” She stopped back in front of him. “Because I’m not quite sure.”
He knew exactly the point Esther was making: that Svetlana wasn’t Nicole. That he could never love her like Nicole. That Svetlana would always be the girl who came second—the one who wasn’t the love of his life. The Briton was no longer concerned with winning Scott’s heart. She was ensuring that Svetlana couldn’t have it, either. “Let me tell you something, Molly Esther Brooking. I know what you’re doing, and it’s wrong.”
“I’m so terrible,” she said. “Practically a murderer. Oh, wait. So are you.” She took a step back. “Make a choice, Scott. You can’t be loyal to Nicole and have Svetlana. Which girl will you dump?” Before he could reply, she held up a finger. “It’s okay, you don’t have to answer. And you don’t have to worry; I’ll go on your mission. I think my point has been made.”
Yeah, it’s been made.
“Let me know if you want to meet tonight,” Esther said. “I’m sure there’s much to discuss.” Without another word, Esther stepped out the door, turned the corner, and was gone. Scott listened as her footsteps disappeared.
Crouching down on the gym floor, Scott cupped his hands together. It didn’t matter that Esther had played dirty. The question she raised was relevant, if not to the mission, to him. If he and Svetlana had any sort of future, it wouldn’t be with a photograph of Nicole sitting at their bedside. If there was ever to be a Svetlana Remington, a name he’d never even considered until Esther had said it, he’d have to let Nicole go. Break his commitment to her. Love someone else while Nicole was rotting in her grave. That thought made him want to vomit.
Scott went straight from the gym to his private quarters. He didn’t care that time was critical and that there was indeed “much to discuss.” For that small span of time, he wanted to be alone.
Upon entering his room, Scott’s eyes focused on his nightstand. Just like they always did. Nicole was smiling at him. Just like she always did Except she wasn’t there. She was decomposing in a casket. “Oh, my God,” Scott whispered, dropping to his knees and covering his eyes. That final image of Nicole, laying pale and lifeless on that very floor, was forever etched in his memory. And yet how she looked then was infinitely better than how she must have looked now. The thought of her body, the body he’d hugged and kissed and held, falling apart in a box under the dirt was nightmarish. That was his fiancée. That was his Nikki.
I let that happen to her. She’s falling apart because of me.
It had been a long time since his emotions had poured out, but the tears came quickly now. They overwhelmed him. How could he have allowed that to happen to her? How could he live with the fact that, if not for his actions, Nicole would be alive and well? That they’d be husband and wife? That right now, they might be going to the movies or shopping for a house? That she was dead because he’d joined EDEN? Because he’d been transferred to Novosibirsk. Because he’d risked his life for a Bakma Carrier. Because Nijinsky had been setup to murder her. Because Scott had been noticed by Thoor. Because he’d leapt out of a transport…
His thoughts blazed ahead. The transport. The Bakma outpost. Svetlana. Had he not leapt. Had he not saved Svetlana’s life. Had he not had that conversation with her that night in the lounge. Had she not been there out of guilt. Had she not slept with Anatoly Novikov. Had she not given herself away like a slut, she would be the one falling apart. And Nicole would be Scott’s wife.
“I hate you, Esther.” The words seethed out between heaves. “I hate you for this.”
Svetlana was not the primary reason Nicole was dead. But she was one of them. The indirect nature of her involvement was undeniable. Svetlana herself had been grief-stricken upon that realization when she’d tearfully brought it up to him months ago. Scott hadn’t faulted her then. But it was so easy to fault her now, in the midst of his emotions. It was so easy to wish she’d been killed instead. But that very thought, and the knowledge that he was even capable of it, broke his heart as much as anything else could have—Nicole’s death included. What if Svetlana was standing there now? What if she knew what he was thinking about her? What if she knew that in his thoughts, he’d called her a slut? She’d have taken a rope and hanged herself, tear-stricken and heartbroken, because she’d ruined his life.
Because she loved him.
I’m so confused. God, I’m so confused.
How could he develop or even pursue a relationship with Svetlana with thoughts like the ones he’d just had? How could he ever look at her and not, in some small measure, believe he was staring at the woman whose weakness had gotten Nicole killed.
Your weakness got Galina killed, Scott. It got Sergei Steklov killed.
This was exactly what Esther had been aiming for. She couldn’t have cared less about what Scott did with Nicole’s photograph. She cared about tainting the way he viewed Svetlana—and she’d succeeded.
The day was only several hours old, but to Scott it already felt like a lifetime. In spite of the tiredness and emotional exhaustion he felt, he somehow managed to muster up enough focus to send a comm message to Thoor, informing the general of his selections for the mission. He even threw a desperation pass in the form of a request to have an eidolon take Esther’s place in Cairo, but as expected, the request was denied. Scott was informed, however, than an eidolon would be paying him a visit later that night: Antipov. Auric, Esther, and Boris’s presences were also requested for the meeting. Unfortunately for Scott, Thoor’s requests had to be granted. News of the meeting was sent to the relevant parties.
Scott also briefly commed Dostoevsky, simply to inform him that he would be in his quarters for the remainder of the day, preparing for the mission. It was half true. There was indeed much to prepare for, but Scott also wanted to spend some time alone. He sensed Dostoevsky read into this, as the more spiritually-attuned fulcrum implored Scott to spend time talking to God. To his own credit, Scott tried. He was just too emotionally drained to focus. There would be plenty of time for quiet time later. Later always seemed to be his option of choice in that aspect.
There was one call that came through to Scott shortly after his talk with Dostoevsky—one that didn’t at all surprise him. It was a prompt from Svetlana.
He never answered.
14
TUESDAY, MARCH 13TH, 0012 NE
1313 HOURS
LIGHT, TRANSPARENT BLUE. Of all the colored glasses Esther Brooking had seen the world through, it was that one she cherished most. It was the one that consoled her. Legs kicking gracefully beneath the water’s surface, the twenty-three-year-old Briton glided along the pool bottom like a ray along the ocean floor. Dark hair streaming behind her head, Esther’s eyes stayed forward; the ever-approaching wall ahead of her was the only motivation to alter her course. Torso bending upward, she eased her head back just enough to begin her ascension. The surface came into view moments before her face found it. With the weight of wet hair tugging at her scalp, she set herself adrift, hands reaching out to steady herself against the pool’s rim.
The pool was empty, as it often was at that time of the day, when the majority of Novosibirsk was dispersed in the cafeteria. It was unfair to classify mid-afternoon as her favorite time to swim, as any time was her favorite time. Water was where she found peace. It had been that way since she’d been a child. Dipping her head back, Esther set her feet against the side of the pool. With a heavy kick, she propelled herself back beneath the surface, her body twisting upright as she descended for another lap.
Though Esther loved the water with every fiber of her being, she had someone else to thank for introducing her to it. His name was Kelyle Ogbai, and he was solely responsible for her aquatic addiction. Of the three-point-five billion men who lived on Planet Earth, he was the one Esther despised most.
Extending her arms, Esther pulled herself back to a stop at the center of the pool floor. Settling cross-legged, she closed her eyes and went still.
Kelyle was an Ethiopian. A real-estate mogul from Addis Ababa, to be more precise, and a man of both affluence in his local circle and of adultery in places abroad. Places abroad like London, England, where he met—and abandoned—Esther’s mother.
The memories Esther had of her father were as spotty and infrequent as his visits, none of which were to visit at all. They were monetary visits. “Why do you need more?” visits. “It’s not my fault the post office lost your cheque” visits. And every time he knocked on Esther’s mother’s apartment door, his words to Esther were always the same. “Go swim in the pool.” Go away while we fight. The first time Esther heard the words, she was two. But the risk of a toddler drowning was the last thing on Kelyle’s mind.
Bending her body around, Esther righted herself along the pool floor. Straightening her arms at her sides, she kicked herself forward again. The opposite pool wall drew near.
During the first five years of Esther’s life, Kelyle came several times a year. But that gradually changed. By the time Esther was a teenager, the visits had stopped completely. Her experience with parents was her experience with her mother, a single white woman raising a mixed baby. Good Samaritans weren’t exactly lining up to help. “Go swim in the pool.” She’d heard it enough in her formative years to associate water with safety. When the world became real, she could swim to escape. When life—and the shouting—got too loud, she could sink under the surface until she heard nothing at all. Liquid solace. The swimmer was born.
Be fierce. Never relent. Go after what you want. Those were the words her mother had taught her; words meant to motivate. And motivate they did. Perfect marks in primary and secondary education. Scholarship offers for swimming, gymnastics, and association football. Scout certification from Philadelphia at age twenty-two.
From bastard to prodigy.
But there lies a problem with living life with a chip on one’s shoulder—with never relenting, with fiercely going after what one wants: the possibility of losing. Loss is understandable and even acceptable when the opponent is superior. But when the opponent is not…that’s when enmity is born. It’s a universal sensation for the ultra-competitive, be it involving grades, athletics, or objects of affection. Especially objects of affection that should have been won. Especially ones that wear golden horns.
Breaking the water’s surface, Esther shook her head, the reflections of the ceiling lights glossing across the sleekness of her hair. Folding her arms, she rested her chin atop them on the pool’s outer rim. The scout closed her eyes.
“Molly Kelyle.”
At the sound of the unexpected voice—and at the surname she’d never adopted—Esther flinched. Eyes flickering open, she whipped her head around to pinpoint who it belonged to. Through dripping lashes, she stared in confusion. On the opposite edge of the pool stood a man.
Nothing about his appearance was imposing, despite his peculiarly scruffy ponytail and goatee. Sprig clasped between two fingers, he inhaled a deep huff, then released it. Saying nothing, he stared at her from across the poolside.
Esther’s gaze darted to the door, then about the rest of the room. When she saw that no one else was present, she focused on the man again. She’d never heard him enter. For a scout, that wasn’t supposed to happen. Wiping her hair back, she said, “Esther Brooking.” Despite the nature of the correction, her tone was less than bold.
He smiled warmly; his Russian accent was thick. “Only to the rest of the world.”
“Who are you?” she asked quickly. “How did you know that name?”
For several seconds, the man didn’t reply, nor did he move. Then slowly, deliberately, he began to walk along the pool’s rim. “How far were you from Alexander when you murdered him?”
Esther’s body went rigid in the water. She watched him unwaveringly as he stalked around the edge. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Two meters? Twenty? Fifty?” Pausing, he placed a finger at the center of his forehead. “To hit him right here. How far were you away?”
An urge struck Esther to climb out the pool and run. She held it at bay. “Twenty. Maybe thirty.”
“Mm,” he said with a nod. “For such perfect placement. Impressive.” Partaking of his sprig again, he resumed his methodical walk. “Was Remington pleased with what you did?”
Kicking away from the side of the pool, Esther propelled herself toward its center. Not once did she take her eyes off him. “Who are you? I’m not answering any questions until you tell me.”
Crouching down by the water’s edge, he said, “You are special girl, Molly. Very gifted. You are not unlike the man you refused to call father.”
Esther swallowed; her breathing increased.
“He was driven. He owned much land, made many fortunes. It is obvious he loved his work.” Shrugging, he said, “He also loved women, as you already know.”
“Who the bloody hell are you?” she asked, eyes brimming. “How do you know these things? Why are you speaking of him in past tense?”
Gaze stoic, he answered, “I speak of him in past tense because four years ago, he was murdered by a street criminal in Addis Ababa.”
Esther’s lips parted. For a moment, she completely stopped breathing.
Catching the subtle movements, he tilted his head. “Was that because he’s dead, or because you wish you could have been the one to kill him?” For the first time during the whole interaction, Esther’s eyes trailed away to the water’s surface. She looked totally distant. “I know your heart, Kelyle’s daughter. I know that it burns for many things. It burns for vengeance and passion. And for Remington.”
Easing her face up, she looked at him.
“He does not realize how similar the two of you are. You are two people cut from the same mold. But in spite of his request for you to join him in Cairo, he has rejected you. Hasn’t he?”
“How do you know what you know?” she asked quietly.
“If you cannot have Remington, then you must defeat him. You must defeat him by showing him that the two of you are not equal. That he is in no position to reject you. Are you motivated yet?”
Esther said nothing, but her expression said everything. Her stare was once again fixated on the man crouching by the side of the pool. She was listening.
Very faintly, he smiled. “Good.” Pushing up to his feet, he lifted his chin. “Seven months ago, you uncovered the name of someone we intended to kill. Three months later, you shot him in the head.”
A chill struck Esther’s spine.
“My name is Antipov,” he said, “and I am the chief of the eidola. And if you would be so kind as to come out of the water, Molly Esther Kelyle Brooking…I would like to have a talk.”
 *
AT THE SAME TIME
SILENCE. NO MEETINGS, no voices. Just silence. In the aftermath of Scott’s personal anguish, it was exactly what he’d needed to settle down. Still in his private quarters, where he’d been since speaking to Esther in the gym, he’d already packed his bags in preparation for the trip. The task could have been put off until the following morning, but truth be told, he’d needed to do something. A good distraction was a therapeutic necessity, even if it did involve packing the very photograph of Nicole that had sparked his emotional breakdown. He wasn’t leaving her behind. As for what Esther would think about that, he honestly didn’t care.
This entire course of events had begun yesterday. It felt like a week ago. He’d taken Esther to see Tauthin. Tauthin opened up. Everything else followed, and he and his comrades were suddenly bound for Egypt. From his bedside, he stared at the fulcrum uniforms in his closet. His old EDEN armor would be going with him on the trip, original golden collar and everything. He dreaded wearing it.
That’ll never be me again.
The thought hadn’t escaped Scott that for all practical purposes, he and Auric, being Nightmen, were about to unofficially become eidolons. It wasn’t quite the same for Boris and Esther. How did they feel about this? Well…how did Boris feel? He couldn’t care less about Esther.
I want to hit her so bad.
Their encounter in the gym burned in him like an inferno. Try as he did to push her out of his mind, it was all but futile. He could forgive Esther’s being angry; after all, he was the poster boy for that himself. But it was her viciousness that stung him. In a single, calculated request, she’d completely changed the way he thought of Svetlana. He knew that was her goal, and he was still powerless to stop it. Esther’s venom was as potent as a viper’s.
Feeling the flushness in his cheeks, Scott turned on the tap and cooled himself off with some splashes to the face—just in time for a knock at his door.
Speak of the Russian.
He knew Svetlana’s knock anywhere. If a hundred random people took turns at his door, he could pick her out instantly. He’d grown that accustomed to the sound of her arrival. It was a delicate knock—one that sought not to disturb. Unless she was mad at him. Then it was the fiercest knock around. Delicacy found him today.
You have to act normal. You can’t let what you’ve been thinking about her show. She doesn’t deserve it.
Drying his face, and against the judgment of his heart, he opened the door. As soon as he saw her, he knew she was struggling. She wasn’t crying, but she was on the verge. “Come in,” he said quietly, stepping aside to allow her entrance. He locked the door behind her.
Her ocean blue eyes were pleading. “Scott, what is happening?”
“Everything I said back in the lounge,” he answered as assuredly as he could. “We have a mission in Cairo.”
“But why you? Why must it be you? There are eidola who train for this!”
“Sveta,” he said, sighing, “you need to understand that I don’t have a choice. Thoor’s making a statement with this. I’ve gotten away with more than any other fulcrum in The Machine. This is his way of making me pay for it.” He knew there was more to it than that. The Fourteenth had proven time and time again that they were capable of doing things no other unit could—not even Oleg’s elites from the First. Scott was resourceful, and with Svetlana’s life on the line, motivated. Thoor knew that meant Scott would come through.
Svetlana leaned into his arms, as she had time and time again in their recent time together. She laid her cheek against his chest. Very gently, she slid her fingers through the back of his hair. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t.” And she wouldn’t. Whether she knew it or not, he was fighting for her. Regardless of whether or not Esther had succeeded in making him view Svetlana differently, she’d failed in stopping him from caring. Svetlana was worth this mission.
After hesitating, Svetlana asked, “Is something going on with you and Esther?”
The moment she brought up Esther’s name, Scott’s body tensed. “What do you mean?”
“Last night you called her to your room, then she was not in Room 14 this morning. You left to find her, and neither of you came back. I commed you, but you didn’t answer. You never do that.”
He rubbed his forehead. “Sveta…”
“Please, Scott,” she said, eyes beginning to brim, “are you sleeping with her?”
The urge to push her away finally won, as he forcefully put her at arm’s length. “Oh my God. Are you serious? Did you seriously just ask me that?”
“Scott, I—”
He cut her off coldly. “No, I’m not sleeping with Esther. I’m not having sex with Esther. Are you serious?”
Swallowing, she said, “I am sorry, I just—”
“Are you that freaking paranoid? The moment I’m not at your beck and call, you think I’m sleeping with Esther?”
“Scott—!”
It was all coming out now. “I’m so sick of this you-versus-her crap. Backbiting each other, hating each other, freaking pieing each other. I never know what it’s going to be, Sveta. It’s like a daily surprise!”
Raising a finger, she said, “Just for the record, Esther never pied me.”
“You see?” And that did it. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about! You two keep score about everything! Who saves aliens, who kills them, who gets shower pranked, who doesn’t, who gets porridge, who got a pie. Who gives a scat, Sveta?” He was going off. He couldn’t help it. “You know what I wish you’d do? I wish you’d go to the cafeteria, find the biggest pie you can, and just ask someone to plaster you with it. Then at least in one vecking thing, neither of you would have one up on the other. Hell, I’d do the honors myself. It’d be a freakin’ relief!”
Closing her eyes, she pushed up her hair. “Scott…”
“I just want peace. I want one day of peace.” He motioned his arms emphatically. “We can’t go one season without lifealtering drama!”
She shook her fists in desperation. “Lifealtering drama? What lifealtering drama?”
Scott bit his lip as he forced himself to look away. He was almost too amped up to think. Tell her what’s going on. Tell her what happened with Esther. At least give her some context to all this. “Last night I found out that Esther killed Nijinsky. And that he was the one who murdered Nicole. That’s why I called her to my room.”
Svetlana’s face fell.
“I called her to confront her about it. When I asked her why she did it, she told me it was because she loved me. Because she loved me! And I had to tell her that I didn’t love her back.” That single conversation had spawned all of this. He couldn’t help but wonder how things would have gone had he reacted to Esther’s confession better. “At the end of our conversation, she said she was ready to leave the unit if I didn’t want her anymore. That’s why she wasn’t there this morning.” With an intense, yet controlled motion, he pointed at his door. “And this morning, I had to track down that girl I rejected and ask her for her help in Cairo. She didn’t respond well.”
Exhaling softly, Svetlana touched his arm. “Oh, Scott.”
“After this mission, I’m going to lose my Type-2 scout. I’m going to lose a comrade, a friend, who’s been with me since I lost Nicole. All because she loved me.” He was settling down. His voice was desperate, yet normal. “So please excuse me if I seem a little stressed. I’ve had a lot put on my shoulders in the past twenty-four hours. I’m looking for a reason to smile, I’m looking for something to feel good about, something to distract me if even for a minute. But there’s nothing, Sveta. I am under so much pressure right now, I’m about to snap. I just want this mission done.”
His comm chirped. Pausing his monologue, he retrieved it from his desktop. It was from the Citadel. Glancing at Svetlana apologetically, he took the call. “This is Remington.”
“Hello Remington. This is Antipov. I would like to meet with you and your team tonight. This is a critical mission—there is much to discuss. Will you be available?”
How he wished he could answer with a no. “Yeah. We can meet tonight.”
“I will meet you at your quarters at 2100 hours. Have a good rest of your day.”
“Will do,” Scott answered tiredly. The comm channel closed. Sighing heavily, he tossed the device on his bed.
Touching him again, Svetlana spoke softly. Her eyes were still red, but no moisture was there. “I am sorry about Esther. I am sorry that she—”
Even though she stopped, he knew what she wanted to say. She was sorry Esther did this to him.
“I am sorry that you are losing her.”
Nice save, Sveta.
“What can I do?” she asked. “Please, tell me something. I cannot just watch you like this.”
“I don’t know what you can do. I’m just being honest. I think today’s beyond repair.” He could see the hurt in her. She was hurting for him. She’s trying for you, Scott. She’s trying to be your friend. “Look. I’m sorry—I am. I need to be alone today. I’m just dealing with too much. I need to reconcile it by myself. Why don’t…” He held his tongue briefly. “My flight leaves tomorrow at 0715. Why don’t you come by before I go? Just to visit. Just…just to tell me goodbye.” This mission was as much about Svetlana to him as any conspiracy. Maybe more so. Esther had changed the way he perceived her, but that didn’t change who she was. She was still in his heart. “It’d be good to see you.”
For several seconds, Svetlana simply looked at him—those blue eyes of hers searched his for something. He couldn’t tell if she’d found it or not. Finally, she nodded. “I will come at 0630. Is that okay?”
“Yes. 0630’s fine.”
She nodded again.
Reaching forward, he put his arms around her and drew her in for a hug. It felt like the right thing to do.
“I care for you so much,” she whispered, her head against his chest. “So much it hurts sometimes. I am sorry that I get so jealous.”
She was about to tell him she loved him. He just sensed it. Svetlana’s lips remained parted, as if the three words were teetering on the edge of her tongue. She breathed in and out deeply. Her lips slowly closed.
Silence. The three words never came. Scott wasn’t sure if he felt disappointed or that he’d just dodged a bullet. Maybe he felt both.
I don’t know anything anymore, God. But I don’t want to be alone, even though I told Sveta otherwise. I have messed up with You so many times. Please let me know what you want me to do. Please make it clear.
As was often the case, Scott received no answer, only the intangible inclination that at some point, he’d know what to do. That was all he could bank on.
For several minutes, Scott and Svetlana simply held each other. No words were spoken between them—none needed to be. For the first time that day, Esther was gone from his mind.
And so was Nicole.
15
TUESDAY, MARCH 13TH, 0012 NE
2056 HOURS
DESPITE THE OBVIOUS importance of going into the Cairo mission prepared, Scott accomplished very little of tangible substance in the hours that passed from the afternoon to his scheduled meeting with Antipov, beyond packing his duffle bag and tidying his quarters for the meeting. His mindset was that any amount of planning he did himself would be dwarfed by whatever Antipov would come up with. Antipov wasn’t just an eidolon, he was the eidola. That Scott even knew who he was was a privilege.
Auric and Boris had arrived in Scott’s room together, ten minutes before meeting time. Few words were exchanged between the three men as they waited for Antipov. On a judgment call, and with Esther not yet present, Scott decided to let Auric and Boris in on the events of the previous night, if for nothing else, for situational awareness. They needed to know that things weren’t well between Scott and her. This wasn’t a mission suited for being caught off guard with anything.
With that in mind, he also informed them about the threat against Svetlana’s life, contingent on the success of the mission. The brief explanation went a long way in revealing to them why this mission was so important to Scott as well as why he was in an admittedly short mood.
It was abundantly clear to Scott that no one in this mission was going into it for the right reason, which was to uncover a possible EDEN Command conspiracy with the Ceratopians. For them, this was about Svetlana. Scott almost regretted following the conspiracy rabbit trail at all. Perhaps that wasn’t the right mentality considering a conspiracy would be a huge revelation for the whole human species, but ignorance had a way of being bliss.
It was 2059 when a new knock finally came to his door. About time, Scott thought. Rising from the table, he walked across his room and opened the door. That had better be—
The moment Scott saw the woman standing in the hallway, he froze. Who the? She was mocha-skinned, but dressed in a tan, single-breasted, two-button cashmere suit. Dark brown and eyeliner-traced eyes gazed at him through a pair of thin-framed rectangular glasses, as she angled her head just enough to make her inverted bob to glide gracefully along her chin line. Tapping polished maroon nails and licking freshly glossed lips, she said in all-too-familiar British, “Well, captain, can I come in?”
Oh my God. This is Esther!
Her eyes, her hair. Her entire appearance. It was like staring at another person. She looked…stunning. Stepping aside and still slack-jawed, Scott allowed Esther to enter. As soon as Auric and Boris caught sight of her, they stood up as if welcoming in a foreign diplomat. Then they blinked, too.
Before Scott could find any words, Antipov emerged from around the corner into the open doorway. The scruffy-haired eidolon nodded casually. “Good evening, Captain Remington. Allow me to introduce the newest member of your team: Miss Calliope Lee.”
“Calliope Lee?”
Antipov walked inside, motioning for Scott to close the door. “It is a necessary alias. The many variants of Miss Brooking’s real name would undoubtedly be traced. For this mission, we require something original.”
“Why does she look like that?” Scott asked, ogling the scout as she sat cross-legged.
Placing a manila envelope on Scott’s table, Antipov answered, “When I learned that you had indeed selected Brooking for this operation, I sought her out and drove her to the city. As your primary infiltrating agent, it will be important that she look the part of someone who would naturally appear in Cairo’s Xenobiology lab.” He crossed his arms. “Let us talk. Please, sit.”
The way Antipov spoke, it was as if Scott was a guest in his room. In a way, that might have been true. The eidola ran The Machine. As Scott took a seat with his three comrades, Antipov paced around them. “On the table before you, you will find dossiers for three individuals you will encounter in Cairo: Captain Rockwell, Lieutenant Marshall, and Giro Holmes, chief of Xenobiology. Please, take a look and pass the dossiers around.”
Scott’s focus went to the envelope before him. Captain Rockwell. Scott had been wondering who the man was whose unit he was about to violate. Turning the manila envelope upside down, he slid the dossier out, inspecting the topmost individual’s photo attachment.
It was a woman. Chestnut hair, emerald eyes, looked in her latetwenties. Her expression was stern, no-nonsense. Like the CEO of a corporation.
Rockwell, Natalie Christine
Natalie? This was Captain Rockwell? He hadn’t expected a woman, though for no particular reason other than past experience with COs—Tanneken Brunner the only exception that came to mind. He skimmed down the rest of the page.
Enrollment: 12.1.0008
Station: Atlanta
Scott lowered the paper and stared ahead. A three-year veteran, flying in from Atlanta, for a command opportunity in Cairo. This had to be her first stab at captainship—her records didn’t even have Cairo listed. He skimmed on.
…unrivaled dedication…strong sense of justice…leadership potential…
He read enough to get the gist. She was the military ideal. She’d probably worked her tail off for this opportunity. Holding out Rockwell’s dossier, he handed it to Boris at his right.
“Yomayo!” Boris exclaimed as he saw the captain’s picture. “She is like goddess!”
Esther snatched the picture away. Inspecting it for a moment, she handed it back. “She’s a regular Venus,” she said flatly.
“Can I keep this?” Boris asked.
“Boris, pass the dumb thing around,” said Scott.
Antipov cleared his throat. “Here is what you need to know about Captain Rockwell. She is an American, formerly a commander in Atlanta. This is her first opportunity to be the captain of a unit.” Nodding to the document, he said, “As you can see, she has excellent marks for an officer. To be presented with an opportunity for captainship in three years is impressive.” Briefly, he settled on Scott. “Not everyone leapfrogs the chain of command.”
There was no malice in the way Antipov said it. It was just an observable fact. That Scott had flown up to captain in under a year was not only remarkable, it was brazenly unfair. Such was life under the rule of General Thoor. I guess it doesn’t matter, since EDEN thinks I’m a lieutenant anyway.
“Rockwell will be your primary focus,” Antipov said, looking at Scott. “Your presence as overseer is necessary in Cairo for this operation to succeed. Just the same, you must treat your transfer to the Caracals, her unit, as legitimate.” He propped his hands against the table. “The Caracals are a newly-formed unit. Work with the captain. Help her train her personnel. But all the while, maintain contact with ‘Calliope’ as she draws nearer to H`laar. When the time comes to remove H`laar from Cairo, you will guide her in his extraction. She is the primary resource in this operation, but the success of the operation itself is your responsibility.”
Great.
Antipov motioned to the next dossier. Turning to it, Scott’s attention focused on the next picture.
Marshall, Logan Bradley
Marshall looked like a pit fighter. Shaved head, facial scars, chiseled features. Scott read on.
Enrollment: 12.1.0008
Station: Atlanta
He’d come in at the same time as Rockwell. Both had been stationed at Atlanta. They might even have had a shared unit history. Perhaps they’d come to Cairo together, as Scott was doing with his comrades now. If so, that meant there’d be camaraderie between Rockwell and him. Scott stopped reading as something at the page’s bottom caught his eye.
Recipient of Knockout Award
“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Antipov smirked. “I think I know what you just read.”
The Knockout Award. It was the most sought-after award in Philadelphia Academy—and for a good reason. Laughing under his breath, Scott set the document down. “This guy knocked out Captain Williams?”
Auric and Boris’s eyes widened like plates.
Nodding, Antipov answered, “That is correct. Marshall has been a lieutenant for as long as Rockwell has been a commander. They were part of the same Academy class, stationed in the same unit in Atlanta.” He stood upright. “I show you his dossier for one reason primarily. In the event that something occurs that reveals you for who you are, you must be prepared to deal with Marshall. He is a dangerous man—and this is coming from the chief of the eidola.”
Antipov’s focus turned to Auric. “I understand that your inclusion in this operation is primarily due to your ability to speak German, the language H`laar attempted to communicate with.” Auric listened attentively. “However, you are to consider your primary task assisting Remington in his endeavors. You are also there to back him up should bad things happen.” Shifting to Scott, Antipov said, “You were told you could bring up to four additional operatives. Are you sure there is no fourth operative you wish to include? You must remember—these men will serve as your reinforcements.”
“There’s no one else,” Scott said. “I wanted to go with a ‘less is more’ approach. The more pairs of feet, the more likely one of them is to stumble. That could give us away.” There was another reason no one else was coming along: he didn’t want to take too many operatives away from the Fourteenth. The Fourteenth would be without some of their strongest assets. They didn’t need to be handicapped any more than they already would be should a mission arise.
Antipov nodded. “As you wish. Then let me address Mister Evteev before we move on to Brooking.” He faced the technician. “Our initial concept was to transfer you to Cairo under the pretense of a new custodian. Custodial roles are nondescript, and frankly, custodians can get places many other operatives cannot. Even the most secure environments must be cleaned.”
Boris the custodian. Something about that made Scott chuckle on the inside.
“However, due to the small number of operatives on this mission, I will be forced to include you with Remington and Broll in the Caracals. That will only make your role slightly more difficult.”
Extra difficulty in any capacity was the last thing Boris needed. Ever. For anything.
“In addition to serving as added reinforcements for the operation, you will have the task of tapping into Cairo’s security mainframe.” As soon as Antipov said it, Boris’s eyes widened. Antipov noted it and waved it away. “Do not be alarmed. We will be providing you with a technician’s kit specifically designed for hacking into computer systems. To all but the most trained, it will appear similar to any standard technical kit.
“Once you are inside Cairo’s mainframe, you should be able to access any number of command functions for the base. I should not need to explain why this could be useful.”
Boris looked as confident as a rookie on a hot-drop. “So I am going in as a combat tech, not a custodian?”
“That is correct. You must use your off-duty time to hack into Cairo’s systems. Will this be a problem?” Antipov asked. Boris indicated there wouldn’t be. “Good. Now, let’s discuss the most important asset in this operation. Calliope.” At the mention of her alias, Esther sat more erect. Antipov motioned to the folder. “On your third and final dossier, you will see Mister Giro Holmes, the chief of the Xenobiology department. This is the man Brooking must make contact with as Calliope.”
Judging by his picture, Giro looked to be in his fifties. He was definitely of Indian descent, despite the English surname. Spectacles rested above a pointed nose and a genuine smile, but visuals aside, nothing about the man’s profile seemed particularly interesting. Then again, Scott was more in-tune with soldiers, not whitecollars.
Antipov continued. “Calliope will be visiting Cairo as a civilian contractor on behalf of the base in Sydney, Australia.”
“Is Cairo expecting her?” Scott asked.
“Unfortunately, no. We cannot go back in time to schedule an appointment. If we could, we would need only send Brooking in as Calliope. The only way to ensure that Brooking could enter the facility at all was to include her in the transfer. It will be up to her to use her abilities and instincts to play a dual role in order to gain access to Xenobiology. In fact, one of your first goals is going to be to convince Captain Rockwell that scouts follow their own training schedules,” Antipov said. “This will free up Brooking to become Calliope and do her infiltration while the Caracals train. We have already provided her with an EDEN civilian I.D. card, as we are able to forge those ourselves. The rest is up to her.
“Running covert operations at other facilities is not something we specialize in. I cannot say that we have ever attempted something of this magnitude. I wish I had better news to give you, but this will be an extremely difficult mission, even for the most experienced of eidola.
“Always be aware of your surroundings and situation. Your means of going to Cairo was via unit transfer, and you must play that role as if it is legitimate. But you are there to extract a Ceratopian. We will help you coordinate extraction when that time comes, but you must always be prepared for emergencies should they arise.”
Raising his hand, Scott asked, “How is Esther going to play both roles? What if Rockwell or Marshall see her dressed like the contractor? Or what if Holmes sees her in EDEN uniform?”
Smiling faintly, Antipov made eye contact with Esther and nodded his head. The others watched as Esther stood up, picked up her handbag, and produced a brown ponytail extension. Removing her glasses, she rose from the table and walked to Scott’s sink. As soon as she turned on the tap, she crouched down and dipped her head back until water saturated her scalp. Whisking it damp with Scott’s towel, she slicked it back. Dampening the ponytail extension, she snapped it in place. When she looked at the others again, she seemed a totally different person.
“And that,” Antipov said, “is how you have two identities.” Without a word, Esther retook her seat with her ponytailed look.
Scott had to admit—that was impressive.
“Any other questions?”
Nothing came to Scott’s mind. Then again, this wasn’t his style of operation. Outside of questions so obvious they were silly, he didn’t know enough to know what to ask.
“What do we do if we get discovered?” asked Auric.
Antipov nodded. “Your first priority upon discovery is to notify the other members of your party. Obviously, you do not want to comm them up and say, ‘I just blew our cover.’ That would not be so well for the person on the other end of the line.”
Ha. Good point.
“Instead, get on the comm and say that you just got locked out of your room. This is harmless and it will give the listener on the other end—which should be Remington—an excuse to leave whatever present company he may be around to presumably assist the locked-out party.” He looked at Scott. “Your first priority at that point will be to contact NovCom, and we will prepare for your immediate extraction.”
Wait a second. “You mean we have to wait until a transport flies all the way from Novosibirsk? What if there’s an active firefight?”
“Though you will indeed be forced to wait for evacuation, you will not be without assistance. I have arranged for a small strike team of slayers to stay in downtown Cairo in an apartment near the base. They should be able to reach you within fifteen minutes.”
That sounded anything but assuring. “Yeah, but you’re talking about strike teams. Cairo is a full-fledged base.”
Antipov held up his palm. “Do not confuse Cairo with The Machine. Cairo is a Class-2 facility. We are a Class-4. You will find them less than intimidating, and far inferior to your skill.” Smirking, he said, “When one becomes accustomed to the elite, it can make the adequate seem quite harmless.”
The eidolon’s expression returned stoic. “Unfortunately, Cairo is not accepting pilots at this time, making the transfer of a pilot impossible. One of the Nightmen staying at the apartments, however, will be Vulture certified. Whether your cover is blown or not, he will be your primary source of extraction. You should coordinate with him as soon as an extraction plan is finalized—his comm information will be provided.” Leaning forward, he said, “Keep comm contact with him at a minimal. Though our traffic should not be traceable, it is better safe than sorry.” His posture relaxed. “Upon extraction, a squadron will be dispatched from Novosibirsk to Cairo to provide safe escort back to The Machine, in the event that EDEN pursues you.”
So in the end, this was a smash-and-grab after all. Formulate an extraction plan, coordinate with the pilot, return to The Machine. Apparently Thoor wasn’t too concerned with being the world’s most hated after blatantly breaking a prisoner out of another EDEN base. Scott wasn’t surprised.
“Any other questions?” Antipov asked. No one spoke. “Very well. Captain Remington, I will leave those dossiers with you in case you wish to review them tonight.” Pausing, he rested his palms against the table and leaned amid the group. “This is an important assignment you have been tasked with. It is the first of its kind. Never before has the general issued an order to infiltrate another EDEN facility for a purpose such as this.”
For a purpose such as this, eh? Scott couldn’t help but wonder how many EDEN facilities Thoor had infiltrated for other purposes.
Tone growing graver, Antipov said, “This is real. If the possibility of a conspiracy was not a legitimate one, this would not be happening. The Citadel thanks you for bringing this to our attention. The difficulty and danger of this operation cannot be denied, but we stand ready to assist you if need be.” He stood upright. “Get enough sleep tonight. I will see you at the hangar tomorrow at 0715.”
Never before had 0715 seemed so early in the morning. On any regular day, it would have been a late start. But on a day when his entire job description—not to mention his scenery—was going to change, 0715 seemed like the crack of dawn. Sveta’s coming over at 0630. Looks like an 0550 wakeup for secret agent Scott Remington. Scott glanced at the clock. It was 2135. Bedtime was approaching quickly.
As Antipov made his departure, Esther, Auric, and Boris remained seated. Once they were alone, Scott sighed and propped his elbows on the table. “Does everyone get this so far?”
“What’s there not to get?” asked Esther sarcastically.
Scott glared despite his best effort not to.
Raising his hand, Boris asked, “So, are we using code names?”
“Code names? What do you mean?”
“You know, like code names. Names for people that are not their real names, that we can use to talk about them.” The technician smiled sheepishly. “I would like to nominate Venus as the code name for Captain Rockwell.”
Esther’s eyes rolled. “Are you serious?”
Rubbing his face with his hand, Scott groaned. “Boris…”
“What?” Boris asked. “It would be a good code name for her, no?”
“On that note,” said Esther, “might we be dismissed?”
Making eye contact with Auric briefly, Scott determined that there was nothing the German wished to bring up. “All right. Like Antipov said, everyone needs to rest tonight. Get to bed ASAP. Esther, hang around for a minute.”
Aboutfacing sourly halfway to the door, Esther cocked a hand on her hips. Auric and Boris swapped a weary glance, then shuffled past her to make their exit. Moments later, Scott and Esther were alone.
“Listen,” Scott said, his tone as conciliatory as was possible. Despite the bad feelings he’d harbored toward her all day, the climax of his emotions had come and gone. Alone time and reflection had a way of doing that. Svetlana helped, too. “I’m just gonna be honest with you, Ess.”
“Esther.”
“What?”
She stayed fixed on him. “I am Esther to you.”
Defeated, he sighed. “Fine. Esther. Look—for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“Grand. All is forgiven.”
“Come on, I’m being serious. This isn’t beyond our mutual under standing.”
Eyes narrowing, she asked, “How do you mean, exactly?”
Time for honesty again. “For as upset as I am with you, for your attitude this morning, for what you pulled with Nicole’s photo, I know you’re upset with me, too. And for what it’s worth, I’m genuinely sorry. I should have approached you in a better way last night.”
“Here’s the thing,” she said, pointing her finger at him as she approached. “You didn’t even give me a chance. You didn’t even try to look at me in any other way than your little battlefield toy, despite the obvious efforts I made time and time again to get close to you—to get to know you.”
“Ess—”
“Am I attractive, Scott?”
Great. Not where I wanted this to go.
“Is there any part of your jocular brain that looks at me and says, ‘wow, this is a sexy little vixen?’”
What was he supposed to say? She was beautiful, and yes, tonight she looked as sexy as any woman he’d ever seen. But he just didn’t view her that way. “Yes, you’re attractive, and yes, you’re very sexy.”
“Then why her over me? What does that half-sharp heifer have that I don’t? No need to answer, I already know. She has the amazing ability to inhale oxygen and exhale boredom.”
Sighing, Scott craned his neck to the floor.
“She can go zero to damsel in distress in 2.5 seconds. She makes you mustard sandwiches. Heaven help me, how’s a girl supposed to compete with mustard sandwiches?”
“Esther.”
Pointing down for emphasis, Esther said, “I spent the larger portion of my career here trying to get close to you. Gunning for you. It just hurts to make it all the way to the finish line only to find out that there was never a race to begin with.” She stepped back. “The grand irony is that now I’m risking my life to save that flat-chested bag. I will never believe in that. I will never believe that this risk was worth something. But there is something I believe.”
Scott had already given up on salvaging what he’d hoped would be a reconciliatory talk. “What do you believe?”
“I believe I made a terrible mistake when I fell for you. And it is a mistake I will never make again.”
Despite everything that told him her revelation was for the better, hearing her words stung. He’d rejected her based on the circumstances of attraction. She was rejecting him based on…him. Despite his lack of affectionate feelings toward her, it still hurt to hear the conviction behind her words.
“Goodbye in advance, Captain Remington. I was proud to serve with the Fourteenth.” Without another word, the scout stepped back, turned around, and walked for the door.
The Fourteenth was unlike any other unit in EDEN. It was run more like a posse of outlaws than a military squad. That was what made it so special. That was also what had caused this.
Goodbye, Delta Trooper Brooking. You will make London proud.
As the door closed behind her, the sound of her heels disappeared down the hall.
It was 2230 hours when Scott finally went to bed, his process of showering, teeth-brushing, and settling down dragging on longer than it usually did. Dostoevsky had been ostracized for what he’d done to the Fourteenth during his brief stint as captain. What had Scott done? Lost his most valuable operative. Allowed his personal feelings to place another in jeopardy. Committed a third of his team to a treasonous assignment. And the day wasn’t done.
Climbing under the covers was the most selfless thing he could think to accomplish.
 *
THOOR WAS GATHERED around the table with his counsel when Antipov walked into the Throne Room. The group regarded the eidolon as he approached.
“They are prepared, general,” said Antipov. “We are go for infiltration.”
Saretok eyed Thoor. “You should not let Remington leave Novosibirsk, general. He will never return.”
“He will return, colonel,” Thoor said. “Of that, I have no doubts.”
“But how can we be certain? Who can hold him accountable while he is away?”
Thoor eyed Saretok coldly. “He will hold himself accountable. And if he doesn’t….” The general looked at Antipov.
Saretok opened his mouth to say something, but Antipov cut him off.
“The situation is under control, Grigori,” the eidolon said. “Rest assured. He will return.”
The two Nightmen eyed one another for a moment, before their focus returned to the general. Their meeting resumed.
 *
BY THE TIME the lights went out in Room 14, it was well past midnight. Despite the best efforts of its operatives to quell the mix of anticipation and dread within them, peaceful slumber was a far cry from what was possible. Few words were spoken as the last of the Fourteenth slid under their covers. The final minutes of their last night together were as barren as the bunks of the missing would be the next day.
Only one meaningful transaction took place before the room was plunged into darkness. It was in the lounge. It was between Svetlana and Esther. In the span of a single lingering gaze, they conveyed feelings that no spoken words could have. Their war had ended. But neither woman was ready to admit defeat.
Esther never told Svetlana that the threat on her life was the reason Scott was going on the mission. Svetlana never told Esther that she knew about Scott’s rejection of her. It was the first time either woman had held their tongue when it came to such things. That it was the last time they’d likely see each other most certainly played a part. As Esther flicked off the light in the lounge, leaving Svetlana to the solitude of a single, small lamp, the scout climbed under her covers and closed her eyes with her comrades for the last time.
No one in Room 14 heard Svetlana leave the lounge that night. They were asleep before the lamp ever went off.
16
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 14TH, 0012 NE
0617 HOURS
THE NEXT MORNING
IT WAS THE worst night of sleep that Scott could remember. It barely qualified as a night of “sleep” at all. Mere hours past an initial bout with slumber, Scott had found himself laying wide awake under his covers, desperately trying to think of anything other than the flight to Cairo that would usher in his day. He’d tried thinking about football. He’d tried thinking about dog training for Flopper. He’d even literally attempted to count sheep in his head, but when they started growing fangs and gnashing through the fence, he knew his thoughts were fast on their way to nonsense. At least until two o’clock. He remembered the two o’clock hour distinctly. That was when he started thinking about Nicole.
For the first time since his very first night with EDEN, back in Room 419 in Richmond, Nicole’s photograph wasn’t sitting next to his bed. He had packed it the previous day in his quest to get his duffle bag ready in advance. Truth be told, he’d wanted to experience a night without her smiling at him. It hadn’t gone well.
He loved Nicole more than any other woman on the face of the Earth. He belonged with her more than he belonged with any other woman. Yet she was gone. Esther’s challenge for him to put the photo away permanently had brought all those emotions back up to the surface. He could almost smell the fragrance Nicole always left behind on pillows and on his shirt, where she’d lay her cheek. He was supposed to have spent the rest of his life waking up to that scent.
In reminding Scott of those things, Esther had accomplished half of her original goal. She’d effectively removed Svetlana from her pedestal. Scott’s mind and heart shifted constantly when it came to the blond medic now: backand-forth, backand-forth, backand-forth, from love, to loathing, from eagerness, to dread, from destined, to consolation prize. He didn’t know how he felt about her at all—and that might have said more to him than any solid emotion could have.
Scott hadn’t anticipated this mission turning into one of self-discovery—he’d gotten more of his fill of that from his transition to Nightman. But now here he was, on the verge of a covert operation to uncover what could be a major conspiracy, and all he could think about was, “if not Sveta, who?” If he could never feel about Svetlana the way he’d felt about Nicole, then would he ever find anyone else? He was a fulcrum—an elite officer in the world’s most intimidating army. And he was terrified of being alone.
As the clock steadily approached 0630, Scott prepared for Svetlana’s morning visit. She was as punctual a woman as any he’d known—worlds more punctual than Nicole. Svetlana was a professional. Serious about her job, serious about her reputation, serious about being serious. He already knew what to expect from her visit. She would be somber, remorseful. She’d hold onto him and just stand there while he held her, telling him to be strong and that she’d miss him so much. They wouldn’t kiss—they never did—but they’d hang on the cusp. Just like always. With her, it was always the same.
Knock, knock, knock.
Scott was sitting on his bedside when the knock came. It was recognizably the medic’s. Rising to his feet, he surrendered to a long pent-up breath while he stretched out his back. Get it over with, Scott. You’ve done things like this with her a hundred times. Rinse, repeat, then get out of Dodge. Walking to the door, he pulled it open.
Immediately, he was taken aback.
It was Svetlana, but not like he typically saw her. Not only were her shoulder-length locks pulled back into the tightest ponytail he’d ever seen, but she wasn’t wearing a drop of makeup. While Svetlana wasn’t nearly the makeup queen Varvara was, there was still a vastly noticeable difference between the girl he knew and the one who was standing before him now. Lips parting in the most embarrassed, self-depreciating smirk she’d ever given him, Svetlana released what could only be described as a sigh of surrender.
Then Scott looked in her hands. In one of them, she held a small paper sack. In the other was the largest, most loaded Black Russian Pie he’d ever seen. It clicked. Laughing candidly, he stared at her face. “You can’t be serious.”
“First of all,” she said, pushing the paper sack into his hand, “put this in your bag. Second of all…you had better enjoy this.”
“Sveta.”
Glancing both ways, she pushed him inside the room. “And we are not doing this in the hall, where everyone can see.”
With an amused look of stupor stuck to his face, Scott stepped aside as she closed the door behind her. “What the heck are you doing?”
Blowing up at hair that would have normally been falling over her forehead, she said, “Okay, so that is mustard.” She pointed at the sack, directing for Scott to pack it. “For my mustard sandwiches, as I know Esther calls them. But you know they are called Russian ham sandwiches. I am sure they have ham in Cairo, but Russian mustard, not so much. So take that with you—I know you like them.”
He didn’t like them. At all. He ate her sandwiches because he didn’t have the heart to tell her how disgusting they were.
“And this,” she said, lifting the pie slightly as her face turned red, “is obviously a pie.”
Hands on his hips, Scott shook his head. Okay, Sveta, you’ve genuinely surprised me, here. “I’m kind of at a loss.”
“So you said that if I really wanted to help you, I would go to the cafeteria and ask someone to, I believe the word was, plaster me with the biggest pie I could find, so that me and Esther would finally be even at something. For the record, this was the biggest one.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” he said. “That’s pretty big.”
She went on. “You also said that you would do the honors yourself, because it would be a relief. So here I am, at the start of this stressful mission for you, offering you relief.”
“You do realize I was being facetious, right?”
She held the pie out. “Take it.”
In the midst of the ridiculousness before him, Scott actually found himself impressed. Svetlana had caught him off guard. Svetlana—the woman who could inhale oxygen and exhale boredom—had done something completely out of left field. The woman who five minutes ago had been the most serious and self-conscious one he knew, was now handing him a pie with her name on it. “Can we just eat it?”
“Nyet!” There was tension in her voice. “Scott, take it, please. I did this so you could do this. I am serious.”
Scott had never actually pied someone in the face before, and the prospect of doing it now was more than a little tempting. He just couldn’t get over that the girl with the self-depreciating smirk before him was Svetlana. Chief medical officer. Queen Dullard of Soviet Russia. “You really don’t have to do this.”
“Please,” she said again. “I want to. I want you to. I insist.”
“Heh…Sveta…”
She held up her palm as if taking an oath. “I have thought about this. I really want to do it. I have made a commitment.”
“This is probably the worst commitment you’ve ever made.”
She snorted, then caught herself.
Holy cow, she actually snorted!
“Just take it,” she said. “It is not a big deal. Trust me. I promise. Really, take the pie.”
That she hadn’t taken advantage of the multiple outs he’d offered told him she was serious. Raising an eyebrow, he asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she answered immediately. “I am completely sure. I am like, so sure, it is crazy.”
“Well,” he said, a bit fastidiously, “all right.” Reaching out, he claimed the pie. The moment he had it, her freak-out began.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
Scott lost it, his chuckles winning out. “You really don’t want to do this, do you?”
“No, no,” she said quickly, fanning her face. “I really want to.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “Yes, I am sure.”
“Positively sure?”
“Yes. Positively sure.” Blowing out a breath, she eased her face forward. “I am sure.”
As he stared at her in her bracing-for-it stance, Scott found himself amused. You know what, Scott? You’re about to fly to Egypt. You’re about to infiltrate EDEN. You’re about to have the most stressed-out life on the planet. Why not go out with canned laughter? Svetlana was being insistent. She was showing a side of herself that he’d never even fathomed, and you know what? It was a little bit fun. Why not, indeed? Eyeing her down like she was an opposing linebacker, he steadied the pie and cocked his hand back.
“No, no, no, wait, wait, wait!” Laughing hysterically, Svetlana pranced backward and held out her hands.
Scott lowered the pie. “Oh, come on! Now you got me wanting to do it!”
Sputtering out something in Russian, Svetlana bent forward on her knees. She looked up in hilarity. “I changed my mind.”
“You can’t change your mind!”
She was red like a beet; she pressed her hands to her forehead. More Russian sputtered out, then English again. “I really have to do this.” Scott didn’t know if it was a question or a statement. Just the same, she fanned herself furiously and stepped forward. “All right, all right,” she said. “Let’s go.” She blew out and leaned forward. “Do it.”
He gave her the warning. “I’m doing it.”
“Let’s do it.”
“Okay.” He eased his arm back.
“No, no, no, wait, wait, wait!” She leapt away from him again.
“Sveta, this is ridiculous!”
She laughed though pleading blue eyes. “Please don’t get it in my hair.”
“Don’t get it in your hair? What is this, the wussiest pie-in-the-face ever?”
Running a hand over her head, she stared at him with the most pathetic look of defeat and regret he’d ever seen. Then slowly, almost warily, a grin crept out. “You had better enjoy this.”
“Yeah, you said that already.”
“You had better enjoy this, Scott Remington.”
He waved her forward. “Come on. Take it like a blonde.”
Hands on her hips and face flushed, Svetlana stepped toward him. “I can’t believe I am doing this.” She shot a look that screamed not happy.
“Are you ready?”
“Do not get it in my hair.”
“Are you ready?”
She inhaled. “I am ready.”
“Okay. On three.” There was zero chance he was waiting until three.
“Okay,” she said, “on three.”
“One.”
She stared the pie down like it was her mortal enemy. She nodded confidently. “One.”
“Two.”
“Two—”
Thrusting the pie forward, he slammed it into her face with the passion of a thousand clowns. She couldn’t even shriek. Whipped cream enveloped her head as he blocked her instinctive retreat with a hand to her back. As her body went rigid, he slid the pan around in circles.
Beneath the layers of white that cascaded from Svetlana’s face was a look of open-mouthed horror. By the time Scott ended his masterpiece, the contents of the pan were completely gone. Her head was a wreck.
“Oh, my God,” she said. The way the words came out, it was as if she was about to either laugh or commit homicide. The end result was a mixture of both. “Scott James Remington!”
“Hang on, hang on,” Scott said, taking a step back. “I want to take this in.”
Finally, her grin came out. It was a grin of disbelief, but a grin just the same. Cocking one hand on her hip, she stared at him. Or at least he thought she was staring at him. He couldn’t quite tell. “I am going to get you,” she said, pointing a finger. “I want you to know that. When you least expect it.” Wiping her hand across her head, she slung a pile of mess to the floor. “I am so mad at you.”
“Can I tell you something?” Scott asked.
She leered through globs of white. “What?”
“You’re an incredible sport.” Amid the absurdity, he wanted to say something sincere. “I mean it. When I say this was the last thing I expected this morning, this was really the last thing I expected. I had no idea you were capable of this.” Her skin was barely visible, but he could swear she was blushing.
“I try,” she said. “This was a first for me.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes, really,” she said, laughing. “I would not do this for anyone else. I hope you got a good laugh.”
Did he get a good laugh? Yes. But she’d given him something infinitely more meaningful. She’d given him a momentary reprieve from all things Cairo, and that was exactly what he’d needed. “You want to look at yourself?”
“Not particularly. Okay, yes.” Sliding her fingers over her eyes, she cleared them to see. Scott eased her in front of his sink mirror. As soon as the blonde saw her reflection, she succumbed to a laughing fit. “Scott!” She angled her face to see the sides of her head, then grabbed at her ponytail. “I am so going to get you one day.”
“Promises, promises.”
“I told you not to get my hair!” Wiping the filling from her face, she flicked it in globs to the sink basin. “Can I have a towel?”
Tossing her a towel from his linen closet, he watched as she ran it solidly over her face and its various crevices.
“This is the grossest thing ever. I cannot believe I did this.”
“You were good at it. You’d be good at a circus.”
“Thanks a lot! I will keep that in mind.”
He motioned to his bathroom. “You want to use my shower?” She paused, eyes lingering on the bathroom door as if considering the offer. “Seriously, go wash your head. I won’t go in.”
“Okay,” she said, leaving his towel in the sink. “I will not be long. I need to rinse my hair, thanks to someone terrible.”
“Rinse away.”
Pointing again as she passed, she said, “I will get you for this. You wait.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Her leer lingering, Svetlana walked into his bathroom and closed the door behind her. A minute later, he heard his shower turn on.
I can’t believe she did this. The whole while Svetlana showered, Scott’s mind replayed the morning’s scene. When he’d opened that door and seen her in that initial moment, he’d been so confused. She didn’t have on a lick of makeup. Has anyone else seen her like that? Living in barracks, it was a certainty. But he couldn’t imagine her letting anyone see more than fleeting glances. Women were prideful about how they looked, and Svetlana was no exception. No mascara, nothing to conceal her blemishes. She just showed me herself. Something about that was a little special.
Despite the fact that they’d been engaged, Scott had only seen Nicole without makeup a handful of times. But she’d been a natural beauty. Svetlana…
…there was no other way for his mind to put it. Svetlana needed a little more work. It wasn’t to suggest that Svetlana was anything less than beautiful. She had a daintiness about her—an elegance. She carried herself, well, like a lady. There were certain things that she was above, like juvenility and silliness. Like pies in the face.
Why did she do that today? Why did she really do that? There was no doubt in Scott’s mind that he saw her differently than everyone else. Most others saw sourness. Even he had found her cold upon their first encounter almost a year ago. But there was one thing, if asked, that everybody would agree upon: Svetlana was a serious, proper woman. Until now.
She was telling me something.
It struck Scott that, with Svetlana being aware of his rejection of Esther, it was actually the first time the medic was free to be herself. When they’d first met prior to her departure from Novosibirsk, she’d been with Anatoly Novikov. Ineligible. Upon Svetlana’s return, Esther was already established in the Fourteenth. And while Scott was unaware of Esther’s infatuation, it was apparently something Svetlana sensed from the get-go. But now there was no Lieutenant Novikov. There was no Esther. Svetlana’s competition was gone. She was just being…her.
That’s what this morning was about, wasn’t it? It wasn’t about anything I said; it wasn’t about being even with Esther. The pie was an excuse. She wanted to show me that she could be fun. And she had done it in the most unserious, self-depreciating, off-the-wall way possible.
In football, there were certain games when messages needed to be sent through the opposing team. Players called them “statement games.” Scott had his during his first start: Michigan’s upset of nationally-ranked Southern Cal. Svetlana’s was this morning. As Scott stared at the closed bathroom door, the sound of the shower splattering behind it, he found himself wondering. Could their fun ever rival the fun he had with Nicole?
The water squeaked off. Svetlana was finishing. Bending forward in his chair, Scott closed his eyes and cupped his fists together. He didn’t know what he was praying for exactly, but he had a feeling God could figure it out. It was for something like clarity. Assuredness. A sign that, when he met that person he was supposed to be with, he would know.
Could anyone replace Nikki?
Several minutes passed before his bathroom door opened. Stepping out, her damp hair hanging to her shoulders, Svetlana placed her hand against the doorframe and gazed at him. Slowly, she smiled.
Kiss her.
The thought came suddenly. It actually caught him off guard.
Kiss her.
Backand-forth, backand-forth, backand-forth. His feelings toward Svetlana were in neverending flux. As Scott stood, he felt the sensation of floating toward her as if his feet weren’t touching the floor. Her oceanblue eyes were locked steadfastly to his. Her lips parted.
This mission was for her. To save the life of the woman before him. The woman whose gaze was unwavering. The woman he knew truly loved him. Reaching out, he placed his hands at her sides as she draped hers over his shoulders. She could never be Nicole. She could never be Nicole. Did it matter?
Her fingertips slid beneath the hair above his neck. Their bodies pressed. As Scott tilted his head inward, he saw her eyes close. His followed suit.
This is it. This has to be it. Or it will never be.
Could she ever be Nicole?
The course of his lips altered. Their cheeks brushed together. The kiss never came.
…no.
The exhale that came from Svetlana was as awful as the morning had been unexpected. He felt her eyes close tighter. He sensed her jaw set as the trembling began. She lowered her chin to his shoulder. In the midst of her morning, in the midst of her boldest reach into the favor of his heart and her best effort of vulnerability. In the midst of her statement game…she’d been rejected.
What have I just done?
Svetlana said nothing, but her arms wrapped around his neck tighter. She was clinging.
What have I just done?
As he slowly leaned back, he registered the look on Svetlana’s face. It was a hurt he’d never seen in her before. Her eyes started to shimmer.
What could he say? What was he supposed to say? There was nothing. “I need to get going.” It was the most pitiful thing he knew he could have said.
Svetlana stayed silent, just stepping back. She held back a deep breath. “Okay.” Her voice quivered.
“I’m sorry.”
The knot returned. Grabbing his duffle bag and slinging it over his shoulder, he leaned in to give Svetlana a hug. She accepted the gesture. “Keep everyone straight,” he said.
Swallowing visibly, she nodded.
The exchange of goodbyes that followed was as lifeless as the linoleum floor. Neither Scott nor Svetlana looked the other in the eyes; their gazes remained downcast and away. The emotional wall between them might as well have been made of lead.
Scott walked out of the door without saying another word—without slowing down. He couldn’t afford to. Leaving her behind, he trekked for the hangar.
Go, Scott. Just keep walking.
He was doing this for Svetlana. This entire mission was, at least for him, to save her life. That proved he cared for her. That proved he…
…he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t bring himself to say it.
Just don’t turn around. Whatever you do. Keep walking to the hangar.
God had led him to Novosibirsk and to Svetlana. But God hadn’t led him to become a Nightman by murdering Sergei Steklov. And it didn’t mean God was leading him to marry Svetlana.
Wait—what? Marry Svetlana? Scott, what the hell are you thinking?
Svetlana Remington. Esther had put that name in his head. Svetlana Remington. How did it sound? How did it look? He refused to answer.
You didn’t kiss her. You turned her down. It’s done.
When Scott arrived in the hangar, half of the unit was already there. Travis and Boris were talking, the close friends undoubtedly wishing each other luck. David and Max were there, Flopper sitting obediently at Max’s feet, tongue hanging out in happy obliviousness. Even Egor was there, sharing a laugh with Auric. Esther was nowhere to be seen.
“Remmy!”
Scott turned to see Becan trotting toward him.
“Hey, everything all righ’? I heard somethin’ happened between you an’ Esty.”
“Everything’s fine.”
David and Max also made their approach, as did Flopper. Crouching down, Scott swatted the air in front of the dog’s nose. Flopper’s jaws snapped in playful chase.
David folded his arms. “Hey, I never got a chance to talk to you since the meeting yesterday. Did we hear what we thought we heard back there?”
Scott knew what they were referring to: his subtle hint during the meeting about not being allowed to refuse the mission. “Yeah, you did.” Leaving Flopper on the ground, Scott rose up. “It’s Novikov all over again.” Svetlana had slept with Novikov—she’d confessed that to him. It’d affected him to hear that. Why didn’t he care about it now?
“Wait,” said Becan, “wha’ are we talkin’ abou’?”
“About Sveta,” said Max.
“Wha’ abou’ her?”
Scott looked at the Irishman. “Thoor’s using Sveta as leverage against me. If I refused to go on this mission, or if I fail, he’ll kill her.”
Becan’s jaw dropped. “Like bleedin’ hell!”
“The same thing happened with Tolya,” said Max. “I was there when it happened. Thoor made him stay behind with those explosives by threatening to kill Sveta if he didn’t. That’s why Tolya died.”
“An’ no one told me this?”
“This is what Thoor does,” said Max. “He controls you however he can. Oleg was with us for months—there’s no doubt that’s how Thoor knew about Scott and Sveta.”
Scott and Sveta. Everyone said it so naturally, as if their future was certain. They were always paired together. Only Esther had failed to see it. “What am I supposed to do?” Scott asked. “I have to go on this mission. I have to save her.” She was his damsel in distress. His. How that word stuck out.
“We’ve got your back, man,” said Max. “If anyone tries to pull something on Sveta while you’re gone, we’ll take care of ’em.”
“Remington!”
At the sound of the new voice, Scott turned around. It was Antipov, the chief eidolon from Thoor’s counsel. The scruffy captain was approaching him, slip of paper in hand. Leaving the company of his comrades, Scott met him. “Important things to remember,” Antipov said. “You and Broll are both trained Nightmen. You have forgotten what it is like to fight like EDEN. Be aware of yourself in combat. Resist the urge to fight like you know you can. It can give you away.”
That was true. Oleg got revealed when Becan saw him fighting on the battlefield.
“Here is the comm frequency for the extraction team. Do not program it into your comm. Queue it only when you need it.” Nodding to the transport behind Scott, Antipov went on. “Discuss everything you were told with your team. About the war, about the Khuladi. Everything. That order does not come from Thoor; it comes from me. They need to know why this mission must be.”
Slapping Scott on the shoulder, the eidolon leader nodded. “You will bring the alien home to us. I know you will.” A Nightman salute was exchanged, then Antipov turned and walked away.
Eidolon status aside, he’s probably one of the most amicable Nightmen I’ve ever met. Scott looked at the slip of paper with the extraction team’s comm frequency. Folding it, he slipped it into his pocket. I cannot lose this. I need it on me at all times.
“Hey, Scott,” said Max, “I think they’re prepping up.”
Scott looked at the transport, which was indeed preparing to taxi. Auric and Boris hopped inside. Scott could only assume that Esther was already in, too. It didn’t surprise him that the scout wasn’t mingling.
This is it.
Thoughts of Svetlana danced briefly through his head. He’d left her behind so coldly. She didn’t know he was doing this for her.
Emotions in check. Stay focused on the mission. Get it done, then get back home. Scott slung his duffle bag over his shoulder once again. He looked at Max, David, and Becan. “Be on guard. Don’t let Sveta out of your sight.”
“Aye, aye, cap’n,” Max answered, offering a salute.
Scott gazed at the three men for a moment. This was all happening so fast. It hadn’t struck him that he was about to leave three of his best friends. Extending a hand, he grasped Max’s hand firmly and pulled him in for a chest-bump. Max, the man who had once been his arch-rival, who had once resented Scott so vehemently that it called for a physical beating, was now as close a friend to Scott as anyone else. Scott couldn’t see the blond technician in any other way.
“Take care, man.”
“You too, bro.”
The same gesture went toward Becan. He recalled the first time he ever met the Irishman. David and he had heard Becan’s voice inside their neighboring room in Richmond. Neither man had ever met anyone else like him.
“I love ya, B.”
“Back at yeh, Remmy.”
Then there was David. David Jurgen, former NYPD officer. Former best friend. Time had healed their wounds somewhat, but their friendship had never fully recovered from the rocky road that began with the death of Galina. The uneasiness between them had lessened, but not fully disappeared.
Make it right, Scott. Make it right now.
Their hands clutched. The chest-bump came. But the right words stayed unsaid.
“I’ll see you soon, man.”
“Be safe, Scott.”
Emotions in check. Stay focused on the mission. It was easier said than done. Forcing reflection to the back of his mind, Scott set out toward the transport.
Goodbye, Novosibirsk. For now.
Walking up the ramp, he saw his three chosen operatives strapping themselves into their seats. It was a standard civilian transport, not a Vulture or military model. The seats were very much like typical airliner seats, except this flight had no other passengers. Spotting his old EDEN armor in the corner, he focused on his golden collar. The battle garb of the Golden Lion—he hadn’t donned it in a year. It was no longer who he was. And he could accept that. Turning around, Scott gave the hangar a final look. Then he saw him.
The sniper walked into the hangar quickly, as if he’d been rushing to make it in time. His cowboy hat was firm on his head, his duffle bag in place.
Jayden.
Plopping his bag down awkwardly, almost stumbling, the Texan took a single step forward, then paused. He was waiting to be called. Even from the distance, Scott could sense the sniper’s heart pounding. “Oh, Jay…” he whispered to himself.
The other operatives who’d gathered in the hangar stared in silence. The ball was in Scott’s court.
What am I supposed to do? He had no practical use for a sniper. This was a covert operation. He didn’t need trigger men. On top of all of that, only four operatives total had been given transfer approval. Yet the sight of the Texan’s desperation tore at Scott’s heart. “Veck.” Motioning with a single head nod, Scott beckoned Jayden into the transport.
The look on Jayden’s face was pure elation. Snatching his duffle bag, the Texan ran full speed toward the ship. “Thank you so much, man!” Jayden said as he hurried up the ramp. “Thank you so much.”
“If you die, I’m gonna kill you,” Scott said. Jayden’s rifle and armor were clunking around in the duffle bag. What about everything else the Texan owned? Scott didn’t even want to know. Slapping the side of the ship, Scott yelled at the pilot. “Let’s go!” He walked to his seat, the ramp whining as it lifted behind him.
Esther, Auric, Boris, and now Jayden.
This was going to be fun didn’t begin to describe it.
17
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 14TH, 0012 NE
0724 HOURS
“ALL RIGHT, everyone,” said the pilot over the cabin speakers, “you’re free to move about.”
Unfastening his seat belt, Scott stretched out his legs. None of the other four operatives had said a word during liftoff, the uneasiness thick between them. It was ironic that of all the people on the mission, the only one who was looking forward to it was the one who wasn’t supposed to be going. For everyone other than Jayden, this was out of their control.
“Hey man,” the Texan said as he walked to Scott’s row. Everyone had taken seats rows apart from each other, lost in their own personal solitudes during takeoff. “Mind if I sit down?”
The honest answer was yes. But cordiality prevailed. “Nah, man, go ahead.”
“Thanks.” Jayden sat down next to him. “So what can you tell me about the mission?”
“It is what it is,” answered Scott. “An extraction of a Ceratopian target.”
“But what is everybody gonna be doin’?”
The last thing Scott wanted to do was recap the entire mission brief. Jayden would have to settle for a summary. “Esther’s doubling as a civilian contractor. That ponytail she’s wearing, it’s not real. When she takes it off and changes her hair, she looks like someone else.” It was a tad more complex than that. “She’s going in as Calliope Lee.”
“Calliope Lee?”
“Yep. She’s going to sneak in and try to find H`laar. After she finds him, we’re going to call an extraction team to help us get him out.”
Adjusting his eye patch, the Texan looked at the others. “What about Auric and Boris?”
“Boris is a hacker. Auric’s just assistance. That’s what you’ll be doing, too. Just treat this like a real transfer. I’ll be right there with you.”
“I can’t wait to see Venus.”
Scott blinked. “What?”
“Venus, man. I heard she’s hot.”
“Okay, first off, the woman’s name isn’t Venus. Second of all,” he said with intentional loudness, “why was someone giving you details about the covert operation?”
Boris shifted in his seat from several rows up. The tech looked down and whistled.
Setting Jayden straight, Scott reviewed with him the three individuals they’d been told about: Captain Natalie Rockwell—not Venus Rockwell—Lieutenant Logan Marshall, and the chief of Xenobiology, Giro Holmes. He relayed to Jayden everything he remembered from his discussion with Antipov. That part of Antipov’s “tell them everything” request was easy. Telling Jayden about Esther was the hard part.
Auric and Boris knew about Esther, and the Texan deserved to know, too. Scott retold the story as best he could—with honesty. Esther confessed her feelings to him, he reacted poorly, and they’d had a fallout. After the mission, she’d be transferred to London.
As Scott delved further and further into the story, Jayden’s expression grew more solemn. These weren’t things the Texan had expected to hear. Scott hadn’t realized it until he was halfway through his explanation, but Esther’s departure would directly affect the sniper. She was his eyes on the battlefield even before he’d lost one of them. Scott was sure that played a part in Jayden’s downbeat reaction.
Scott was trying to think of Esther in as practical a way as possible. The less emotion he dedicated to her, the better for him and the mission. He was torn about Esther. He didn’t want her to leave the Fourteenth, but at this point, he firmly felt it was for the best. Even with his efforts at reconciliation, tempers had flared. He blamed himself for the total mismanagement of their situation. Esther didn’t realize it, but he was blaming her less by the minute. His coldness toward Svetlana during their goodbye only quantified Scott’s jerk status.
I need to talk to the rest of the crew, let them know what’s going on. Scott tapped Jayden on the knee. “Come with me.” As the two men stood up, they approached the others. “Gather around, guys. We’ve got some stuff to talk about.”
Auric and Boris joined immediately. After a brief stare-down, Esther did, too.
They listened intently as Scott explained the big picture—who the Khuladi were, how they “judged” other species, and what happened when those other species lost. He explained how the Bakma were being used as instruments of the Khuladi, attacking Earth on behalf of their masters. He talked about the Ceratopians and their suspected motives to beat the Khuladi in capturing Earth—Interstellar Midway. Everything, from the War of Retribution to the Golathochian Subjugation, was thoroughly covered. As for the connection between the Ceratopians and Archer… that was what they were going to Cairo to find out.
The rest of the flight was one of the most unsettling rides Scott could remember. It rivaled the ride home from the Bakma outpost, in the aftermath of Lieutenant Novikov’s needless death. This mission required confidence and cohesiveness; right now, he wasn’t sure they had either. No speech or inspirational message could change that—not during the flight. This had to run its course. And if the past twenty-four hours were any indication, it would only get more complicated by the minute.
Unfortunately, they had a lot of minutes to go.
 *
AT THE SAME TIME
IT WAS AS ODD a feeling as anyone in the lounge could remember. Scott, Esther, Jayden, Auric, and Boris were gone. There were five holes that couldn’t be filled. Where did the unit go from there? There were so many questions—and they all fell on Yuri Dostoevsky.
Though time had brought forgiveness to the man who’d arranged Nicole’s murder, the memory of his failed stint as captain remained. He’d changed since then, become a different person. But would that add up to a better leader? Ready or not, and with the remaining crew gathered in the lounge, it was time to find out. All eyes were on him as he began his first address.
“I won’t pretend like this is easy for me,” Dostoevsky said to them. “This situation is not easy for any of us. Just the same, we are the Fourteenth. We have been tested many times. We need only continue what we know how to do.” He looked at his new acting commander. “Max, does the status of the V2 change without Boris?”
Max glanced at Travis. “I think it’ll be fine.” Travis nodded quietly. “Thing’s kinda maintenance-free, really.”
Nodding, Dostoevsky moved on. “Without Esther and Jayden, our dynamic on the battlefield changes. We must rely more on frontal assault. Our style must become, as Scott would have said it, ‘smash mouth.’” He looked at William and Egor. “I want you two training together. You will both have increased roles. For the rest of you,” he said, “continue to train hard and focus on your jobs. We will begin practice runs tomorrow using new formations. That is all for now. Dismissed.”
While the rest of the room dispersed, Max, David, and Becan approached Dostoevsky. The fulcrum canted his head.
“Something you need to know,” said Max discreetly. “Thoor forced Scott on this mission by threatening Sveta. Thoor said if he failed, she’d be killed.”
Dostoevsky scowled. “This is exactly what happened with Tolya Novikov.”
“We can’t leave her alone,” said Becan. “Not at all.”
Dostoevsky opened his mouth to say something, but Svetlana’s arrival to the small gathering stopped him. All discussion abruptly ended. Running fingers through her frizzled hair, the disheveled medic was visibly distressed.
“Sveta?” Dostoevsky asked. “Are you okay?
For several seconds, she gave no response. Then slowly, her face twisted. “No…”
The men went into protective-brother mode immediately. Hands reaching to her, their faces exuded concern. “What’s wrong, girl?” Max asked.
She waved her hands frenetically. “Nothing, it is nothing. I should not be this upset. I just…”
“You just what?”
“Scott, he,” she cut herself off. “Nothing happened that doesn’t normally happen, but that’s the problem. I thought this morning—I thought…” Her words were stumbling almost incoherently. “This is stupid. I am just a stupid girl hoping someone she loves loves her.”
“Hey, hey,” said David, patting her on the shoulder. “Whatever happened this morning, you know that man loves you.”
Becan nodded assuredly. “He wouldn’t be doin’ this mission if he didn’t.”
As soon as the Irishman said it, Dostoevsky, Max, and David’s faces fell. Eyes widening, Becan covered his mouth.
“What?” Svetlana asked, looking at him strangely. “What do you mean?”
“Ahh! I meant, yeh know, by doin’ this mission, he’s given yeh the gift of…distance. Because distance…”
When Becan drew a blank, Max picked up for him. “Makes the heart grow fonder!”
“Yes!” the Irishman said. “It makes the heart grow fonder.”
“Wait,” Svetlana said, shaking her head disbelievingly, “he is going on his mission, to give us distance, to make us grow fonder? How does that make any sense?”
“’Cos…” Motioning with his hands but unable to find words, Becan stumbled into a question. “’Cos fondness…is bequeathed…upon…time?”
Dostoevsky, Max, and David collectively groaned.
The look in Svetlana’s eyes was pure vehemence. “Okay, what is going on?”
“Because fondness is bequeathed upon time,” David repeated, rubbing his hands down his face. “That was brilliant, Becan.”
“What do you all know that I do not?” Svetlana asked. “Someone tell me!”
Max sighed in defeat. “Veck. Might as well spill it now.”
“Spill what? What are you talking about?”
David answered, “Scott went on this mission because Thoor threatened him.”
“Threatened him?”
“He told Scott if he didn’t go, there’d be a punishment. You’d be killed.”
Shock struck her. “What?”
“That’s why it was sudden. That’s why he couldn’t take you. That’s probably why it was weird telling you bye,” David said. “Thoor knows about you two—Oleg told him. He’s using you as leverage to get what he wants from Scott.”
Shaking his head sadly, Becan said, “It’s Novikov all over again.”
For a second straight time, the other men stared at him slack-jawed. “Becan,” Max shouted, “shut the hell up!”
The Irishman blinked, exhaled, then closed his eyes in defeat. “Righ’. She didn’t know abou’ tha’, either, did she?”
“Know what?” Svetlana asked, looking panicked among them. “What does Tolya have to do with this?”
“You are the worst secret-keeper in the history of Earth,” David said, glaring at Becan.
Moaning in agony, Becan stared at the ceiling.
“What did he mean, ‘Novikov all over again?’” Her brow arched upward, Svetlana pled, “Someone tell me what that meant!”
Dostoevsky tried to ease her away. “It was nothing. Slip of his tongue. We need to talk about medical reports—”
“I don’t want to talk medical reports!” As she shrieked, the men flinched. “I want to know how this is like Tolya!”
By that time, the rest of the room had converged on the scene. Viktor, Varvara, Travis, William, Derrick, and Egor stretched their necks through the bunk room door and the corners of the lounge to listen. Even Flopper was watching, head tilted, by Max’s feet.
Svetlana was staring teary-eyed. Her breaths were fast and trembling. “How,” she asked forcibly, “is this like Tolya?”
Dostoevsky, David, and Becan went quiet. The men turned to Max. For several seconds, Max watched Svetlana dreadfully. Crouching down, and taking a moment to prepare for his words, the technician finally spoke. “Dave and I were with Tolya when the order came for him to stay behind with the explosives. He stayed…because if he didn’t, he knew Thoor would kill you.”
The sound that came from Svetlana’s lips was horrifying. It was part gasp and part sudden culpability. She covered her mouth with her hands.
“Sveta,” Max said. “Don’t—”
“I killed him,” she whispered, a craze coming over her. “I killed him.”
Shaking his head solemnly, Max said, “No, Sveta. You didn’t kill him. Thoor did.”
“And now I will kill Scott,” she whispered, her lips barely able to bring the words out. As the blueness in her eyes faded, her body began to sway.
“Sveta—”
As her hand covered her mouth, she sank dazedly to her knees. The breakdown began.
In the midst of Svetlana’s heaving, no one made a sound. Dostoevsky, David, Max, and Becan were all there, standing around her, their hands reaching out to touch her shoulders and back. As every fearful emotion she had in her poured out, the others who were present turned their heads away. But no one left. Squealing softly in Russian and with her eyes bloodshot, Svetlana sat on her rear then rolled over. She couldn’t speak—her face was locked in a silent, agonized wail. But none of the men around her moved. They simply laid their hands on her. Standing several meters away, Varvara’s own eyes began to slowly well.
But Becan cried worse. Teardrops trailing down his cheeks, the Irishman lowered his head and lost it. “I’m sorry.” That was all he could muster. “I’m sorry.” Gently, David’s hand found his back.
As Svetlana’s anguish endured, Dostoevsky knelt by her head. He lowered his own to speak. “I cannot tell you why these things happen. I cannot tell you why God allows them.” Brushing the hair from her forehead, he said, “But I know that all things work for the glory. We see but one page of a wonderful novel. Only God sees the end.” Looking down, he spoke softly. “You are a good woman. You are to be admired. Be courageous now, Sveta. He needs you to be.”
“How can I be courageous for him now?” Svetlana whimpered. “I have cost him so much. I have cost him his love, and now this.”
Exhaling softheartedly, Dostoevsky said, “Oh, Sveta.” He touched her cheek. “I was not talking about Scott.”
For the first time since she’d fallen to the floor, Svetlana’s eyes focused. She looked up at Dostoevsky’s compassionate gaze.
“God has you where you are for a purpose. He allowed today for a purpose. And one day, you will see it. I promise.”
As the fulcrum continued, Max, David, and Becan silently listened. Their eyes remained on Svetlana.
“Your job, since the first day you came to this unit, has been to care for us,” Dostoevsky said. “Now, Trooper Voronova, let us care for you.”
Padding innocently to Svetlana, dog tag jingling with every step, Flopper stuck his wet nose in her face. As his tongue came out, she laughed tearfully and pushed his head away. “Flopper, no. No.” His licks were undeterred.
Dostoevsky smiled. “See? He feels the same way.”
“Cold, wet nose,” she said, finally touching the dog’s cheek. He pawed at her head. “Ow!”
“Okay, beast,” Max said, pulling the dog back, “that’s enough.”
Chuckling exhaustedly, Svetlana touched her face. “I think you scratched me, dog.”
“Yeah, he’s a love hurts kinda guy.” Max ruffled Flopper’s head.
The medic closed her eyes. Stretching her neck, she sighed in new focus. She pressed her palm to her forehead. “Ugh. I cried again. I am queen of meltdown.”
“Yeah, well, cryin’ happens,” said Max.
Lying on her back, she looked at the men huddled around her, settling on Becan. The teary-eyed Irishman was looking right at her. “Becan,” she whispered. Reaching out, she grabbed his hand. “It’s okay.”
David eyed him, too. “One week of cleaning duty for being the worst secret-keeper on the planet.”
That made her laugh.
“All right,” said Dostoevsky, “let’s get you off the floor. You have work to do. Right?”
As the fulcrum pulled Svetlana to her feet, she steadied herself against him, then pushed back her hair. Sighing deeply, she sniffled once, then forced a smile. “Yes, I do.”
“Medical reports,” David said, “psychological evaluations, prostate exams. Anything to keep our favorite medical chief busy.”
She scoffed. “The day I check your prostates is the day I commit myself.” Expression softening, she reached her arms out to draw the four men around her in. “Thank you.”
“We’re here for ya, sis,” said Max. “You’re gonna be okay.”
As the group hug dispersed, Dostoevsky eyed Svetlana sternly. “As I’m sure you understand, you must never be alone. One of us must always be with you wherever you go. It is what Scott would want, too, considering Thoor’s threats.”
After a brief look of resistance, she surrendered. “I understand.”
“Now go and rest. Captain’s orders.”
The medic nodded. “But just for a while. There is something I want to do.” When Dostoevsky raised an eyebrow, she continued. “I want to speak to Tauthin.”
“To Tauthin? The Bakma Scott visits?”
“Yes. It is what he would be doing if he was here. He just goes to talk, just to learn things.” She shook her head reflectively. “Maybe if I can just learn one thing new, at least I will have done something for him—a small thing. I know how important his meetings with Tauthin are to him.”
Max nodded. “I’ll go with you. After you take a nap.”
Laughing faintly, she said, “Okay, papa.”
The technician smirked.
As the scene began to dwindle down, some of the observers near the lounge door quietly crept out. The rest were forcefully excused by a sharp go do something else look from Dostoevsky. Save the five close operatives and Flopper, the lounge was abandoned.
Svetlana walked to the sink to wash her face. “That this has not been the worst day of my life is a testament to my many bad days.”
“Hey, I know this is changin’ the subject,” Max said innocuously, “but where’d you put that pie?”
The medic spun around wideeyed. “What?”
“Hey, hey, chill, I was just wonderin’. Big Will went to the cafeteria ahead of us and said you walked out with a pie. I was looking for it after breakfast.”
Throwing her hands up, Svetlana muttered in Russian.
“What’d she say?” David asked Dostoevsky.
“It was about William, and it was very bad.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Max said, “I just didn’t know where you put it. I didn’t see it in the fridge.”
Eyeing him frustratingly, Svetlana answered, “It wasn’t for the unit.”
“Oh. Okay.” An uneasy silence floated between the men, who looked at one another expectantly. Finally, Max prompted at the inevitable. “Sooo…”
She whipped around to face him. “It was for Scott, okay? The pie was for Scott.”
“Bleedin’ daisies,” Becan said, “Remmy ate a whole pie for breakfast?”
Svetlana stared pointedly at Becan for several moments before begrudgingly continuing. “Listen. If I tell the four of you something, it can never leave this room. Got it?” When they affirmed, she narrowed in on Becan. “Got it, Becan?”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it. Cross m’heart.”
Svetlana’s gaze shifted between them for several seconds, deep contemplation etched on her face. Leering fleetingly, she spoke. “We sent it to the orphans.”
Blinking, David asked, “You sent the orphans a pie?”
“Who are the bleedin’ orphans?” Becan asked.
“The orphans in Novosibirsk,” Svetlana said. “It was a nice thing to do. So we did it.” She turned back to the sink.
Looking at her strangely, Max asked, “Why didn’t you want us to know?”
“Oh well, you know,” she mused, “we are not supposed to brag about the good things we do. Okay! So I need to get my rest so I can see Tauthin.” After drying her hands on a dish towel, she walked away and waved. “I will talk to you later, goodbye!” Seconds later, she was out the lounge door.
As the lounge fell into silence, stares of bewilderment were swapped between the four men, until Dostoevsky spoke. Shrugging obliviously, he said, “I suppose if I was an orphan, I would want a pie.”
“Well yeah,” David said. “Who wouldn’t? Pies for orphans. Sounds like a good cause.”
Nodding in agreement, the four of them dispersed.
 *
CAIRO, EGYPT
A SHORT TIME LATER
“LANDING IN two minutes!” the pilot said over the loudspeaker.
Looking out his window, Scott stared at the endless expanse of desert sand. It was like an ocean of gold. He’d watched the terrain gradually shift during the flight, though at times cloud cover had left the earth hidden. Without a cloud in sight now, the African landscape could be seen in its entirety, painted in vibrant hues. Warmth. He could barely even fathom it.
Scott had taken special care during the flight to reevaluate his motivation for the mission, if not out of sincerity, out of necessity. Svetlana couldn’t be his sole driving force—not for a mission this dangerous and important. His perspective needed to be planet-sized. With that mindset, he forced Svetlana out of his thoughts as much as was possible. He could only hope his cohorts had done the same with their potential distractions. He most certainly hoped Esther had.
“Play the part right now, everyone,” said Scott. Ready or not, the mission was about to be on. “We’re transfers from Novosibirsk. Keep your eyes and ears open. We’ll meet up again after we’ve met Rockwell.”
The ship’s inertia shifted as it slowed to a hover. Beneath them, the concrete surface of a simple runway stretched toward several mediumsized hangars. Sand and dust were being blown about by the transport’s thrusters. Looking across the aisle, Scott stared out the other side windows, where he saw the bottom of a comm tower. Cairo was one of the smaller major facilities, comparable to Richmond back home. But so far, Scott only saw a handful of structures. Where was the rest of the base?
Clunk.
The whine of the engines decreased as the rear door of the transport came down. Standing with the others, Scott approached the daylight outside. More notably, he felt it. The temperature wasn’t scorching—it felt somewhere in the eighties—but it wasn’t bitterly cold like Novosibirsk. For as long as Scott could remember, the only heat he’d felt was from heating units inside the base. To feel natural warmth was absolutely splendid.
Grabbing his duffle bag and slinging it over his shoulder, Scott stepped out from the transport. The others followed suit.
A pair of jeeps waited for them on the tarmac, one noticeably larger than the other. In front of the jeeps stood Captain Rockwell and Lieutenant Marshall. The lieutenant was every bit as cut as Scott had imagined. Same shaved head, same scars, same warrior’s stare. He was about Scott’s height, but much more well-built—and Scott was one of the more built men in Novosibirsk. If this mission went bad, Marshall could be trouble.
As for the captain, she was almost his height, too. Her chestnut ponytail whipped behind her; her eyes were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. She was slender, but that wasn’t all. There was something distinct about her, and he noticed it in Marshall too. Something Scott hadn’t seen in almost a year.
They had tans.
“At ease,” the captain said, smiling at Scott. “Commander Remington.” She extended her hand. “Captain Natalie Rockwell. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Scott accepted the gesture. “Pleasure’s mine, ma’am.” The words came out fine, but internally, they just felt wrong. He was shaking the hand of a brand new captain, and he was a fulcrum elite. This was going to be strange.
Natalie stepped aside to allow her lieutenant to approach. “My lieutenant, Logan Marshall.”
“Pleasure to meet you, commander,” Logan said. He was Australian.
“Likewise.” Scott shook Logan’s hand. He turned to his team. “Lieutenant Auric Broll, and Delta Troopers Esther Brooking, Jayden Timmons, and Boris Evteev.”
Natalie acknowledged them with a nod, her stare lingering on Jayden and Auric for brief moments. A one-eyed man and a lieutenant with half a face. Scott could only imagine the questions racing through her head. Behind them, a maintenance crew hauled their equipment to the larger jeep.
Hands on her hips, Natalie spoke. “First things first, let’s get you guys acclimated. Commander, you’re with me. Lieutenant Marshall will drive the rest of you. Take your weapons with you for now, until we figure out which ships you’ll be assigned to. Let’s go.” Turning, she made her way for the smaller, roofless vehicle. Sparing his comrades a brief glance, Scott followed her. Natalie got in the driver’s seat and buckled herself in. Scott did likewise in the passenger’s seat. The engine roared thunderingly to life, and the vehicle rolled forward.
Speaking loudly above the sound of the jeep, Natalie asked, “What do you know about Cairo, commander?”
He shook his head. “Not a whole lot!” Shouting was their only option to hear each other. “This is about as different from Novosibirsk as you can get!”
She laughed. “So that’s how you pronounce it? I don’t even want to tell you what I’ve been calling it.”
Novosibirsk didn’t exactly roll off the tongue. As they passed the comm tower, Scott scanned the horizon for the rest of the base. Where in the world was it?
“Marshall and I have been here about a week!” She shook her head purposefully. “I don’t want to sugarcoat this for you—we’ve got our work cut out for us.”
“How so, ma’am?”
Several loose hairs danced across her forehead as the wind whipped past. “As a base, this place is about as advanced as they come! They do a lot of research here. But as a strike force, they barely cut it. They’re sloppy, disorganized. This whole region has relied on local city stations for most defense efforts. Cairo’s hoping to change that!”
Scott stared as they passed a man with a camel.
“I remember you from Chicago!” she said, smiling at him. “Very impressive. Not many men get to wear a golden collar!”
Chicago seemed like another lifetime. “Yeah, it was a ride, all right.”
“How’d you end up in Russia?”
“I ask myself that every day!” She laughed as he went on. “Things just happen.”
Natalie nodded. “I hear that.”
Scanning the area, Scott still couldn’t make out any central facility. They were passing buildings here and there, but there was nothing substantial at all. “Ma’am, where’s the base?”
“You’re on top of it, commander!”
“On top of it?”
“When they reset the calendar for year zero, a billionaire by the name of Adjho Mubarak bought everything you see here. He wanted to build Earth’s largest amusement park—celebrate world peace! The Bakma came two years later, so he sold it to EDEN. In a better life, that comm tower would have been a water slide, and these buildings we’re passing would have been rides.
“It was in the middle of construction when he sold it. He’d only finished the underground. It was supposed to be a way for employees to move back and forth without bothering customers! Now it’s a sub-surface military network. You can get to any building you want without coming up top. Also helps with sandstorms, supposedly, but I haven’t been through one of those, yet!”
Pulling into a garage, Natalie killed the engine. It was the first time either of them could talk without yelling. She removed her sunglasses to look at him. “This is definitely not a conventional place.” She glanced behind them. Logan’s jeep still hadn’t arrived, and her focus returned to Scott. “And by the looks of it, you don’t exactly run with a conventional crew. The one with the eye patch, Timmons…I didn’t see him on the transfer list.”
“He was a last-second addition, ma’am.” Time to drop the bomb. “He’s your new sniper.”
Her brow shot up alarmingly.
“Lost his eye in a mission late last year, could have easily died. He bounced back, maintained his accuracy, and was cleared to return to duty.” Only because Scott forced it. “Then there’s Brooking, she’s a Type-2 scout. Evteev’s a technician.”
“You got some pretty specialized players.”
He had to agree. “All you have to do is look at them to know they’ve been through hell. Broll lost half his face to a plasma bolt, but it hasn’t stopped him. They’re a solid crew.”
For a moment, Scott almost forgot that he was using this woman. The conversation felt completely natural—as if they were genuinely starting up a new squad. Maintaining focus was going to be hard. “So does our unit have a name, ma’am?” He already knew its name from his meeting with Antipov. Feigned ignorance was the concept of the day.
“The Caracals,” she answered, smirking. “I didn’t know what it meant, either. It’s a black-eared desert cat. You’d know one if you saw one.” She looked in the rearview. “There they are.” As Logan’s jeep approached, she climbed out of her seat. Scott left his, as well.
His mind was constantly reminding itself why they were truly there. It wasn’t to help Natalie. It wasn’t to bolster the Caracals. It was to infiltrate EDEN’s most influential base in the realm of Xenobiology—to deceive, manipulate, and betray. Scrutinizing Natalie from behind, he forced himself to see her for the role she was playing: as a sheep entertaining wolves. He wanted to care about her, to wish his mission wouldn’t cost her her career. But it was inevitable. One day, she would wake up to the news that members of her unit—half of her command staff—had used her as a vessel for the equivalent of treason. Because of the actions of those in her unit, EDEN would suffer. Because of her, Thoor would grow stronger. It was as good as already done. She trusts me. She has no reason not to. She was a walking piece of collateral damage. In that moment, Scott hated himself.
“Did you give them the rundown, lieutenant?” Natalie asked Logan.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She addressed them as a whole. “Everyone is responsible for their gear. After your comms are refitted for our frequencies they’ll be delivered to your rooms.” She looked back at Scott, and for a moment, seemed to hold back a smile. Almost as if she knew something none of the new arrivals did. “You’re about to see what they call the Anthill—the heart of Cairo.” Her focus became all-inclusive again. “Brace yourselves, team. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
Motioning for the group to follow, Natalie led them to a row of elevators built into the wall of the garage. “Every building on the surface has Anthill access.”
The irony didn’t escape Scott that he’d left one underground fortress for another. First the Citadel of The Machine, now the Anthill. As soon as they were in, the elevator doors closed. Their downward journey began.
“Since the underground was already completed when EDEN took over, the only choice they had was to adapt their plans to make the layout work. The worker dormitories became our barracks. The rooms that were supposed to house the mechanics for the surface-level rides became everything from storage units to security checkpoints. Some of the larger rooms were transformed into sub-surface garages—you can drive straight from the Anthill to the surface if need be.” The elevator stopped; Natalie smiled. “Welcome home, crew.” The elevator doors opened. She stepped aside to allow them exit. And simultaneously, Scott and his crew gasped.
The halls were as wide as city streets—their floors polished white marble. Ivory pillars adorned the walls, reaching up toward an endlessly high ceiling that was painted like the nighttime sky for as far as the eye could see. It was like standing under a Greek villa at twilight. Like a temple for the gods.
Even Esther exhaled an awed breath.
Personnel, few of which seemed even remotely militaristic, chatted jovially with each other as they passed in the halls. Everything was bright and alive. Like a glimpse at utopia.
“It’s like I told you, commander,” said Natalie, smiling slyly. “The man was rich.”
Not once since the day he left the Academy had Scott dreamed EDEN could have a place like this. Philadelphia was nice. This was pure splendor. Scott didn’t want to infiltrate Cairo—he wanted to live there.
Natalie pointed to a tram track at the far right. “Hover trams pass about every ten minutes; you’ll see the pick-up points as you walk the halls. It works just like the subway. They’ll take you to a junction point, and from there you can get where you need to go. Most people are stationed near their workplace, so the tram is really for when you’re going somewhere far. I still walk when I can.”
It was impossible to pick out a dominant ethnic group. There were Caucasians, Africans, Asians, Indians…it was a scientific melting pot.
“About sixty percent of the staff here belongs to the science department,” Natalie said as she led them forward. “This place is known for Xenobiology, but they do just about everything here. The rest of the base’s inhabitants are your pilots, engineers, custodians. Pretty much everything it takes to run a base. Actual troops only make up about seven percent.”
Earlier, she’d mentioned that Cairo relied on local stations for defense efforts. Now Scott understood why.
Natalie smiled at Scott as she walked alongside him. “I’ll be honest. I never dreamed I’d end up in Cairo. This place is full of scientists, not soldiers. And the soldiers who are here would barely pass muster at a traditional facility.” She looked ahead again. “I don’t know how you ended up on my list, but I’m thankful to have you. We really have a chance to make a difference in a place that desperately needs it.”
In spite of the mission, in spite of everything that was at stake, in spite of the determination he’d forced himself to have, he couldn’t help but become snared in her statement. Make a difference. Was that what he was doing in Cairo? Was this betrayal, this impending destruction of a good woman, really for the greater good?
This is for more than Svetlana. I’m not just doing this for one woman. This is for humanity.
“Here comes a tram,” said Natalie. “It’ll take us to the barracks.” As the elongated car hovered to a stop, she hopped on board. The others followed. Moments later, the tram set off again.
As the tram ferried them around the main rail, Scott took in the sights of the Anthill. He couldn’t think of a better name for this place. It was like an underground city. Hallways were connected everywhere—some hallways even had names. He never imagined a place like this could exist. All for an amusement park. “You said this place was big into Xenobiology, right?” he asked. “Where do they keep everyone?”
She frowned halfheartedly. “It’s classified. I don’t even know. There are some trams we’re not allowed to take.”
Classified. Terrific. He wondered if Esther had heard that. Glancing back, the look on her face confirmed that she had. Their job just got harder.
At least Esther seems oriented on the mission.
For the rest of the ride, Scott remained silent, taking in the Anthill as the tram rolled along. Natalie occasionally provided a tidbit of information as they passed something significant, confessing at one point that she still had a lot to learn herself. He was appreciative of her insight nonetheless.
The tram hovered to a stop as it reached the barracks, its doors opening to allow the group to exit.
“Officers have their own rooms,” said Natalie. “The rest of you guys will be sharing a quad. That won’t be a problem, right?” she asked, eyeing Esther briefly, then focusing on Jayden and Boris.
“No, ma’am,” answered Jayden.
This crew was used to sharing a bunk room. A cohabitating quad was nothing.
“And here you are,” Natalie said, stopping at their door. It was close to the tram system—that was good. “Spend today getting acclimated with the base; there’s a lot to learn. I’ve scheduled a unit meeting tomorrow at 0900 on the surface, right outside the same garage we entered, above the East Wing. Early is on-time.”
Salutes were exchanged, and Esther, Jayden, and Boris entered their room. Scott, Natalie, and the two lieutenants continued their trek down the hall. “Our rooms aren’t side-by-side, but they’re not terribly far from each other,” she explained, turning to Logan. “You’re dismissed, lieutenant. I’ll take them from here.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” The Australian departed.
Her forward focus resumed. “You’re right up here, Lieutenant Broll.” She motioned to his room. “0900 tomorrow.”
“Yes, captain,” said Auric.
“Enjoy the rest of your day.”
As Auric disappeared into his room, Scott and Natalie continued on their way.
“What did you have planned for the meeting, ma’am?” Scott asked.
“Quite a bit. I’ve been here a week, but we’ve by no means been a functional unit. Operatives have steadily been added in, bit by bit, since I was given command. You guys complete us.”
She sighed. “I’ve been working with the team on a daily basis, just getting them used to the way I do things. This place doesn’t see a lot of action. A lot of men here, top brass included, have gotten pretty comfortable.” Her tone was all-business. “But they’re aware of the dangers of that, and they want it to change.”
I wonder how she got selected for this project.
“My hope for tomorrow,” she went on, “is for the unit to get a chance to meet you, and to find out what you’re all about.” She grinned wryly. “You’re getting my good side, Remington. I work hard. There’s a time and place for leniency, but it’s something that has to be earned.”
This woman got it. She knew how to be a charismatic leader. That same philosophy was what had made the Fourteenth such an elite squad. It had also empowered Esther to make a move on him. Finding the balance was the hard part. It was still Scott’s hardest struggle. “Don’t give me any leniency,” he said. It was a conflicting ideal—for this mission, he needed all the leniency in the world. It still felt like the right thing to say.
She looked at him as soon as he said it, her emerald eyes studying his face as they continued to walk. Then, ever so lightly, she smiled. Her gaze turned ahead. “That’s why you already have some.”
They eventually arrived at Scott’s door at the far end of the hallway. According to Natalie, the rooms were a mixture of quads, pairs, and singles, all initially designed for the various family profiles of the workers who would have lived at the park. They had passed Natalie’s room along the way, and it wasn’t too terribly far from his. Opening Scott’s door, Natalie stepped aside to allow him entrance.
The difference between Cairo and Novosibirsk was almost insulting. Each wall in Scott’s new room had its own ornate three-dimensional mural. The floor, much like the rest of the base, was white marble. He felt like he was in a luxury suite.
“As you can tell,” Natalie said, “the furniture was added by EDEN. But everything else was part of the original design.” She scanned the walls. “EDEN would never have designed a place like this on their own. The plasterwork alone must’ve cost millions.”
Placing his duffle bag down, Scott took in the room. The basics were present: a twin-sized bed, nightstand, dresser, and small refrigerator. A door led to what had to be a bathroom, and there was a folding doubledoor that looked like a closet.
“If you want to see traditional Egypt, don’t look here,” she said. “This place is western, eastern, old world, new world…a little bit of everything.”
Scott nodded.
“So I know you have a lot to do, but don’t put too much on the schedule for tonight. I have something planned.”
Scott raised an eyebrow.
“A little excursion into the city, just for dinner,” she said. “I want to get to know you beyond just giving you a guided tour. I already know what you are. Now I want to know who.”
That part hurt to hear. She had no idea what he actually was.
“There’s a place in downtown Cairo I want us to try—I booked reservations last night when I found out I was finally getting an XO. Nothing fancy, just a chance to talk person to person.”
Don’t make this harder than it has to be. He didn’t want to get to know her. He didn’t want to get a feel for her. He wanted to backstab her as quickly as possible—end the slow bleed. But he couldn’t show her that. “Sounds good, captain.”
“Excellent. I’ll be here at 1700—should give us plenty of time.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Enjoy the rest of your day, commander.” Salutes were exchanged, and Natalie departed. Scott closed and locked his door.
He spent the next twenty minutes unpacking, arranging, and accepting reality. There were so many familiar thoughts in his mind, from the coldness of Novosibirsk, to the banter of the Fourteenth, to the smell of the Pariah before they’d lost it. He wanted to be back in that place and time, with his real comrades, on real missions. He almost wished he’d just shot H`laar on sight. Without Scott’s hearing that cryptically questionable message, he’d have never even known about a possible conspiracy. But what’d been done had been done. No amount of wishful thinking could change that.
Get H`laar and go home. That was the plan before they’d touched down. That was still the plan now. He didn’t have time to feel sorry for Captain Rockwell’s situation. This mission was bigger than the Caracals. If something devious was happening in EDEN Command, then this was the most important mission on the planet. This was a mission for humanity.
Now he just needed to believe it.
18
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 14TH, 0012 NE
1110 HOURS
THE LIGHTS IN Esther’s room were dimmed. Hair dancing at her chin-line, the scout from Cambridge looked like anything but an EDEN operative. Her uniform and ponytail extension were on the floor—she wore only her undershirt and leggings. She stared lazily, gesturing with her hands as if warming up for a performance.
Jayden and Boris had left the room shortly after they’d unpacked to venture through Cairo’s underground labyrinth. That suited Esther just fine, and she was quick to take advantage of the opportunity to be alone by getting comfortable and focused. She couldn’t turn into Calliope Lee quite yet—not without being in the clear with Captain Rockwell. But that didn’t excuse her from preparing.
Inhaling deeply, she released a slow, steady breath, canting her head forward just enough to dangle the tips of her inverted bob at the edge of her chin. She focused on herself in the mirror. As if imagining. Body bending subtly, she shifted her entire body posture. Behind dark lashes, her eyes narrowed.
She was ready.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
The posture fell. Her guise collapsed. Grabbing her extension from the floor and hurriedly clipping it back on, Esther crossed the room and opened the door. As soon as she saw that it was Auric, Esther’s posture sunk irritably. Cocking her hips, she said, “Yes?”
“May I come in?” Auric asked.
The sigh Esther released said anything but yes. Nonetheless, the scout stepped aside, motioning with her arm in sarcastic invitation. As soon as he was in, she closed the door. “What can I do for you, Auric?”
“For starters,” he said, “you can stop being sarcastic. I am just here to check on you.”
“Why do you feel you need to check on me?”
After meandering for a moment, he faced her. “Because I am your lieutenant here.”
Esther arched an eyebrow. “Well aren’t you just relishing your new role?”
“This is an important mission, Esther. I want to make sure your focus is where it needs to be.”
“Oh, my focus!” she said. “I’d love to talk about my focus with you. But before we do, how’s Scott’s focus?” When Auric said nothing, she went on. “You did ask Scott about his focus first, right, Auric? Since he is, after all, the leader of this operation. And since it’s his pitiful little girlfriend who got us into this mess. I’m sure you must’ve asked Scott about his focus before coming straight to me?”
Slowly, Auric’s expression grew irritated.
“Wow,” Esther said. “Really? You mean you only came to me? I feel so utterly privileged.”
He sighed with disgust. “Okay, that is enough.”
“I’m not sure it is,” she said. “Why exactly did you seek me out, Auric? What do you know about where my focus is?”
Sighing bitterly, he answered, “We know what happened between you and Scott. We know there are issues between the two of you.”
“Well that’s sodding great!”
“He told us so we would be aware. So that nothing would take us by surprise on this mission. He did not say it to humiliate you.”
“What do you know? Tell me exactly.”
Auric folded his arms across his chest. “I know that Scott found out about Nijinsky. And that you and him got into an argument over it.”
“An argument?” she asked incredulously. “Be a smidge more specific.”
For the first time, the German hesitated before answering. “An argument about your motivations.”
“For?”
“For killing Nijinsky.”
Eyes firing daggers, she approached him face-to-face. “And what did Scott say those motivations were?”
“Look, I only came here to see how you were doing.”
“And now I’m asking you why.”
Silence struck the German. For five full seconds, he stared at Esther in the absence of an explanation. Then he looked away.
That was all the scout needed to see. “He told you I had feelings for him, didn’t he?” Still no answer came. “Didn’t he?”
“Yes! Yes, he told us. Does that make you happy?”
“Actually,” she said, “it makes me proper livid!”
“Do not bring this to him,” Auric warned. “I came here for one reason and one reason alone: to make sure you were focused on this mission and not on the commander.”
Her face was totally flushed. “So everyone knows? In the whole bloody unit?”
“No. Only the team here.”
Leer lingering, Esther asked, “Does Svetlana know?”
“I do not know.” Stepping around her but watching her, he said, “But now you understand why I came to you. You are vital to this operation. I want to do everything I can as lieutenant to make sure you are mentally and emotionally prepared to handle this operation.”
“You’re not really a lieutenant, you moron.”
He ignored her and went on. “If there is something I can do to help you, I want to know.”
“There is,” she interrupted. “Leave.”
Auric’s jaw set. He stared at Esther eye-to-eye as the scout held her ground, her bitter scowl matching his shift in expression from irritated to had enough. But neither said a word. The stalemate broke only when Auric turned away; the German headed for the door. Esther watched him until he’d departed.
As soon as her privacy was reassured, the scout returned to her mirror. Staring angrily at her own reflection, she turned on the faucet, cupped her hands beneath it, and splashed her face fiercely, gripping the sides of the sink afterward.
Eyes closed, she let the water drops fall.
 *
“MAN, THIS PLACE is crazy,” said Jayden. He and Boris had taken dutifully to the halls as Scott had instructed. Around every marble-columned corner they turned, at every tiled mosaic they passed, their eyes widened with a magical sense of wonder. Cairo was beautiful.
So were its women.
Despite their adherence to Scott’s request, the majority of the “exploration” Jayden and Boris had accomplished had been of the other gender. Unlike Novosibirsk, the ratio of male and female personnel seemed to be close to fifty-fifty. Actual soldiers were few and far between, as most people seemed to be scientists, technicians, or some other kind of whitecollar role. It was more like an Ivy League campus than a military base. It was a bachelor’s heaven.
Just the same, duty called.
“Give me something to do, man,” Jayden said as they walked on. The Texan’s cowboy hat was customarily flat atop his head. “Let me know how I can help.”
“Maybe you can help me find good access locations,” Boris answered.
Jayden frowned. “Man, I dunno. I think Esther’d be better at that kinda stuff.” The Texan fell solemn. “I feel bad for Esther, man.”
“Why do you feel bad?”
“She was really into Scott and none of us knew. Well I mean, I’m sure some people knew. But it just sucks to get rejected.”
Boris stopped at a wall terminal. “Yes, I agree. It is the story of my life.” Fingers tapping on the display, he sorted through several informational screens. He finally stopped on an interior base map. “It looks like there are terminals everywhere. I may not need to be in any special place to access what I need.”
“Do you think there’s anything we can do to make her feel better?”
“I don’t know, ask her out. Look at this.” The technician pointed at a spot on the map. “Everything here seems to be routed through an interceding converter.”
Jayden looked at him strangely. “What?”
“It means that…” When Boris looked at Jayden’s face, he ended his explanation early. “It is just very outdated. The converter acts as a sort of network guardian. But interceding is not the way things are done anymore. It is easy to maneuver around.”
Leaning closer to the screen, Jayden asked, “How can you tell it’s the interceding thing?”
Boris pointed at a series of numbers at the bottom right of the screen. “These numbers identify the name of each terminal. But if you look here, you can see that there is an extra period between the two and the seven. You would never put that in a line of sixteen-digit identification, because a guardian cannot process a double decimal.”
“Oh. So double decimals are bad?”
“What? No. It just means that whatever is between those decimals is hidden on the backside of the route to this terminal.” Boris inspected closer. “However, only a certain kind of register can even translate—”
“Dude,” Jayden interrupted, shaking his head, “I don’t think I’m ever gonna understand any of this.”
Sighing, Boris went back to work. “The whole point is that this is very basic. This was outdated two years ago. I may not even need a special kit to break into it.”
Hands on his hips, Jayden said, “Well that’s good and all, but that still doesn’t help me find somethin’ to do.”
Stopping for a moment, Boris looked around. He focused on a column several meters away. “I need you to stand on the other side of that column, and face down the hall.”
“Huh? Okay, sure!” Hurrying away, Jayden did as told. After a moment, he leaned his head around the column. “Am I lookin’ out for something?”
“No.”
“Oh.” He stared silently for several more seconds. “Then what am I doin’ here?”
Fingers flying on the display screen, Boris answered, “Nothing. I just needed you out of my way.”
“Man! You’re a jackass.”
 *
SCOTT FLINCHED FROM his bedside as a beating sound came to his door, its volume and intensity prompting a “what the hell?” to escape from his lips. As he threw on a shirt, a pair of heavy thuds followed, as if the person on the other side was trying to kick his door in. “Veck, hold on!” Grabbing for the knob, he yanked the door open.
Palms hit him immediately—a pair of them, shoved full-strength into his chest. He was actually forced back.
“You had to bloody tell them!” Esther screamed. She stormed into the room, slamming the door behind her.
“Tell who what—” Scott barely got the question out before he was slapped clear across his face.
“You ask me to stay behind after our mission brief so we can reconcile, while behind my back you’re smearing me in the mud? How dare you!”
Slack-jawed and stunned, Scott couldn’t find words.
Esther didn’t share that problem. “Auric swung by my room out of the goodness of his heart to make sure I was focused enough after you rejected me, you pig-ignorant dregg!”
“Esther, I—”
“Isn’t it enough that I’m doing this to save your stupid girlfriend’s life? Do you get off on my personal humiliation? Am I the star of your failure fetish?”
Voice rising to match hers, he said, “I told them because I had to! Did you really think I was going to go into something this critical without briefing my team?”
“Briefing them on us? On personal feelings?”
“On things to look out for!” She needed to understand this. “If one of them sees us going off on each other, I want them to know it’s about us and not the mission. And guess what? We’re going off on each other now!”
She threw her hands in the air. “Because of this! Congratulations, Scott, you made a self-fulfilling prophecy!”
“Look, I don’t need to explain myself every step of the way.”
Nose wrinkled, she said, “No, you don’t. But you could at least give a granule of consideration as to the feelings of your operatives—namely me, the one you seem hell-bent on making a fool of.”
She was totally out of line. “I need you to calm down for one second and try to understand why I did what I did.”
“All I understand is that—”
“I said shut up!” At that, her jaw clamped angrily. “You do think Boris is ready to handle this? Do you think he’s ready for this kind of pressure? I have all the faith in the world in him as a combat technician. But as a spy?” He held his arms out for emphasis. “He needs to be as confident as he can be, and he can’t be confident if he thinks the mission is falling apart. Same goes for Auric—hell, Jayden, too!
“They need to be aware of what’s going on with us. Is it messy? Yeah, it’s messy. But you know what? It is what it is. Now I am fed up with you acting like a child—”
“A child,” she scoffed, looking away.
“—instead of acting like an operative. We don’t need this drama, Esther. Our lives are dramatic enough.”
Glaring at him, she said, “I have one question for you: did you tell Svetlana?”
Veck. What was he supposed to say here? Was he just supposed to lie?
She’d already detected it. “Un-bloody-believable.”
“What I tell Svetlana is my business.”
“You cretin.”
“Esther, listen—”
She waved his words away. “There’s nothing more you need to say.” Turning from him, she walked away only to stop a moment later and aboutface. “You know, I could have bought that Boris thing. That sounded so wonderful and noble. But you had no good reason to tell Svetlana except to humiliate me.”
“She knew something was up. I told her. I’m sorry.” This was spiraling out of control.
Pointing her finger definitively at the floor, Esther said, “I cannot wait to finish this mission. So I can get the hell away from you.” Turning away from him, she walked out the door.
Scott couldn’t hold it in. As soon as she was gone, he picked up a pillow from his bed and body-slammed it into the floor. It was the most harmless way to expel his rage.
Two days ago, Esther and I were a perfect team. Now we’re mortal enemies. I’m supposed to trust You, God, but I’m not feeling any plan here. What’s going on?
As was the case far too often, no discernable answer came to him—only the silence of a room that felt hotter than it had minutes before. He was so sick of Esther, he was almost sick of Svetlana. Thankfully, his excursion later that night into the city wasn’t with either of them. Just focus on Natalie.
He was fairly sure that would be a joy.
Outside in the hall, Esther was halfway to her room when a voice called behind her. “Esther!” Turning around, the dagger-eyed Briton located Jayden as he approached. As soon as he saw her expression, he stopped and tilted his head. “Hey, you all right?”
Her irritation poured out. “Really? You have to ask? What’s the matter, weren’t you properly briefed?” Turning away from him, she resumed her angered march.
“Hey,” he called out, running to catch up to her, “you wanna talk about it?”
“Didn’t you leave with Boris? Don’t you have something to do?”
Stopping in the hallway behind her, Jayden quietly answered, “Actually, I was kinda in his way.”
Esther slowed her march until she too had stopped completely. She turned to face him, her pointed expression settling on his good eye. When it became clear that there was no animosity emanating from him, she relaxed tiredly.
“Is everything okay?” he asked. “I saw you leave outta Scott’s room. He say somethin’ to upset you?”
Brushing back her hair and glancing away, she said, “Jay, I appreciate you asking, I genuinely do, but I really don’t feel like rehashing it right now.”
“I didn’t mean I wanted you to rehash anything. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
Faintly, Esther smiled. “I’m all right, Jay. I’m not mad at you.”
Still a good five meters apart, the Texan crouched on the floor. “Yeah, I know. I guess I just don’t want anyone to be mad at anyone.”
Sighing quietly, she said, “Jay…it’s complicated.”
“Naw,” he said, shaking his head, “it ain’t.” When she canted her head curiously, he went on. “You loved someone and they rejected you. I know how it is.”
It took several seconds for a reaction to show on Esther’s face, but one did as her brown eyes subtly settled at the Texan’s feet. Her defensiveness disarmed, she smiled sadly—just enough to indicate that she’d heard what he’d said. Silence fell between them.
Pushing up the brim of his cowboy hat, the Texan finally looked back up. “You doin’ anything right now?”
“Actually, no,” she answered resignedly. “Not until Scott clears me with Captain Rockwell.”
“Wanna go get a beer?”
A genuine chuckle escaped from her lips. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.” He rose up from the floor. “We passed one of the food courts while we were walkin’. Looked like they had a couple bars.”
Despite her lack of an immediate response, a grin slowly crept across Esther’s face. Resting her hands on her hips, the Briton conceded. “Jayden, I would love to go get a beer with you.”
Snapping his fingers into a backwards-aimed thumbs up, Jayden said, “Pick ’em up.”
“What?”
“I mean, c’mon.”
Extension bouncing behind her head, Esther trotted to Jayden. Together, they trekked for the food court.
Despite the obvious venting pretense of their journey, much of the walk to their destination was filled with marveling at the sights of the Anthill. Esther spent most of that time attempting to answer Jayden’s numerous “what do you think that’s for?” questions about everything from terminals, to seemingly pointless troughs of flowing water, to the various other aesthetically-curious intricacies of Cairo. By the time they reached the food court—after a brief detour during which the Texan insisted he wasn’t lost—it was nearing one o’clock.
As Jayden had claimed, there were several bars scattered throughout the almost city-block sized food court. One in particular caught the Texan’s eye immediately—a dark-hued, smokey establishment called Route 66. The authenticity of not only that particular bar, but of the various restaurants and dives across the food court, was more than somewhat impressive. Authentic Japanese sushi bars, Mexican grills with Mexican staffs, Danish coffee shops—it was like a showcase of global sustenance. Cairo might have been a Class-2 base, but it was five-star luxury for those fortunate enough to reside inside its mural-laden walls.
Route 66 was among the least populated stops in the food court, indicative of the plethora of better lunchtime options available. Just the same, the atmosphere was as Midwestern U.S.A. as it could have been, and as soon as Jayden stepped through its doors, his good pupil dilated with exuberance. From the country music playing on the jukebox to the pair of pool tables at the back of the room, it was as American as the road it was named for. Ordering a pair of Amber Grain classics and a bowl of nachos, he and Esther claimed their seats.
Jayden seemed to take an almost owner-like pride in the bar and made it a point to identify every image of Americana on the walls, from Old Era soda signs to vintage car grills. Though the conversation was destined for something serious, at the onset both were contented to simply small talk. The bombshell of the opening chat came when Esther confessed that she’d never drank an American beer before—a fact made more than apparent by the bitter face she exhibited upon her first sip. Recanting memories of his teenage years, drinking with high school friends out the bed of a pickup, Jayden assured her that her taste buds would acclimate. She took his word for it and drank on.
By the time the jukebox took a turn for the reflective, their small talk had effectively died down. With a countenance as somber as the lighting, Esther propped her elbows on the table and rested her cheeks atop her open palms. Leaning back with a beer in one hand, Jayden watched her from the brim of his hat. “Let’s talk about it.”
“Ugh.” She closed her eyes. “I’m just so tired, Jay. I’m tired of trying.”
“I hear ya.”
“It’s like,” she paused to gather her thoughts, “you can do everything right, you can do everything you’d think someone would want you to, and it’s just pfff.” She extended her fingers as if to signify an explosion in the wind.
Smirking faintly, Jayden said, “You wanna hear the truth?”
“Sure. Hit me.”
“Ain’t none of us done everything right.”
Her expression made it obvious she concurred.
The Texan shook his head and looked off. “I thought I did everything right with Varya. I opened the door for ’er, I let her walk ahead of me.” A breath of sweet laughter escaped Esther’s lips. “What?”
“Those things are so simple, Jay.” When he sat up to defend himself, she assuredly waved him back. “No, no. I mean that to say they’re wonderful. What girl wouldn’t want that?”
“Apparently Varya.”
Closing her eyes, she raised her eyebrows. “Well, what can we say? Some people can’t see a good thing in front of their face.”
“Yeah, I’ll drink to that.” Tapping their glasses, they took another drink. “What sucked so bad was that Viktor saved my life. Then he stole my girlfriend.”
“Can I tell you something?” Dipping her head forward, she eyed him sincerely. “You deserve so much better than Varvara. Don’t think of her as being stolen. Think of yourself as being freed.”
He scoffed gently. “Free with one eye and the body of a wuss.”
“Hey, don’t say that.”
“I’m serious. Look at me, Esther. Do I look like I’m ready for a fight? I don’t even know why they let me stay.” He slid his glass out as the bartender passed by to refill it. “I’m tryin’ hard. I’m workin’ out. I want to be as good as I was, it’s just…man. Months of layin’ down just kill ya.”
Still working on her second glass, Esther smiled at him. “You’ll get there. Everything takes time.” Tracing her fingers along the top of her glass, she eyed him sidelong. “Do you remember anything from that mission after you got shot?”
“Naw.”
She looked into the drink. “I was the first one to get there after Viktor. Medics must just be wired differently, because he was totally calm. But I was scared.” Her gaze lifted to him again. “I thought you were going to die. That scared all of us.”
Faintly, Jayden smiled.
“That you’re standing here today is a miracle. You got shot in the back, you fell out of a tower, and you had a broken visor sliced in your face.” She shook her head. “You may be weakened, Jay, but you’re the toughest man I know. We’re a unit full of broken spirits, but only one of us had their body broken, too. Yet here you are. There’s something to be said for that.”
“Aw’right, aw’right,” Jayden said, tinging red. “Let’s talk about you now.”
She stuck out her tongue. “I’d rather not. I’m a proper train wreck.” As the bartender passed by again, she finished her beer in time for a second refill. Eying Jayden, she waited for him to speak. When he didn’t, she laughed. “Okay, what? Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“I’m just listenin’,” he answered. “Lettin’ you talk.”
Smirking flatly, she took a drink, then leaned back and propped her fingers into her hair. “I am what I am, Jay. What can I say?”
“Why do you like Scott so much?”
The question’s bluntness caught her off guard, but after giving it a moment’s pause, she tried her best to respond. “I think it’s how he does things. I think he’s so driven, so efficient. The first time I saw him and I realized he was the Golden Lion, I was just blown away. The way he commands, the way he can do things that no one else can do, like what happened in Chicago, and then Chernobyl and that rescue of Pelican Squad…” As she stopped talking, a funny look came over her. Leaning back in contemplation, and then realization, she made a stupid face and huffed laughter. “Wow, Jay. These reasons are awful.”
The Texan chuckled loudly. “Yeah, those reasons kinda suck.”
“Good God.” Rubbing a hand across her face, she looked at him through the cracks between her fingers. “There must be more to it than that. I think he looks good. Does that count?”
“Well that’s just lust.”
“Of course it’s lust,” she said, “but love starts with lust, right? If you’re not lusting for someone…” As the statement hung, she motioned for him to finish it. “Help me out, here.”
He shook his head and grinned. “You’re on your own with this one.”
“But seriously!” she said. “You have to have a little lust, right? Like, the smallest iota of lust. There’s got to be an attraction. Then you’ve got to have chemistry.” She took another drink. “And we most certainly had chemistry.” Once again, an odd look struck her. Her mouth fell in humiliated horror. “Oh my God, we didn’t even have chemistry, did we?”
Holding his hands open, he implored her to keep on.
“We fight well together, we can coordinate and move in like no one else on the battlefield. We can read each other’s body language, we trust each other completely. In combat, obviously.”
Finishing his third beer, Jayden said, “Everything you’re talkin’ about is things y’all can do. But why do you love him?”
Esther’s brow furrowed intently; her narrowed eyes stared at the wall in heavy thought. She shook her head momentarily before looking back at him. “Jay, I’ve got nothing.”
“I mean, you killed a man for him. There must be somethin’.”
The look on her face was total disgust. “I cannot think of a single damn reason why I love that man beyond just what he is and how he looks.” Her eyes began to shimmer. “Seriously, Esther? Was that sodding it?”
“Hey, c’mon,” he said, reaching his hand across the table. “Don’t start killin’ yourself now.”
“I’m serious! I don’t think he’s funny. He’s nice, but Boris is nice. He’s charming, but so are you. What the hell do I like about him that makes him so special?” She ran her hand through her hair as her emotions boiled over. “Oh my God. This has been a bloody joke!”
Good eye widening, Jayden thought frantically, then removed his cowboy hat and handed it to her. “Put this on!”
Eyes shimmering, she gave him a look of total ridiculousness. She placed the hat atop her head. “What the hell, Jay? Why am I wearing this?”
“Because cowgirls don’t cry.”
The most unsettling, deafening silence fell between them, as for several full seconds, Esther just stared at him. Then suddenly, and blatantly, she convulsed with hilarity. Hand raising to hold the hat in place, she leaned her head back and guffawed. “Jayden!” The words choked out through her tears. “That was the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard in my life!”
He laughed, too. “Yeah, but you’re not cryin’ anymore!”
“I’m still crying, you noodle,” she said, wiping her eyes, “I’m just laughing in disbelief!”
“Yeah, but it was funny, right?”
Plopping back in the chair, she gazed at him contentedly. “Yes, Jay. That was utterly hilarious.”
“Aw’right, now you’re bein’ sarcastic.”
“Cowgirls don’t cry,” she mused mockingly. “That was priceless.” Tilting her head, she leered and set her hand atop the hat. “How do I look in this?”
Chuckling, he answered, “Hell of a lot better than Varya.”
“Oh really?” she asked incredulously.
“You look like you’re ready for a line dance.”
She cackled. “I’ll probably need a couple more beers before that.”
“Well get drinkin’.”
Lifting her glass, Esther swallowed a gulp. Making a face, she shook her head as if taken aback. She looked at the glass curiously. “These do start to taste better.”
Angling his head half-humorously, half-concernedly, Jayden said, “They aren’t supposed to start tasting better that fast.”
“It’s okay.” She waved him off. “I’m not even buzzed. I’m fine.” When he opened his mouth, she said, “I’m fine, cowboy.”
“Aw’right…”
Eyeing him smugly, she leaned back and looked around. “We’re like, the only customers in this bar.”
His brow furrowed, Jayden asked, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yep. Hey,” she said, leaning forward, “so here’s the plan. I am going to completely forget about Scott Remington.” Her arms swayed with emphasis. “And you are going to forget about Varvara Yudina. We are moving on. It is over. Yee-haw!” Raising the hat, she leaned back and laughed hysterically.
“Okay, lightweight,” he said, grabbing her beer. “You’re done.”
Her hand grabbed the glass. “No! I’m not even buzzed. I’m having fun, Jayden. I haven’t had fun in so long.” Pulling the drink back to her, she asked, “What did you do for fun back in Texas?”
Finishing off his third glass, he made brief eye contact with the bartender. “You mean when I was a kid?”
“Yes. Or a young adult. Or whatever your preference.”
“Well I mean, we did lots of things.” As soon as the glass was refilled, he took another swig. “Mud ridin’, playin’ football—”
She cut him off. “Mud riding! That sounds fun. Let’s do it.”
“Uhh, what?”
“Let’s do it,” she said, nodding emphatically. “Let’s go mud riding. Do you do it on a horse?”
Snorting his beer mid-drink, he laughed and wiped his nose. “You don’t go mud ridin’ on a horse! You go on a three-wheeler or a four-wheeler.”
“Oh. So do you get real dirty?”
“Aw, yeah,” he said, “you get covered. By the time you’re finished everyone looks like a bunch’a—” He bit his tongue. “You know. Muddy people.”
Esther took another drink, nodding mid-gulp, then lowering the glass. “We’re doing it. We’re going to find some mud, and we’re going to do it. And Scott Remington and Varvara Yudina will rue the day they passed up such fun people.”
The whole while she spoke, Jayden watched her hold her beer. “You’re drinkin’ that way too fast.”
“I am drinking this fast because it tastes good.”
“But…it kinda doesn’t.”
She put her fist on the table, then pointed at him. “You, Mister Timmons, are a very suspicious fellow. You and your little suspicions.” She moved her finger in circles. “I say, enough!” Chortling brazenly, she went for the beer again.
The Texan snagged it. “You’re done.”
“Jay!”
“Nuh-uh. Your new limit’s one beer.”
Plopping back in her chair, she threw her hands out, looking at him much in the way a daughter would whine at her disciplinary father. “I’m not even buzzed!”
“Get up,” he said, pushing back his chair and throwing some money on the table. “We’re goin’ back to the room.”
She smirked at the payment. “Is that so I’ll line dance for you?”
“Yep. We’re done.”
The journey from Route 66 back to their room was among the most discombobulated walks Jayden had ever experienced. With seemingly every step she took, Esther grew goofier and goofier, the lowlight of the trip occurring when she grabbed a random passerby, looked him in the eyes, and said in the looniest voice possible, “We’re on a secret mission!” Thankfully, her drunkenness was as perfect an explanation for her outburst as Jayden could have come up with on his own.
It dawned on Jayden midway through the return trek that, beyond the nachos they’d eaten in the bar, none of them had consumed any decent amount of food since the flight from Novosibirsk—undoubtedly a factor in Esther’s quick intoxication. Though the Texan was far from impaired, even he began to feel subtle effects toward the end of the journey. Just the same, he was able to guide them both back to their room with no issues beyond the scout’s inclination to reveal their covert plans to total strangers.
As soon as the door was opened for her, Esther strutted into the room, swaying like a tree branch in a windstorm. Jayden’s cowboy hat was still firmly planted on her head, up until the point when she grabbed it and flung it like a flying disc atop her bed. “Thank you very much!” she proclaimed, rolling her head back and giggling.
“You’re so lucky Boris ain’t here,” Jayden said, locking the door and hurrying to her side, grabbing her before she stumbled over. “Okay, you’re getting’ in the shower.”
“What?” she asked. “I refuse. I’m not even—”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re not even buzzed. I know.”
Spinning around and tipsy, she stuck her finger on his chest. “You just want to see me get wet, don’t you?”
“Esther, it’s not even three o’clock. You can’t go to bed this early! You gotta get sobered up.”
She waved her arms emphatically. “I refuse to get sobered up, because I am not drunk! I am merely observing the world for what it is.” She looked from side to side, then paused. “Leaning.”
“Okay, go in there, take your clothes off, and stand under some cold water.”
“Jayden,” she said whiningly, “you’re acting so lame. I have a better idea.” She pointed at his bed. “You sit down, and I am going to make you a nice mustard sandwich.” She cackled.
He spun her to face the bathroom. “Hurry up, go.”
“Seriously, Jay,” she said, turning to face him again. “They work wonders. Svetlana does it all the time.”
Escorting her into the bathroom, the Texan flicked on the light.
Esther raised a finger. “We should write a song about mustard sandwiches. Do you want to help me write it?”
“Come on, take your clothes off.”
“I refuse,” she said woozily. “Now quick, what rhymes with mustard?” Placing her by the corner, Jayden went to grab towels. She carried right on. “Custard. Flustered.” The scout paused. “Bustard.” Cracking up, she leaned against the wall. “Bustard! That’s a funny word!”
Setting the towels up, Jayden turned on the cold water.
“Then there’s mustered,” she said, gesturing pointedly. “And by mustered, I mean the other mustered. Not the mustard mustard.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“Were you not paying attention? Do I need to repeat myself? I refuse.”
Walking back to her, he put his hands at her sides and looked her in the eyes. “Okay, I’m gonna leave the room, but when I do, you gotta get in the shower. You can’t just crash at three in the afternoon.”
“I,” she said, pushing her finger squarely into his chest, “refuse.” More giggles burst forth.
“Hey,” he said sincerely, holding her hand with his and looking at her, “I need you to listen to me.”
The moment their hands touched, Esther’s pupils dilated. Abruptly, her lips parted—as if she’d suddenly made a realization. Quietly, she breathed. “Oh my God, Jay. You are so perfect.”
He cocked his head. “What?”
“You’re so perfect.”
Jayden didn’t even have time to blink. Closing her eyes, Esther grabbed him by the waist; the scout pulled him in. The next thing Jayden registered was her lips crashing against his, and the sensation of her tongue as it slipped between his teeth.
As the Texan went rigid, Esther’s hand traced up to the back of his neck, her fingers disappearing into his hair. Then, as suddenly as she’d begun, the Briton stopped. Mouths still locked, she stared at him bugeyed. Slowly, almost frighteningly, she eased her head back. Their lips broke contact.
Total quiet. Even the sound of the shower seemed to disappear into an awkward sea of silence. As Jayden stared at her through his good eye, Esther’s mouth hung open. “Oh,” she murmured. It was as red-handed as a soft utterance could be. It was the kind of sound that indicated one had made a brazen mistake. Apprehensively, the Briton touched her check. “I may be drunk.”
Voice shaking, Jayden swallowed and stepped back. “Yeah. I think you might be.”
“I didn’t mean what I just did,” she said breathlessly. “Or what I said before I did it. That was the mustard talking.”
“Yeah—what?”
“That was the alcohol talking.”
“Yeah.”
Her cheeks flushed, Esther brushed back her hair. “I had a really good time.”
Nodding without eye contact, Jayden said, “Yeah. I did, too.”
Once again, silence fell between them. Neither looked at the other—Jayden’s focus was squarely on the floor as Esther stared blankly at the shower. “I think I’m just going to take a nap,” she said.
“Okay.” The Texan’s response was quick, as if he wasn’t even thinking. “I’mma go…umm…you know, I think I’m gonna take a shower instead.”
“That’d be good.” Wincing, she bit her lip. “That’d be good, if you want it.” Self-disgust struck her.
He nodded again. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
Their eyes were still averted from one another as the conversation skidded to an awkward close. Slipping past Jayden, Esther tiptoed out of the bathroom, never once turning around. Feeling behind her back, she found the doorknob and pulled the door shut. Jayden was left alone.
“Oh, man,” he whispered, rubbing his face with both his hands, then pushing them up through his hair. His eye, glazed and confused, bore into the spot where Esther had just been standing. Absently, the Texan licked his lips.
On the other side of the door, in their bedroom, Esther was lying flat on her back atop her bed. Her hands, too, were thrust up through the bangs of her hair; she gaped at the ceiling. Rolling over just enough to reach the lamp at her bedside, she clicked it off and pulled the covers over her head.
By the time Jayden finished his shower and wandered back into the bedroom, Esther was already snoring beneath her sheets. Despite his tipsiness, he threw on his proper uniform and made for the door. Locking it then easing it shut from the hall, the Texan walked away.
19
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 14TH, 0012 NE
1414 HOURS
NOVOSIBIRSK, RUSSIA
TAUTHIN OPENED HIS eyes slowly and deliberately, as he always did when something perked his senses. As far as Bakmanese personality was concerned, the captive officer favored the subtle side of the spectrum. His motions were faint and rarely indicative. Hands innocuously at his sides, he angled his head just enough to see Confinement’s doors open. Wuteel, the Bakma engineer from the cell opposite him, was being returned. Wuteel had been retrieved earlier that morning by several armed sentries. Where he’d gone was a mystery.
Wuteel’s eyes locked onto Tauthin the whole while he was led back to his cell, and at no point did the engineer’s bulbous eyes break away. His alien brow furrowing, Tauthin stared back. Turning from Wuteel’s cell, the guards who had escorted him returned to their posts. Only then did Wuteel visibly shift. Very slowly, he turned his head to Ei`dorinthal’s cell. Ed, plainly visible through the glass and also observing the situation, returned the odd look. Gaze lingering on Ed for a second, Wuteel looked back at Tauthin. He wanted a connection without the humans’ knowledge. That was Ed’s queue.
The human scientists had correctly concluded that there was a certain section of the Ithini brain that was dedicated to telepathic activity. What they hadn’t realized was that an Ithini could completely circumvent entire nerve pathways without any losses in power—only in activity. Like biological jumper cables, electrical impulses could be imported and exported from virtually anywhere to run otherwise unrelated parts of the brain. While Ed was busy connecting, the scientists in Confinement thought he was smelling something. The Ithini had completely defeated their telepathy-monitoring electrodes.
Tauthin felt the mental click in his mind. Ed was connected. Wuteel’s presence was there as well. Tauthin’s thinking was deliberate, intended. I am here. And via Ei`dorinthal’s connection, Wuteel answered immediately.
The Earthae possess a functional Zone Runner.
Despite his subtle tendencies, Tauthin’s eyes widened at the revelation. A Zone Runner. Noboats as the Earthae called them. Never had a captured Zone Runner been mentioned by the scientists.
Wuteel went on. They brought me to it to explain the rift generator. They know nothing of how it works. Glancing briefly to the scientists as they bustled about, Wuteel looked at Tauthin again. I was blindfolded—I do not know the way to it. If we can locate it, we can escape.
Before more communication could take place, the door to Confinement opened again. The Bakmas’ focus was disrupted as Tauthin’s bulbous eyes shifted to the newcomers.
“So, explain to me again why you want to talk to the alien?” David asked as he followed Svetlana into Confinement. Glancing about at the various scientists, he pinpointed Tauthin’s cell.
Svetlana’s ocean gaze was steadfast. “Scott is being forced on this mission because of me. The least I can do is help him.” Adjusting the yellow notepad and ink pen in her hand, she approached one of the women scientists on duty. Petrov was nowhere to be seen. “Hello. I would like to speak with one of your prisoners.”
The woman eyed her behind spectacles. “Who are you?”
Apprehensively, Svetlana answered, “I am Svetlana Voronova. I am with the Fourteenth.”
“That name means nothing to me.”
David cleared his throat. “This is Scott Remington’s girlfriend. That name mean anything to you?”
Glancing at David irritatingly, the woman returned her focus to Svetlana, scrutinizing her as if to sum her up. Smiling only half-politely, she motioned to Tauthin’s cell. “Please, Miss Voronova. Be my guest.”
Despite the sarcasm in the scientist’s words, Svetlana acknowledged cordially. Following the woman toward Tauthin’s cell, she shot a quick look back to David, mouthing a sheepish “spasibo,” Russian for thank you.
“Do you require a translator?” the woman asked.
“Yes, please.”
Opening the cell and motioning for a sentry to guard it, the scientist stepped away to retrieve Ed. The moment Svetlana entered Tauthin’s cell, the Bakma angled his head curiously. Goose bumps appeared on Svetlana’s arms, but she managed a smile nonetheless. Pulling a chair to the front of the cell, she sat down.
David chuckled. “Looks like a job interview.”
As soon as Ed was ushered in, the scientist stepped from the cell. “Remain with them,” the scientist instructed the sentry. He nodded, adjusting his assault rifle as if to challenge Tauthin to attempt a hostile act.
Ed’s connection came without any prompting from Svetlana—a natural inclination for the Ithini whose job was to do that very thing. Touching her temple faintly, Svetlana looked at Tauthin and tried to smile.
Tauthin’s dark purple gaze bore into Svetlana. After several uncomfortable seconds passed, he spoke in Bakmanese, his words translated seamlessly into Svetlana’s mind via Ed’s connection.
“What is your purpose here?”
“Do you remember me?” Svetlana asked.
The Bakma nodded. “You are Setana.”
At Tauthin’s recognition, she eased slightly. “Yes. I am here to visit you today. Scott was unable to come.” Looking at her notepad, she examined the topic scribbled at the top of the first page, written simply: Tauthin’s Planet. “Tell me about your planet,” she said. Ink pen at the ready, she held it against the yellow paper, awaiting the alien’s response. When none came, she looked up. Tauthin was staring at her with a look that rivaled human indifference. “Tauthin?”
Tauthin said nothing. No thoughts or emotions were being conveyed from their connection.
With David watching uncomfortably, Svetlana shifted in her chair. Her focus stayed on the Bakma. “Do you understand me?”
“Did Remata send you for this?” Tauthin asked.
Crossing her legs, Svetlana bit the tip of her pen. Glancing down at the unanswered topic, she returned to Tauthin with an honest stare. “No, he did not.”
Tauthin dipped his head forward. “Are you asking on behalf of Remata?”
“No.”
“Then why should I answer a question that is irrelevant?”
Svetlana brushed her hair back and looked away.
The alien continued. “Do you not think my brethren have been asked this question ten thousand times in ten thousand more effective manners? It is among the first questions a conquering prisoner of war would be asked by its target species.” The alien’s nostrils curled, a sign of irritation. “You demand trivialities that would have been made known long ago, were any of their answers significant. That you believe you can receive them from me now is cause for scoff and disdain.”
“Okay,” said Svetlana, leaning back and exhaling as if on the verge of walking out.
Studying her reaction, Tauthin asked, “Why are you here and not Remata?”
“Because he is gone,” she answered harshly. Despite Tauthin’s blatant interest in her answer, she went on before he could follow-up. “Because I love him, and I am doing this for him in the lone hope that something I discover will be of value to him. That I might help him in some way.” Her speaking was fast-paced and bitter. “But you do not know of love, do you? I would ask you, but I am sure it was asked of your brethren in ten thousand better ways. How dare I entertain the thought?” Immediately following the frustrated tirade, Svetlana looked away. Glancing at the blank notepad, she muttered in disgust.
Silent and still standing, Tauthin observed Svetlana with an almost humanlike solemnness, her reflection centered in his dark purple lenses. Slowly, he took a step toward her, prompting the armed sentry to raise his rifle immediately. Lifting his hand as if to indicate he meant no hostile action, Tauthin’s focus returned to Svetlana.
“What?” she asked.
“You are correct,” Tauthin answered. “My species does not know of love.”
Brow quirking curiously, Svetlana sat upright. Briefly, she readied the ink pen in her hand, only to pause and abandon the effort. She set it and the yellow notepad on the floor. “Why do you not know of love, Tauthin? Has no female Bakma caught your eye?”
“I have never seen a female. I do not know what they look like.”
Svetlana’s mouth dropped. She stared at him disbelievingly.
Tauthin knelt on the floor. “Reproduction is monitored and maintained by the Khuladi. This is how they control their slave species. One gender is kept under their watch. Failure to comply with their commands results in gender eradication and inevitable species extinction. No physical contact occurs between genders—all procreation is by artificial insemination. My eggs have already been removed.”
“Your eggs?” she asked shockingly. “I don’t understand.” Behind her, David raised an eyebrow.
“In natural Bakma reproduction, eggs develop in the male ovary and are transferred to the female for fertilization and incubation until the hour of hatching.”
“Wait, whoa,” Svetlana said, holding her hands up. “The male ovary? The hour of hatching? You need to explain this.”
The Bakma shook his head. “I can only explain what I possess knowledge of. What I have shared is the extent of my experience with reproductive lore. I do not know how ovaries work.”
“Well, that part’s about right for a man.”
“Nor do I understand the physical act of transfer or the incubation processes of females. All hours of hatching are catalogued. Mine is—” A momentary garble hit the connection, an indication that the concept could not yet be understood by the recipient. Tauthin seemed unaware as the translation picked up again. “Beyond that knowledge, I know nothing.”
The temptation struck Svetlana to grab the notepad again. She resisted the urge. “So your eggs were removed, I assume, by the Khuladi? And no male Bakma under the Khuladi has ever had sex. So you are all virgins?”
“Words cannot express how weird it is listening to only half of this conversation,” David said.
The sentry next to him nodded. “You got that right.”
Tauthin went on. “I cannot associate your word, sex, with any physical action. Is sex your process of procreation?”
Mouth hanging, then receding, then hanging again, Svetlana answered awkwardly, “Yes. And also of pleasure. It is an act of love.”
“Is Remata your partner for this act?”
Svetlana blushed immediately.
“I heard a Remata in there,” David said. “I know what he just asked!” He nudged the sentry—both men chuckled.
“Okay,” Svetlana said, looking back at them, “we are having a very serious conversation. Can we be grown-ups, here?”
Tauthin tilted his head curiously. “Why does your face change color?”
“Ugh.” She slid her fingers in her hair. “We do that when we are embarrassed. It happens to me a lot. To answer your question, no, Scott and I have never procreated.” She snapped her fingers and pointed behind her before either of the men could comment.
“Why not?” Tauthin asked.
Pressing her lips together, she hesitated before answering. “There is a custom that humans have, where—” She paused in deep thought. “We have something called marriage. It is when a male and female who love each other become…joined, officially.” Making a face, she said, “Not everyone follows this custom.”
Bulbous eyes narrowing, Tauthin asked, “Is this joining physical?”
“No. It is supposed to be in the eyes of God. Not everyone sees it that way, but, that is the intent.”
“Who is your God?”
At that, Svetlana’s eyes widened. Exhaling deeply, she laughed a bit. “You are asking very difficult questions.” The Bakma’s face remained stoic; she leaned forward. “Our God is the Creator of the universe. He is a God of love, and mercy, and forgiveness. How do I even explain this? Are you familiar with this concept?”
He nodded. “We are taught the laws of Uladek—the being who ordained the Khuladi. He is a God of power and war.”
“Okay. That is not the real God.”
“How do you know?”
“Because—” She stopped at that word. Mouth closed, she stared at Tauthin in hesitant contemplation. A shade of anxiety crossed her brow, before she shook her head in conviction. “I cannot believe that the universe, a thing of beauty, would be the work of a God of war.”
His eyes narrowed pointedly. “Space is more violent than it is beautiful, Setana.”
“More violent than beautiful? I would rather believe they are equal.”
“Then perhaps we acknowledge the same God.”
Another deep silence hit Svetlana. Shying her eyes away, she fiddled with her fingers as she tried to right the discussion. Tauthin spoke before she could.
“There is much about the universe you cannot understand, as you have not beheld it. Your view is limited—a germ trying to understand the organism it thrives on. I am not a follower of Uladek. But if the universe personifies its Creator, then it would be foolish to believe Him any less than a God of death and power.” The Bakma stood up. “Space is unforgiving. How could its Creator be otherwise?”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” Svetlana said, her voice shaking.
Tauthin canted his head. “Does it challenge your faith? Reality is far deeper than you can perceive on your small blue planet.”
Eyes narrowing, Svetlana said, “Then what is your final destiny? What will happen to you when your life ends? What hope can you have in such a God as the one you described?”
“I have no hope. I have no destiny. When my life ends, I will cease.” The alien leaned forward. “I do not follow Uladek, Setana. I follow nothing.”
Svetlana continued to look away while Tauthin addressed her. Only after his words had settled into silence did she fix her oceanblue gaze upon him. “Then my hope is that before you cease, you will see my God. Because to follow nothing is a miserable way to exist.”
“Easy words from a species that is free—for now.”
Svetlana rose from her chair and motioned to David and the sentry to indicate that she was finished. Picking up her yellow notepad and pen, she turned around to leave.
“Setana.”
Halting reservedly, she regarded Tauthin again.
The Bakma dipped his forehead toward her. “I have never been to my home planet, but I would like to believe it is much like your own.” The alien paused. “Earth is a beautiful sight to behold.”
Svetlana stared back at him from the cell door, watching as his eye contact lingered before he looked at Ed and nodded. Their connection disappeared. Resting her hand against the cell frame, she spoke to him a quiet thank you before turning to leave.
As soon as David and Svetlana were alone, the former NYPD officer placed his hand on her side. “You okay?”
“Yes,” she answered quietly, sparing Tauthin a final glance before stepping from Confinement back into the hall. “His species is lost in every way that it can be. And enemy or not, it is very, very sad.”
“Did you learn anything of use?”
She nodded. “Yes, I did. I know how the Khuladi control their slaves.” Eyeing him, she said, “They claim custody of a gender. There is no free reproduction. If a slave species disobeys, their procreation stops.”
“Get out.”
“Scott will want to hear this,” she said, determined eyes ahead. “I am glad that I came.” To that, David agreed.
They departed down the hall.
 *
SILENCE. YURI DOSTOEVSKY’S room was a haven of solitude. Kicked back and shirtless atop his bed, the dark-haired acting captain sat perched in stillness, a worn Scripture propped against his knee, its tracing-paperthin pages opened and facing him.
Though Dostoevsky’s eyes were open, they were fixated on nothing, boring straight through the paper before him into a realm he’d only recently been invited to visit. The Siberian had never been taught how to pray, so there were no predetermined molds for him to conform to. Time had not made his meditations easier. On the contrary, distraction was a constant foe. This day was no exception.
He’d been a captain only once before, and it was an experience he’d tried to forget. His role as unit leader had ended with occupational failure and spiritual victory, the latter of which was—quite literally—the only saving grace of the whole experience. And now, rearmed with faith, he was playing that role again. Where the road of readiness deviated, said faith was designed to take over. To say the road had deviated was putting it mildly. As of that morning, it had gone off a cliff.
Eyes snapping back to the pages, he grunted agitatedly. “Get away from me.” His words were low, but purposed, despite the absence of anyone else in his room. Following the lines of Scripture before him, he found the place he’d left off.
Do not believe every whisper of the soul, for not every spirit comes from the Holy place. Pray for discernment to test those spirits who implore you, that you might have strength against the forces of deception.
His study was interrupted by the sound of a single chirp, a single prompt, from his comm. Looking at the device on his nightstand, he waited for a voice to follow the sound. None did.
Dostoevsky grabbed his comm and read the display. It was clear, an indication that no one was actively trying to reach him. Brow furrowing, he checked the comm’s history, where he saw a single call, barely a fraction of a second long, from Varvara Yudina.
Placing the Scripture down, he sat upright and watched the comm in stillness. No more communication prompts. No more beeps of any kind. Bringing Varvara up in his queue, Dostoevsky rested his hand over the transmit button. But he hesitated. Staring at the far wall, his gaze grew distant.
The past several months had been brutal to Varvara, at every fault of her own. There was no operative more beloved than Jayden Timmons. Betraying him in his hour of need had had dire consequences. Varvara was despised and consequently despondent—and in the eyes of the Fourteenth, undeserving of any amount of sympathy. Kind of like someone else Dostoevsky once knew.
The fulcrum set down his comm and rose from his bed. Varvara’s prompt had originated from Room 14. Slipping on his uniform and boots, he checked himself in the mirror before stepping out the door.
The officers’ wing of the barracks was right beside the building B-2, where Room 14 was located. While there were several other barracks on Novosibirsk’s grounds, none were as close to the officers’ wing as B-2 was. This was the primary reason that commanding officers such as Scott, Dostoevsky, and at a time Captain Clarke could trek from their private quarters to Room 14 so quickly when mission calls went out.
It also aided in situations like this.
Opening the door to Room 14, Dostoevsky stepped inside. The room was vacant—something not all surprising for that time of day. Padding toward the lounge, Dostoevsky peered around the corner. Sure enough, as his comm had indicated, Varvara was there, alone, washing dishes. The blonde’s hair was tied back into a wavy ponytail, a rare look for her, and her concentration was solely on the plate in her hand. After watching her for a moment, Dostoevsky cleared his throat.
Varvara gasped, dropping a dish into the water as she whipped her head his way. He immediately raised his hands. “I am sorry!” he said in Russian. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Placing her hand over her heart, she exhaled, closing her eyes. Very quietly, she laughed. “You are so quiet.”
“Did you try to comm me?” Dostoevsky asked. “It showed a prompt from you a few minutes ago.”
Staring at him quizzically, she shook her head in apology. “No, I am sorry. I went to put my comm on the counter a little while ago, and I dropped it. Maybe it prompted you when it fell.”
Hesitating for a moment, he angled his head. “So everything is okay?” he asked.
“Yes. Yes, everything is fine. I’m sorry.”
Smiling briefly in response, Dostoevsky hovered by the door.
She stared at him uncomfortably. “Is everything okay…with you?” It was an awkward sounding question, as if she’d had no idea what to say next.
Hesitating, he walked into the room. “I am worried about you.”
Her expression seemed genuinely surprised. “Ahh—” The utterance lingered before she laughed timidly. “Why are you worried?” Turning her head deliberately, she looked down at the dishes, feeling under the water for the one she’d dropped.
“Give me a reason not to be, and I will stop.”
With every step closer he took, she angled her body more and more away. “Because you have enough things to worry about. I would waste your time.”
“That’s not a good reason.”
“Well I’m sorry,” she said, tone shifting snappishly. “I don’t want you worrying about me.”
“I understand what you’re going through.”
Dropping the dish purposely, she placed her hands against the side of the sink.
“You can talk to me, Varya. Anytime. And I will listen.”
“You don’t understand what I’m going through,” she said under her breath. When he failed to respond, she went on. “And I don’t want to talk about it, not with you or anyone, and—”
“—Varya—”
“—I don’t care what anyone thinks, because I already know what they are all thinking, and I don’t need you or anyone else to pretend to care about me—”
“Varya, stop it,” he said. He reached out to ease her chin toward him. The moment his fingers applied any sort of pressure, the medic winced sharply and flinched back. Her hand darted to the place where he’d touched her.
The lounge was slammed into silence.
As Varvara’s hand fell from her cheek, she stared at Dostoevsky. The defensive expression that had been on her face moments before was now gone. She looked nothing short of panicked.
Slowly, Dostoevsky’s countenance changed. “What is wrong with your cheek?”
“Nothing,” she answered quickly. “You surprised me, that is it. I didn’t expect you to touch me.”
“Wash your face.”
The blonde’s mouth fell open. “Commander—I mean captain…Yuri, please…”
“Varvara.” His tone made itself clear: he was serious. “Wash your face.”
Her eyes shimmered as she silently pled for Dostoevsky to change his mind. No such change was offered. Turning slowly, her whole body shaking, she opened the tap water.
It took almost five minutes for the medic to wipe away her cake layers of makeup. The whole while, her face stayed angled away. Dostoevsky was only able to watch her hands as they moved dreadfully from her face to the faucet. When she finished, the washrag in her grasp was completely stained.
“Face me.”
By that point, her shakes had turned into near heaves. Teardrops fell to the floor, dotting the linoleum by her feet. Slowly, the blonde turned her head. The dark yellow and brown blotches were revealed.
Dostoevsky’s entire countenance changed.
“Please,” she said, grabbing his hand desperately. “Please, just let this go! Don’t do anything, I am begging you. I deserve this, Yuri.”
The fulcrum said nothing. He simply turned around.
“Yuri, please!”
Snapping up his hand, Dostoevsky silenced her with a single firm gesture. The fulcrum drew in a deep breath. Without a word, he left Room 14.
VIKTOR RYVKIN WAS in the middle of a comm call when the knock came. Closing the conversation abruptly, he abandoned the device and walked to his door. Pulling it open, the slick-haired Russian blinked as he saw Dostoevsky before him. The fulcrum elite’s glare was angled to the floor. Slowly, he lifted his head.
They locked eyes.
Dostoevsky surged forward, palms crashing against Viktor’s solar plexus. Viktor buckled over; a fist slammed into his chin, then into his forehead, then across his chin again. He was lifted, then thrown. His body hit the wall; he fell to the floor. Panicked, Viktor grabbed his knife off his dresser, swinging it wildly at Dostoevsky. The fulcrum wrenched the knife away and threw it aside. He grabbed Viktor by the throat.
The slayer-medic’s eyes widened as Dostoevsky lifted him off the ground with one hand. With his other, the fulcrum slowly pushed Viktor’s head sideways into the wall. The joints in Viktor’s neck popped and cracked.
Outside the door, a throng of Nightmen gathered around and stared.
Pitiless eyes narrowing, Dostoevsky stared at the frantically breathing slayer. He leaned close as Viktor rolled his eyes to see him. “You are no longer a part of the Fourteenth,” Dostoevsky said. “You are no longer a part of her life. If you touch her again, I will kill you.”
Dostoevsky’s grip relented. Viktor toppled to the floor. Turning away, Dostoevsky walked back to the hall and through the crowd of spectators.
It took Viktor several minutes to rise from the floor, fresh bruises swelling across his face. His slick hair tossed about, he wiped the blood from his lips and nose. The crowd outside lingered for several moments, before they too turned their backs and dispersed. No one offered the fallen slayer a hand.
In the span of less than a day, everything about the Fourteenth had changed. Five team members were gone, shipped a half a world away. A new captain was in charge. One of his lieutenants had been removed.
Controlled chaos.
In a brief emergency meeting, Dostoevsky relayed news of Viktor’s removal to the rest of the unit. Nary an operative disapproved—not even Varvara, though the circumstances of Viktor’s removal and Varvara’s battered and bruised secret were never disclosed. Of all the changes that had taken place that day, the loss of their slayer-lieutenant was the only one that was welcomed. But more change was to come. That much was certain.
Amid a somber atmosphere and heavy tension, the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk sought refuge in the comfort of their rickety, but well-worn bunks. Home. The only home most of them had come to know. Nothing spoke louder about that than the empty bunks among them, vacancies that none of them had expected to be there, holes that felt every part of wrong despite the admirable motives that’d caused them. Missing pieces. As the lights to Room 14 were flicked off, the operatives who remained closed their eyes. One-by-one, slowly but surely, sleep found them all.
20
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 14TH, 0012 NE
1657 HOURS
CAIRO, EGYPT
IT HAD TAKEN SCOTT every minute prior to 1700 to prepare for his outing with Natalie, spiking his hair up haphazardly and breaking out his razor just enough to outline his five o’clock shadow. With a black button-up shirt tucked into blue jeans, Scott looked more rogue than EDEN officer. It was all part of a purpose. He wanted to be easy on Natalie’s eyes. Any amount of winning over he could do would help achieve his primary goal that night, which was to separate Esther’s schedule from the Caracals’. Captain or not, Natalie was a woman. She’d be more willing to give in to a good-looking man.
It was impossible to deny the emotional roller-coaster that the day had been, but for the sake of the mission, he tried his hardest to erase everything but what was ahead. Tonight was about the Caracals and Captain Rockwell—Venus, as his rag-tag group of quasi-eidolons dubbed her. Right on the dot of 1700 hours, her knock came to his door.
Closing his eyes, Scott allowed himself a moment of focus. Just win her over. That’s all you have to do. Now open the door. Gripping the knob, he pulled it open. There she was.
…there she was indeed.
The moment Scott saw Natalie, he realized how unprepared he was. Not for the outing—he’d prepared for that meticulously. He was unprepared for her.
She was breathtaking. Her smile glistened like wet pearls on a seashore. Her chestnut hair fell in waves around her face and over her shoulders, balanced by golden hoop earrings that dangled elegantly from her earlobes. But what Scott homed in on was her eyes. They were sparkling and entrancing, completing the look of eagerness on her face. Her pupils zeroed in on his.
And they were dilating.
Smile stretching, she offered out a bottle of champagne. “A little something, from me to you. Welcome to Cairo, commander.”
Laughing quietly, Scott accepted the gift. “Thank you so much.” It was dawning on him now why Boris had been so captivated by this woman. She was gorgeous—out of most men’s leagues. He’d either been too caught up in the mission or too distracted by Esther to fully notice and appreciate it until now.
Like Scott, Natalie was dressed for a good time. Gone was any indication that she was part of a military unit. She wore a plum-colored cowl neck sweater that hung just below the beltline of a black pencil skirt. She looked like a date.
Stepping into his room, she scanned it from end to end. “Been getting a feel for the place?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of hard not to,” Scott answered. “Everything here is amazing.” Opening his fridge, he set the bottle of champagne inside, right next to Svetlana’s jar of mustard. The temptation was too much. Smirking, he grabbed the jar and tossed it her way. She flinched and snatched it from mid-air. “A gift for a gift—that’s the best I can do.”
Eyeing the jar conspicuously, she gave him a look. “What is this?”
“That is bona-fide Russian mustard.”
A grin snaked from the corners of her mouth. “Russian mustard, huh?”
“That’s correct.”
“So let me make sure I’m understanding this,” she said. “I give you pre-zero blanc de noir…and you give me mustard. And not just mustard, mind you,” she said as she inspected it, “but apparently used mustard. Am I getting this so far?”
He laughed, sincerely. “Yeah, you’re getting it so far.”
Cocking her head mirthfully, she asked, “Dost mine eyes deceive me, or was this the only thing in your fridge?”
“Your eyes did not deceive.”
“So you fly all the way to Cairo, you’re starting your life over, and all you bring is mustard? No booze, no jellies? Just this?”
It was sad, but true. “Believe it or not, that was a gift. Sort of a goingaway gift, of sorts.”
She smiled mirthfully. “Oh, was it now? So not only is this used mustard, it’s also re-gifted mustard?” Her amused expression remained. “You know how to impress a girl.”
Scott laughed out loud. It was impossible not to. “What am I supposed to say? It is what it is.”
“This had better be some good mustard, commander.” Dropping the jar in her purse, she smiled wryly. “So I’m already learning things about my new XO. First and foremost, that he’s cheap.” She winked and motioned for the door. “Let’s find out what other mysteries await.”
It wasn’t exactly flirting, but it still brought back memories of his dates with Nicole. He glanced at her photo, situated on his nightstand.
Natalie followed his gaze. “Wife?”
“Fiancée.”
She smiled. “We should all be so lucky. How’s she feel about you coming to Cairo?”
“She died last year.”
Whatever lightheartedness had been there evaporated with those four words. Natalie’s smile melted away. She looked lost for words. “I’m…I’m so sorry.”
Scott wasn’t sure how to feel about what he’d just confessed. It had just slipped out as the natural answer to her question. Would it have served his purposes better to leave that detail unknown? He couldn’t imagine lying about Nicole. Her memory deserved better.
Natalie pushed her hair back. She couldn’t even look at him.
“Captain,” Scott said, looking at Natalie until she turned to him again. She was pleading through her eyes for forgiveness. He wanted her to know she had it. “Let’s go have a good time.” He feigned the warmest smile he could. “That’s what tonight’s about, right?”
It took her a moment, but a smile found her as well. It was forced, but still there. “Yes,” she answered with purpose. “Yes, it is.” Stepping aside, she motioned for the door. “Ready to do this?”
“Lead the way, ma’am.”
Despite the informal intention of their night, Scott and Natalie’s trek to the garage was filled with conversation similar to theirs during Scott’s arrival. Natalie highlighted points of interest in the Anthill and asked Scott’s opinion whenever they passed something noteworthy. The beauty of the Anthill was a constant topic, and it was obvious to Scott that she was proud of the base to which she’d been assigned. Her smile never ceased, even as she pointed out the most mundane of details. This was all new to her, and it showed.
It wasn’t until they’d arrived in the garage that it dawned on Scott just how good it was to hear an American woman’s voice. The last one he’d ever heard was Nicole’s. Everyone else had been Russian, British, or some other nationality. He enjoyed hearing Natalie talk.
Natalie climbed into the driver’s seat of a closed-top jeep, the obvious choice for a woman who didn’t want her hair whipping in the wind. “So the name of this place is Sabola,” she said as they pulled out. “Don’t ask me what it means. Everyone talks about it, though. I have to confess, the food here’s a lot better than I thought it’d be.” She smiled at him. “I’m a steak and potatoes girl. Foreign cuisine’s always scared me.”
Scott could relate. “I would kill for a steak. I’m from the Midwest, so I’m used to quality beef coming in from every direction. The food in Russia? Ugh. Awful.”
She eyed him curiously. “Where at in the Midwest?”
“Lincoln.”
“Lincoln, Nebraska?”
“Yeah, Nebraska, why?”
Her expression fell stunned. “Get out! I’m from Broken Bow!”
That wasn’t far from Lincoln! “You’re from Broken Bow? Are you serious?” How did he miss this detail when reading her profile? Because he’d only looked at her history post-Academy. He’d never bothered to see where she was actually from.
“Custer County, born and raised,” she said, laughing warmly. “How about that, eh? Talk about a small world.”
The ride to the restaurant took twenty minutes, but it might as well have been two for the way time flew by. He and Natalie talked about everything from familiar state highways to local news anchors. It was surreal to talk to someone who knew the same things he’d grown up around himself. It was completely exciting.
Nicole flashed through his mind constantly, though not for who she’d been. It was just in the way that Natalie reminded him of her. Her personality was Nicole-like. Her mannerisms were Nicole-like. Both their names even started with N. Prior to the evening starting, Scott’s hope was simply to survive it, and if possible, gain some ground for their mission. But now it was different. Now he was just having fun.
Why is Natalie here?
It was a question posed on an existential level. A question posed to God. Why, of all the people in the literal world, had a woman from Custer County appeared in Egypt, on his mission, as his direct superior? Why was she so much like Nicole? Was there a reason? Did coincidence exist at all? They were deep, fleeting questions, emerging then subsiding amid conversations about high schools and local rock bands. He could relate to her upbringing on almost every level. It was astounding.
He had a mission. He couldn’t forget that. But for a moment—the briefest of moments—he wanted to. Just the same, he was where he was for a reason, and it had nothing to do with coincidence, or unit-building, or Nebraska. He was there to find the truth. To save Svetlana’s life. He refused to forget that now. Eyes forward, he focused on his and Natalie’s night ahead—and the city that was there to greet them.
It surprised Scott how westernized Cairo seemed. The fantastic image he had in his head of sandy streets, stone buildings, and dusty merchants couldn’t have been further from reality. Cairo could have passed for any city in the United States. He wasn’t sure if that relieved or disappointed him. Within minutes of entering downtown Cairo, they located Sabola.
The restaurant had an eclectic appearance, much like something one would have expected to find in Chicago or New Orleans. It also didn’t look particularly cheap—an observation that, by the look of it, caught Natalie off guard as much as it did him. It wasn’t until they stepped inside, however, that the true scope of the restaurant came to light.
The place was fancy. Chandeliers hung across an arched, gold-colored ceiling. Each table was ordained with decorative linens. The walls were adorned with art. Though Natalie’s wardrobe could pass for the occasion, Scott was completely underdressed. “Okay,” Natalie said discreetly, “not what I was expecting.”
A tuxedo-clad greeter approached them. “Good evening.”
Her focus was averted from the atmosphere to the man. “Uhh… Caracals, party of two?” As soon as the greeter turned away to lead them, Natalie gave Scott a look that said yikes. Scott knew why, and he found it humorous. This was about a dozen levels above whatever she’d prepared for. They might end up washing dishes.
They were led to a section on the far side of the restaurant. The whole place was packed; the table they were heading toward was one of the only empty ones in the building. And as for the table itself? Red rose petals were strewn atop its linens. At its center was a single red candle. As Scott and Natalie bit their lips, the greeter promptly lit it.
“The waiter will be with you soon,” said the greeter, smiling warmly. “Enjoy your evening.” Polite nods were exchanged; the man left.
For several seconds after they’d taken their seats, Scott stared at the candle between them. A million witty remarks floated around in his mind. He settled on simplicity. “It’s nice,” he said, smirking.
Covering her forehead, her face turned bright red. “I am so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, this is…” her statement lost its way as an embarrassed laugh escaped. “This is not the vibe I was going for.”
The waiter approached. “Welcome to Sabola! What is the occasion? Anniversary?”
“Business,” Natalie said immediately, eyeing the waiter. “We’re meeting for business. I’m his boss.”
“Oh!” the waiter said, turning his attention to the candle. Awkward silence struck. After several full seconds of blatant uncertainty, the waiter leaned forward and blew the candle out.
Scott lost it—he couldn’t help it. Forcing back a cackle, he claimed a menu. Their drink orders were taken, then the waiter left.
“Okay,” she said, eyeing him as she finally allowed a grin to reemerge. “Just say it.”
“Watching him blow out that candle was one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen in my life.”
She propped her chin against her palm. The sparkle in her eyes was there again. Her smile stretched ear to ear. “The day anyone else hears of this, you will clean the latrines. Understand?”
“I bet you say that to all your XOs.”
Her mouth fell, the retort seemingly not what she’d expected. She seemed to like it. She nodded her head, amused. “Okay, commander. Now shut up and pick your order.”
Within a minute, their waiter had returned. Scott ordered something called ful medames, based purely off its prominence in the menu placement. Natalie, on the other hand, chose rice-stuffed pigeon. Neither exuded confidence in their decisions. As soon as the waiter was gone, their conversation resumed.
“So let’s forget for a moment that we’re where we are,” she said, her expression shifting seriously. “I want to hear a little bit about your career. I know you from your brief stint at Richmond, and I know about the Battle of Chicago. But there’s not a whole lot on you since you went to Novosibirsk.”
That hardly surprised him. Nor did the sudden shift in tone. “Novosibirsk is an interesting place. I think it’s easy to fall off the radar there.”
“Who are these ‘Nightmen’ everyone keeps talking about?”
Even though he’d been prepared for that question, it still felt like a gut-check. She was sitting face-to-face with a Nightman and she didn’t even know it. Look her in the eyes. Sell it. “The Nightmen belong to General Thoor—they’re part of a Russian military sect that had supposedly disbanded years ago. Their popping up again is relatively new to the rest of the world, but they’ve been the status quo at The Machine for a while.”
She raised an eyebrow. “The Machine?”
“Sorry—Novosibirsk. ‘The Machine’ is just what everybody calls it. I guess kind of like the Anthill.” Opting for just the right amount of honesty, he continued. “Part of becoming a Nightman is committing murder. I don’t know how the process works, but apparently, if you want to become a Nightman, they assign you somebody to kill. It rarely seems to be a person stationed at the base.” That was actually true. Most kills came from surrounding cities and villages, not Novosibirsk itself. People like Nicole, Steklov, and Joe Janson were exceptions.
His words seemed to startle her. “Does EDEN know about this?”
“I don’t know. We don’t get a lot of direct contact from EDEN, even though we’re technically an EDEN base. In fact, a lot of EDEN units have been pulling out—the Nightman ratio is heavily slanted.” Upon a sudden realization, he dismissively laughed. “I’m sorry, I keep using the word we when I talk about that place. Old habits die hard.” It was a natural mistake. Not the kind that would blow his cover.
She leaned back, folding her arms. “So have you worked with any Nightmen?”
“Of course. Most of my commanding officers have been Nightmen, and there’ve been others in the unit. It’d be impossible to be there and not work with them.”
“There must be a lot of tension between them and us—EDEN, I mean.”
He nodded. “I’d be lying if I said it was a comfortable place to work. It’s an EDEN base, but EDEN doesn’t control it. It’s complicated.”
“Complicated,” she said, echoing him. “Something tells me you know all about complicated. A one-eyed sniper. A lieutenant with half a face, a scout. What kind of unit did you run with?”
How could he possibly explain a unit like the Fourteenth? It was unlike any other unit he knew. Leaning back himself, he released a slow sigh. “The Fourteenth is versatile. I think that’s what makes it special. You’ve got your distance and recon specialists, like Timmons and Brooking. We had demolitionists, heavy hitters. Breaching specialists, elite Nightman warriors. We were a unit that could do anything.”
“I’m fascinated by the prospect of having a scout,” she said. “What can she do?”
Perfect. Natalie had taken the conversation to Esther on her own. He could slip in his request for Esther’s open schedule seamlessly. “When we got Brooking, everything opened up. It took us a while to learn how to use her, but I’ve got to tell you, she revolutionized how we operated. Recon, infiltration, support for operatives like Timmons, even solo rescue efforts. She’s done it all.” Time to segue to her schedule. “Standardized training with the rest of the unit wasn’t working for her. When we finally turned her loose, let her set her own schedule, that’s when she exploded on the battlefield. If I could make a suggestion, ma’am, I would allow her to train on her own here.”
Scott knew by her tone that Natalie was reluctant. “On her own?” She sounded more than a little skeptical.
Raising his hand in defense, Scott answered, “It’s completely your decision—and feel free to deny it or even test the waters if you want—but we found in the Fourteenth that it benefited her to have a customized training program.”
“Customized by you, or by her?”
“By her. She’s dedicated and a workaholic. The honest truth is that we didn’t train broadly enough to help her. You have to see a scout train to understand how much their work encompasses.”
She was taking in the request, gauging his words. Finally, she nodded. “If you think she’s better training solo, I trust you. I don’t want her isolating herself from her teammates, though.”
Whew. “That’s not something you’ll have to worry about.”
“So that’s one of four. Tell me about your other guys.”
Deciding to get the hard sells over with first, Scott went straight on to Jayden. He explained the incident that cost the sniper his eye, and the subsequent recovery he’d made. He assured her in every way possible that Jayden wasn’t a liability. Natalie seemed to accept it. Auric and Boris were much easier to explain, with the obvious exclusion of Auric’s Nightman status. By the time Scott was done, their food had arrived. More importantly, Natalie seemed satisfied.
“So now it’s your turn,” she said, setting up her utensils. “Ask me something.”
Scott’s eyebrow lifted. “Ask you something?”
“Yes. There must be something you want to know.”
Actually, there was. “Lieutenant Marshall. What’s his story?”
She smirked a bit. “Logan—that’s how I’ve always known him. We came into Atlanta at the same time. You won’t find a better soldier. I’m sure you’d say the same about your guys. He’s a good guy, just…” her words trailed off for a moment. “He’s coarse. I don’t mean in how he speaks, I mean in how he…is.”
Scott listened intently.
“He is, bar none, the most gifted soldier I’ve ever had the privilege of serving with. The only reason I outrank him is because he’s not a leader. It took a lot of convincing to make him accept the promotion to lieutenant. I’m working on him.” She hesitated for a moment. “Logan doesn’t always think. He acts. Obviously, he’s never done anything stupid, but occasionally, maybe a little reckless. He’s extremely aggressive on the battlefield.”
Scott felt like he was hearing a description of himself. That didn’t make him feel good.
“He doesn’t talk much, but when he says something, he means it. You’re also really going to have to earn his trust. He’s not a naturally trusting person.” She laughed softly. “You must think he sounds terrible, but he’s not. He’s the best comrade you could ever ask for. I just wouldn’t want him for an enemy.”
Terrific.
“I believe in full disclosure, so I want to confess something to you,” she said forwardly. “Logan and I used to date. It was very brief, back when we were alphas, and I mean it when I say when it ended, it ended. Just the same, he’s very protective.” She smirked. “He did not like the idea of us going out tonight.” She hesitated before continuing. “There was actually another guy in Atlanta that I dated very briefly—I’m not exactly painting a great picture of myself, I know—but this guy was sort of my rebound after Logan. His name was Custer. Yeah, I know, a girl from Custer County dating a guy named Custer. What can I say, right? Anyway. He was Reginald Custer III, if you want to get technical about it…and yes, he’d insist that you do.”
Custer? Why did that ring a bell? When it dawned on him, he almost displayed a physical reaction. Custer was one of Captain Rex Gabriel’s men in Pelican Squad. In fact, Scott could distinctly remember someone referring to him as Reg. No…it couldn’t be the same person. Could it?
Natalie went on. “Logan wasn’t exactly thrilled with the new development, and considering Custer was a womanizing jerk, it was only a matter of time until I ended up hurt.” She shook her head. “Logan beat him to a pulp—put him in the infirmary for a full week. I’ve never seen someone go off on someone else like that. Logan thinks with his fists.”
Scott couldn’t help it. “I have to ask you: did Custer get shipped to that new base in Sydney?”
She blinked. “Yes!” Her eyes widened. “How did you know that?”
Unbelievable. “I already know you’re not going to believe this. We had a mission back at Novosibirsk, it was actually a rescue. Custer was in the unit we rescued, Pelican Squad.”
“Get out!”
Laughing, Scott shook his head. “I’m dead serious. The minute you said his name, I knew I knew him.”
Natalie leaned back in shock. “I cannot believe you know Reginald Custer.”
“I don’t know him beyond his name, but I definitely remember him.”
“He’s hard to forget. God, he was such a pompous punk.” She laughed. “People use to call him Custard instead of Custer to get him riled up. ‘Custard can’t cut the mustard.’ He’d hear that every time he screwed up.” Looking Scott in the eyes, she leered. “Speaking of mustard…” She pulled the jar of mustard from her purse. “Let’s see if this measures up to blanc de noir.”
Scott leaned back, almost as if trying to avoid some sort of blast. “It’d probably be best if you don’t do that.”
“Au contraire,” she said, “I love mustard.” Opening the jar, she set it down and jabbed a piece of meat with her fork. “Though I must confess, that this is used, re-gifted mustard concerns me.” She dunked the meat in the jar; it was drenched.
Eyes widening, Scott said, “That’s a lot.”
“No guts, no glory. This had better be good.” Opening her mouth, she swallowed it whole.
Oh boy…
Her initial reaction was surprise. Her jaw moved purposefully, seeming to scrutinize the flavor with every chew. Her brow furrowed. She suddenly stopped chewing.
Here it comes.
He remembered the first time he’d taken a taste. The mustard had struck his tongue like habanero lightning. Combined with the vinegar-sharp flavor of the sauce, it was a match made in hell. Leaning back a little more, he waited for the explosion. And sure enough, it came.
“This stuff is great!”
Error—does not compute. “Uhh, what?”
She enthusiastically stabbed another piece of meat. “How can you not like this?”
Staring dumbfounded, Scott blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Are you challenged?”
“No, I’m not challenged,” she said, dunking a second piece. “You seriously don’t like this?”
“You seriously can stomach it?”
Biting into the second chunk, she closed her eyes blissfully. “Mmmm…” She looked lost in a dream. Swallowing, she stared at him again. “I’m being serious: you really don’t like this?”
“Captain, I wholeheartedly hate it. It burned a hole in my mouth.”
Waving at her mouth briskly, she grabbed her water. “It’s hot, now, make no mistake.” She drank several gulps. “But this is probably the best mustard I’ve ever had.” She downed a third piece, moaning contentedly. “Back home, I never used yellow mustard. Even at the ballpark, it was spicy mustard every time. I’ve gotten used to the burn.” Inspecting the jar, she asked, “Can you get more of this?”
He thought out the request. He probably could. He could write Svetlana and ask her to send him more, leaving out the small detail that it wasn’t for him. “No promises, but I’ll see.” If nothing else, it was another way to keep Natalie buttered up.
“Consider this your first order, commander.”
Laughing, he saluted. “Yes ma’am.”
Warmth. From the moment they’d first climbed into the jeep, he’d felt it with her. She was from his home state. She shared his idealism. She knew people he knew. They could pick back and forth, on the most trivial of things, and it felt so natural. The way she smiled at him, the way her grin stretched so genuinely, so gratefully. There was a wonderful thrill that accompanied it. It felt so freeing. It felt so…magnetic.
No! He slammed on his mental brakes. Don’t even turn down that neighborhood! His heart slammed into reverse, its emotional wheels digging out like a desperate mud buggy. The inertia was almost tangible. He course-corrected the conversation at once. “How would you like me to approach my role as XO, captain?” His natural charisma compensated for the suddenness of the shift.
Natalie’s lips parted slightly. Thinking on it for several seconds, she answered sincerely. “With openness and honesty.”
Scott’s gut wrenched as she continued.
“I’ve seen a lot of rigidity in a lot of units. I’ve seen CO’s and XO’s with zero relationship outside of the workplace. I don’t want that to be us.” She maintained purposeful eye contact. “Behind closed doors, I want us to be friends. If you disagree with me, I want you to tell me. If you think I’m wrong about something, I want to hear that, too. On that same note, if you just want to hang out and pass time, I want to be there for that, too.” She continued apprehensively. “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression, that I’m lenient or lackadaisical. I’m the farthest thing from. But we’re in this together. No one else, not even Logan or Broll, is going to dictate the direction of this unit like you and I will. I really hope you’re looking forward to that as much as I am.”
She had put herself on the table—opened herself up for him to accept or reject. He needed to put her at ease, let her know that they were on the same page. That deception was easy; he’d have loved to serve with this woman.
“Natalie,” he said, “we’re going to do amazing things.”
Her smile widened; she looked thrilled. “I am so excited about this—I can’t even express it. I was fortunate to move up the rank ladder fairly quickly in Atlanta; I had a CO who believed in me. I spent a lot of time at epsilon, just learning.” Her posture relaxed. “I was a commander for about six months before this opportunity opened up. Cairo wasn’t my first choice, but who gets their first choice, right? But now that I’m here, now that I’ve had a chance to learn the lay of the land…now that I’ve got a chance to meet my XO,” she said, smiling a tad longingly, “we’re going to make such a difference here, Scott.”
The thought struck him suddenly—out of nowhere. Tell her. What if he did just that? What if he told her everything? Who he was, where he was from, why he and his team were in Cairo. What if he laid everything on the table, as she had with him?
What if the veil of secrecy fell?
The rest of their dinner conversation remained light. But beneath the surface of Scott’s exterior, levity was nowhere to be found. Amid conversations about everything from EDEN protocol to bobbing for apples at the Nebraska State Fair, he thought of telling Natalie the truth. He imagined himself telling her about H`laar and about the mission assigned to him by General Thoor. What he couldn’t imagine was how she’d react. It was risk versus reward to the highest degree. The reward was an ally who understood. The risk was everything else.
And so the night passed. They finished their meals. She hijacked the check. They left for the jeep. Scott’s inexplicable inclination to show his hand never came to fruition, his inner turmoil disguised behind a mask of jovial banter. His captain was now his friend—just like he’d envisioned when he’d first opened his door to greet her. He’d earned her trust.
Ulterior motive accomplished.
During the final ten minutes of their drive back to Cairo, conversation transitioned from constant, to sparse, to nonexistent. It was a gradual change, and not an uncomfortable one. Perhaps Natalie was lost in her own thoughts. Scott was certainly lost in his.
He hated this mission. He hated everything about it. But more than anything, he hated lying to a woman who didn’t deserve it—looking her in the eyes and saying one thing while believing something else. Taking part in the destruction of an honest person’s career. That went against everything he believed. But he didn’t have a choice.
Perhaps that was the allure of telling her the truth: the prospect of not needing to maintain a lie. What if she was sympathetic? What if she understood? He wouldn’t have to work against her, he could enlist her. She could help him get what he needed, and in return, he could help her get the Caracals off to the kind of start she envisioned for them. Everything could work.
But what if she didn’t understand? And that was the danger. It would take her all of five seconds to comm Cairo and turn him in, at which point he’d be apprehended, Svetlana would be killed, and whatever secrets Benjamin Archer was hiding would stay hidden, for better or worse. All of five seconds. He’d have to kill her in four.
How could he possibly risk that?
Rolling back into the garage, Natalie pulled into a parking space and turned off the jeep. But when her fingers never slid from the ignition—when they remained apprehensively in place beside the wheel—Scott knew something heavy was about to come up. Seconds passed, until he finally looked at her. She was staring straight ahead over the steering wheel, posture tensed as silence came between them. She was about to say something. The air suddenly went thick.
“Scott, can I ask you something?” For the first time that night, there was a tremble to her voice.
Scott knew what he was about to be asked. The only thing he didn’t know was how he’d respond.
Angling her head toward him, her query escaped. “How did your fiancée die?” It was delicate in delivery, as he knew it would be. It was almost asked in apology. Scott knew he could choose not to answer and she’d be okay with it.
He’d seen her reaction the first time she’d learned of Nicole’s death in his room. It had taken her aback, affected her. It must have been in the back of her mind all night long.
The truth was treacherous. It would leave a part of him exposed, which could come back to haunt him later. It would be more advantageous if he just made something up. But Nicole deserved better. “She was murdered.”
A pained breath escaped Natalie’s lips; her eyebrows pulled together.
How could she ever understand? Natalie hadn’t come from Novosibirsk—she’d come from a good place. She didn’t know darkness like The Machine. Darkness like him. “There’s a lot about me that’s hard to understand. In a lot of ways, Novosibirsk made me who I am.” Confession without confession. The only way he could say it. “At some point, you’re going to see that. When that happens, I hope you can forgive me.”
She placed her hand gently atop his leg. There was nothing ulterior about the gesture. It just seemed out of sympathy.
“There’s a very dark side to me, Natalie. Losing Nicole changed my life. She was my everything. Everyone has his demons. I’m not arrogant enough to think mine are the worst, but they’re good at what they do.” Looking her in the eyes for the first time, he spoke purposefully. “If you forget everything about tonight, everything we talked about, everything we joked about, I want you to remember this one thing. At some point, you’re going to see the worst side of me. When that happens, captain, know that I’m so sorry.”
She’d begun to tear up halfway through his words. Snuffling in hard, she wiped her eyes, then reached for his hand. She said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her touch conveyed everything she couldn’t find the words to say.
It killed him to know the sincerity of the sympathy she was lending him. She thought he was apologizing for how he’d behave on the battlefield, or how Nicole’s loss would show in his actions. She didn’t know it would be for betraying her.
Moaning embarrassingly, she wiped her eyes again and looked away. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to get emotional. That’s just…” She shook her head. “I’m just so sorry for your loss.” The words came out awkwardly. It was the only way she seemed able to end the conversation.
The jeep was the last Scott saw of Natalie that night. After a span of silence, she apologized and explained that she needed a few minutes to herself. Scott knew what she meant: she didn’t want him to see her let it all out. He respected that, thanked her for dinner, then bid her good night.
For Scott, the day had come to a close. What had started as a call to General Thoor’s Throne Room had taken him to Cairo, to the Caracals, and into the role of wolf in sheep’s clothing. It was a day that felt like forever. He was glad for it to end.
Scott shaved before he went to bed. His desire to look rough-around-the-edges was gone.
 *
THUMP.
Esther sat on her bottom bunk with her knees propped up. Head leaning against the headrest, the scout stared at the open pages of a novel. It was Gothic romance—her favorite genre. She’d had the book open for over an hour; she had yet to turn a page. Eyes solemn and distant, she stared through the book as if it wasn’t even there.
Thump.
Esther had woken from her inebriated slumber to the same darkness she’d fallen asleep to. At the time, Boris had been absent from the room, though now he sat atop his own bunk, tossing a tennis ball methodically against the wall, catching it, then repeating. More relevant to Esther, however, was Jayden’s whereabouts. She hadn’t seen the Texan since going to bed. It was 2300 hours, and he still hadn’t returned. And that was all she could think about.
Thump.
For the first time since the first day she’d set foot in Novosibirsk, a man not named Scott Remington was at the forefront of Esther’s mind. A man whom she’d kissed. On several occasions since the incident, her fingers had hovered over the queue button of her comm, tuned to Jayden’s private frequency. But she couldn’t press the button in. She was afraid.
Thump.
She had taken a shower immediately upon waking, during the course of which the all-too-real details of the afternoon slowly returned to her—Route 66, the conversations she and Jayden had had, and most significantly, her moment of alcohol-inspired intimacy. In the wake of her mild hangover, it felt like some kind of dream. Yet it was there, caressing her subconscious as if the Texan was right there beside her.
Thump.
Right there beside her.
Thump.
Slamming down her book, Esther said, “For the love of God, Boris, if you throw that ball one more time, I’m going to cram it up your junk.”
The technician stopped.
Esther leaned back again. Worry lines etched around her eyes, she reached over to pick up her comm. She stared at the display, still tuned to Jayden’s line.
The door opened; Esther bolted up in her bed. As Jayden quietly stepped inside, her fixed her eyes on him.
Grinning, Boris said, “Hello, Jay! Where have you been?”
“Hey man,” the Texan mumbled. His downcast gaze remained hidden by his cowboy hat. “I was just walkin’.”
The technician looked at the clock. “That was a long walk.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
Hiding her comm behind her pillow, eyes on Jayden the whole while, Esther situated herself upright. Lips parting, she stared as Jayden untied his boots.
Thump.
“Boris!” she screamed.
He put the ball away.
By the time Esther looked back from the distraction, Jayden was already making a beeline for the bathroom, setting his cowboy hat atop his dresser as he passed it. Brow arching painfully, she swallowed as he eased the door shut just enough to leave a small crack. Behind the door, the faucet came on.
Slowly, Esther’s eyes sunk to her lap. Moving her hands there, she played delicately with her fingers as she listened to the distant splashing of water by the sink. For several seconds, the scout did nothing else. Then, she made her move. Pivoting off her bed, she plopped her feet on the floor and stood. “I’m going to brush my teeth,” she said absently to Boris. No time was reserved for the technician to reply. Slipping through the bathroom door, Esther left Boris staring quizzically from his bunk. As soon as she was inside, she pressed her back against the door until it clicked quietly behind her.
Jayden was bent over the sink, arms spread and straight out as if holding himself up. His face was downcast, eye patch removed and sitting on the sink next to him as water droplets fell from his face, forehead, and hands.
A chill struck Esther as Jayden lifted his head, the solid skin of his vacant left socket revealed to her in the reflection of the vanity mirror. He said nothing. No surprise that she’d followed him was indicated. Her back to the door, her hands folded apprehensively behind her back, Esther only breathed as he looked at her in the glass.
Sliding his hand across the counter, Jayden turned off the faucet and grabbed towel. The Texan dried his face before reaching for his eye patch.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said quickly, yet quietly. Jayden paused with eye patch in hand, his good eye shifting purposefully from it to her. “If you don’t want to.” Licking dry lips, she watched for his reaction. Only when there was none did she speak again. “Are you mad at me?”
Tilting his head as if to hone in on her voice, he gave no immediate response. Only after several seconds did he exhale, his shoulders easing down slightly. “Naw.”
She brushed her fingers past her ear. When she spoke, her voice was trembling. “Then please tell me what you’re thinking.”
He shook his head back and forth sweepingly. Hands still spread on the marble rim of the vanity, he stared into the basin. “I know you were drinkin’,” he said quietly. “I know you didn’t mean it.”
Esther pressed her palm to her forehead; she inhaled through her nose.
“You don’t gotta say nothin’.”
“Jay,” she said through a breath of exhaustion. Opening her eyes, she gazed at his reflection. “I have to ask you a question. And I know this is sudden, and I know this is crazy, but I’ve really been thinking about this, and sometimes, I think, life just does crazy things, and the best thing you can do sometimes is just go for it.” His expression changing, Jayden stood upright. Swallowing timidly through pleading eyes, Esther asked, “Would you like to date me?” Jayden turned around; his good eye widened. As Esther held her breath, he strode straight for her.
He only had to go halfway.
No insobriety was involved when Jayden and Esther met in the middle of the bathroom. No sense of inappropriateness came when he took her in his arms. In that moment, as their eyes closed and their lips pressed together, they found themselves in the embrace of someone they knew just enough to know they hardly knew at all. But they found something else, too. Jayden found a woman who didn’t care that he had a broken body and a missing eye. And Esther found a man who, in a single moment, had put a grin on her face bigger than any Scott Remington ever had.
Back in the bedroom, leaning against the shared bathroom wall with his head rested back, Boris slowly smiled. Pushing up from where he’d been listening and with an expression that indicated only a small level of surprise, the curly-haired technician quietly left the room.
 *
IT WAS MIDNIGHT. Natalie Rockwell sat alone outside the garage, rear end sitting on the hood of a parked jeep as her feet rested atop its bumper. She’d been there since her evening with Scott ended. Hands rubbing thoughtfully together, the chestnut-haired captain stared at the sand beneath her. The sounds of nocturnal nature echoed around her.
“What the hell are you doing, Nattie?”
Looking up, Natalie’s emerald eyes found Logan as he approached. The gritty Australian looked exasperated.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Why the hell are you sitting out here?”
Facing away until her hair blocked his view of her, she stared off in the distance. “I’m just sitting, Logan.”
Stopping by the jeep, Logan’s hands went to his hips. “At twelve o’clock at night, by yourself, outside in the cold.” When she didn’t respond, he went on. “How did the date go?”
Natalie looked down and sighed. “It wasn’t a date, and it went. What do you want to hear?”
Cocking his head peculiarly, Logan asked, “He do something to upset you?”
“No.”
The sounds of night enveloped them again. After several seconds of it endured, Logan exhaled in disgust. “You’re smitten with him.”
“Lo, go inside.”
“For God’s sake, Nat. This is the first day you’ve met him.”
Running her hand through her hair, she shot him a glare. “I’m out here because I want to be alone. You’re defeating that purpose. Go back inside.”
“He’s affected you, hasn’t he?”
“Argh!” She hopped down from the jeep. “I can think of a thousand other people I’d rather talk about this to. Will you leave me alone?”
Chiseled features revealing disapproval, Logan followed as she tried to retreat. “Turn around and talk to me.”
She spun to face him. “I’m twenty-seven years old, Logan. What do I have to show for it? A career?”
“For God’s sake, Nat, he’s your subordinate.”
“I don’t need a lecture. There’s nothing going on. We went out, we had a good chat about the unit, now I’m back.”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding accusingly, “and you’re sitting in the desert. That’s real normal.”
Her glare was unrelenting. “Can I tell you something without you going off the deep end? Tonight was surreal. The guy’s from my home state. He knows Reginald Custer.”
Surprise struck the Australian. “You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. I couldn’t script something this perfect. Tonight was amazing. And you know what? Yeah, I’m wondering. I’m human.”
“Veck, Nattie.”
“It’s like this guy walked out of my dreams,” she said, pointing for emphasis. “He is so everything I always pictured myself with, it’s actually a little eerie. And yeah, it’s day one, and yeah, he’s my subordinate, but damn it, Logan. It’s like I created this guy with my mind.”
Logan shook his head. “I can guarantee you this guy’s not perfect.”
“Oh, I know,” she said. “He told me as much. Which makes him more perfect. You can’t appreciate this because you’re a man, but it’s like this guy jumped out of a romance novel. He’s heroic, he’s charming, he’s disarming, he’s mysterious. Oh, and he happens to be one of the sexiest looking men I’ve ever seen.” She turned to walk away, only to stop and turn back. “You know what’s sitting on his nightstand? A photo of his fiancée. By the way, she died last year, but he’s still in love with her.” She threw her hands up. “Who’s like that in this era, Logan? That is so utterly attractive and incredible, I don’t even know how to comprehend it.” She turned in disgust. “This kind of situation would so happen to me. I’m in the ideal position to not be able to take advantage of it.”
Following her, he said, “See, this is your problem. You don’t even know this bloke, and you’re already falling for him.”
“I’m not falling for him.”
“I’m sorry, that’s right. You already fell.”
Jaw setting, she turned away.
“First it was me,” Logan said. “Then it was Reg. You fall too fast. There are a million things good about you, but the one thing you suck at is men.” His tone settled. “Take a step back. Give yourself time to know this guy. Don’t do what you always do, which is dive in head first without checking for shallow rocks.”
Natalie opened her mouth to protest. He cut her off by continuing.
“That he seems so perfect should be the biggest red flag. If he’s coming across that way, it’s because he’s hiding something. That’s how we are.”
She pointed. “That’s how you are. That’s how Custer is. But he’s not like you or Custer.”
“Oh really? And you know that after one bloody day?”
“I sense it,” she said insistently. “I sense goodness and integrity.”
“It’s easy to sense what you’re desperate to.”
Her lip curled. Raising her fist and opening it as if she were about to say something scathing, she bit back her tongue and snarled. Turning, she walked away again.
For the first time, Logan didn’t pursue. “You’re a special leader. You’re uniquely talented. By the book, you seem perfect yourself.” He shook his head. “But this is your weakness. You only have one.”
Slowing to a stop, she looked down at the ground. Her back remained facing him.
“I know you’re frustrated, Nat. I know that clock in your head’s ticking. But you’re not fifty years old.” He frowned hesitatingly. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
She angled her head back to him. “I’ve already been hurt,” she said solemnly. Logan looked away. “I’m in this war because I believe in it, and I’ve given it everything. I’m going to keep giving it everything until we win, or I die. But I refuse to give away what makes me human. If that gets me hurt, so be it.”
Body language sinking, Logan sighed. Natalie resumed her forward march, walking away. He gave no pursuit.
Natalie eventually returned to her room, on her own terms, at a quarter past one. By that point, everyone else in the Caracals, transfers from Novosibirsk included, had fallen asleep. Their captain soon joined them.
It was the end of a day for Natalie that, even if indirectly, began five thousand kilometers away, in a spiritual wasteland known as The Machine. It was a day that lasted forever while still managing to pass in a blink. As Wednesday night surrendered to Thursday morning, the EDEN base of Cairo succumbed to the glow of the Egyptian moon. To all-too-trusting tranquility.
But not all things can be trusted.
Unbeknownst to occupants of Cairo, the true enemy was not confined in Xenobiology—it was walking freely in their mural-laden halls. Working its way inside them. Biding its time. Hidden deep behind the veils of the five deceivers, plans were already being set into motion. Plans not to bring good, but to harm. Plans known only to them.
Nestled beneath the covers of her captain’s suite, Natalie Rockwell breathed in silent slumber. She dreamed of Nebraska.
21
THURSDAY, MARCH 15TH, 0012 NE
0205 HOURS
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA
TWO DAYS LATER
THE NIGHT WAS still. Besides the gentle rustling of tree branches against Lilan’s bedroom window, barely a sound had been heard all through the nighttime. Though occasional mournful creaks emanated from the walls of the old house, they were far from enough to disturb the dark serenity by themselves.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!
The old man squinted longingly beneath the covers of his bed—the cry of the comm on his nightstand slicing calculatedly through his slumber. Even as his body writhed from the interruption, his cognition was slow to resurface. Slower than usual.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!
That scent. It was so familiar. The air hung with it—the comfort of old walls and wood floors, the reassuring fragrance of the only mattress he’d known for the past twenty years.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!
Eyes cracking open, Lilan stared groggily through the fog of reemergence. He looked at the comm, the flashing red light on its side assisting its constant wail.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!
Sitting upright, the mattress bending in the same overused way it always did, the old man stared at the comm through weathered eyes. This was as tired as he’d ever been.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep—
Grabbing the comm, he silenced its repetitive signal. He queued himself up. “Lilan.” His voice was deep and slow to assert.
“About damn time!” The voice was Hutchin’s. “Are you cognizant?”
Squinting hard, Lilan thought on the question. Was he cognizant? He wasn’t sure. That meant the answer was probably no. “Yeah.”
Hutchin paused deliberately. “I don’t buy it. Shake your senses and call me back—quickly. This is big.” Before an affirmation could be returned, the comm channel closed.
Lilan stared at the device in his hand, then surveyed his room. His eyes, fully adjusted to the darkness, settled on his oak dresser. How many times had he climbed out of bed and opened those drawers to dress for the day? He’d built that dresser fifty-some-odd years ago, with his father. It was made strong—made to last. Things weren’t made like that anymore. People weren’t made like that.
Pressing his hand against his forehead, Lilan gritted his teeth. Rolling out of bed and onto his feet, he shook his head and lifted his comm again. He called up General Hutchin.
“You awake now?” Hutchin asked.
“Yeah,” Lilan answered quickly. “What’s the op?”
Hutchin sounded eager. “Looks like you’re about to get your wish. Got a mission for you, and Strom’s been given the go-ahead to join. Get dressed and head to base. It’s time for your operatives to meet their new teammate.”
 *
CATALINA SLAPPED A magazine into her assault rifle and sighted down the barrel. Behind her, Mark Peters and the rest of Charlie Squad threw on their gear. The hangar was bustling as the whole of Falcon Platoon readied their equipment. Two Vultures—one for Charlie and one for Delta—whined in preparation for launch.
“Lock and load, Falcons!” hollered Tacker as he walked through the hangar. The major was already fully geared, his sniper rifle slung over his shoulder as he marched toward Vulture-7.
Catalina welcomed a mission. The past few days had been borderline unbearable. There’d been no resolution from their failed training session on Monday. Tom King and his crew had segregated themselves from the rest of the team. Catalina and Mark, despite having made up, had barely held a conversation in days. Everything was a mess. A mission would be good for everyone. It might give the group a chance to focus on something other than irritation at one another.
“Attention all passengers, this is your captain speaking,” said Tiffany through Charlie’s comm channel, despite the fact that they were still on the ground. “If you look approximately one hundred and thirty kilometers to your southeast, you’ll see the beautiful Great Dismal Swamp. Current weather conditions indicate heavy rainfall with only a slight chance of tornadic activity. Put on your raincoats, my fellow Charlies.”
“Says the girl who gets to stay in the cockpit,” said Mark, sliding on his helmet. He and Catalina made their way for the transport.
As soon as Lilan entered the hangar, Tacker made for him, taking off his helmet to talk as soon as they were close to one another. “Colonel,” Tacker said, “did I hear right from Command? Faerber’s coming on this one?”
Armed and armored, Lilan was ready for war. “You heard right, major.”
“How’d you pull that off with Hutchin?”
“I didn’t,” Lilan answered. “They gave him the go-ahead on their own. We’ll talk about it later. I want you riding with Delta for this one. I want to see Faerber firsthand in Charlie.”
The major nodded. “Yes, sir.” Tacker turned to leave, then stopped to look back. “Hey colonel?”
“Yes?”
Beneath his sky-blue visor, Tacker smiled. “We’re back together.”
It took a moment for Lilan to catch on, though when he did, a genuine grin emerged. Tacker was talking about Alicia. “Don’t let that girl go, major. That’s an order.”
“Consider that done, sir.”
Exchanging salutes, they marched toward their Vultures.
Claiming her usual seat behind the cockpit, Catalina strapped in and readied herself. Leslie Kelly smiled across from her.
“Muddy and wet. Sound familiar?” the female technician asked.
Catalina grabbed hold of a passenger handle. “If the similarities to Monday end there, I’ll be a happy girl.”
Lilan climbed aboard their transport and grabbed a comm. “Good morning, Falcons. I hope everyone’s awake.”
Looking semi-oddly at Lilan, Catalina peered behind the colonel to see if Major Tacker was anywhere to be seen. The moment she did so, she saw him. Not Tacker. Someone else—someone she’d never seen before. His shoulders were massive. He was framed like a tank. The other Charlie Squadders caught sight of him, too, as every head in the troop bay turned to regard him.
Lilan continued. “A trio of Noboats was shot down just west of Lake Drummond—that’s on the Virginian side of the Great Dismal Swamp. Terrain will be challenging, but it’s nothing we can’t handle. Let’s do what I know we can do. Get ready to fight.”
The newcomer made his way past the Charlie Squadders until he’d reached the front of the cabin, close enough for Catalina to read his name badge. The moment she did, her eyes shot wide. Heads whipped back and forth as realization spread across Vulture-7. Whispers erupted across the cabin.
“Holy veck, that’s Strom!”
“Oh my God!”
“Izzat cracka in Charlie?”
Strom’s face was shrouded behind his visor. Nodding to Leslie Kelly with a mix of cordiality and awkwardness, he lowered himself into the seat across from her.
Wideeyed and leaning closer to Catalina, Leslie whispered emphatically, “Do you realize who that is?”
“Shut up!” she whispered back. Of course she knew who it was. It was like working with a celebrity. Strom Faerber mattered. His bloodline mattered. That he was working with them meant that they mattered. She tried desperately not to stare at him. She mostly failed.
A new voice emerged through Catalina’s comm. Mark. He was sitting at the very back of the troop bay. “Stay focused on the mission, Cat. He’s just a rookie. Less qualified than us.” She knew the wisdom in his words. It was just hard not to be excited. Catalina didn’t answer Mark—she couldn’t without Strom hearing—but she did give him an acknowledging look. Strom or no Strom, she and Mark were still the best one-two punch in Charlie Squad.
But still…
That particular launch was the fastest Catalina could ever remember. Before she knew it, the Vulture’s thrusters were kicking in. Then they were airborne. Then they were on their way.
Lilan stared out of the cockpit window over Tiffany’s shoulder. Far ahead, lightning flashed in the dark clouds hidden by the night—they were heading toward a whitewashing. “What are they saying, Feathers?”
“Pretty bad, sir,” she answered. “Severe thunderstorms, and the heaviest stuff’s still coming in. Half of Virginia’s under a tornado watch.”
He was surprised that anyone had been called out for this mission. EDEN typically liked to wait for dangerous weather to subside when no civilian lives were at stake, and there were most certainly none in the middle of the swamp. Returning to the troop bay, the colonel took a seat.
Tiffany adjusted the controls to compensate for sheer winds. “You okay, Cat?” she asked through her comm, glancing at her troop bay mirror. “I can see your skin flushing from up here.”
Catalina looked the pilot’s way. “I am not flushing,” she whispered through gritted teeth.
“Oh yeah, you’re totally flushing.” Tiffany paused for a moment before speaking again. This time, her voice was subdued. “I’m not getting anything from those Noboats on the ground.” She shook her head absently. “That’s weird.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can usually get some kind of reading from a crash site. Even if it’s a total wreck, there are still trace signatures—plasma, radiation, et cetera. I’m not getting anything at all.” She abandoned her comm to look back at Lilan. “Colonel, you might want to come see this.” Returning to her flight controls, she scanned the area map again. “Totally flushing.”
Lilan leaned into the cabin of the transport. “What do you have, Feathers?”
Tiffany’s tone indicated her concern. “Sir, I should be getting something from these crash sites. Residual energy from a power source, something. It’s like there’s not even anything there.” Her voice rose. “Look, sir, look!” The pilot pointed to a pair of new blips on her radar.
“Who the hell is that?” asked Lilan.
“Picking up two Vultures entering the area. Are we supposed to have backup?”
Tacker’s voice emerged over their comm channel. “Colonel, we’re picking up two inbound Vulture transports. Can you confirm?”
Lilan adjusted his comm to answer. “We’re reading it, major.”
“Are we expecting additional—”
Suddenly, the voice of Thompson, Delta Squad’s pilot, screamed through Tacker’s comm. “I’m missile locked! I’m missile locked!” Thompson’s voice grew louder as he patched through to Charlie directly. “Check six, Seven, I have a new contact, Vindicator, locked on!”
Lilan grabbed the back of Feather’s chair. The whole of Charlie sat erect.
“Vindy locked! Vindy locked!” Thompson screamed.
Tiffany gasped as her own radar screen lit up. “Two Vindicators! Three—four Vindicators! They’re engaging!”
“They’re engaging Delta?” asked Lilan.
Thompson shouted again. “Missile launch! Blue on blue!” Those were the last words Charlie Squad heard from the Delta transport. Far behind Vulture-7, the shadows of the storm were lit by a fiery orange plume.
Lilan white-knuckled the back of Tiffany’s chair. “Delta’s down!” Tiffany hollered. “Multiple bogeys, inbound!”
“Bogeys who?” Lilan asked frantically. “The Vindicators are bogeys?”
“Yes! Yes!”
Lilan spun to the troop bay. “Buckle up, now!”
Heart pounding, Catalina grabbed hold of the flight rails with all of her strength. The rest of the crew did the same.
“They’ve launched on us, they’ve launched on us!” Tiffany looked back. “Everybody brace!”
Falling back into his seat, Lilan strapped on his harness and grabbed the guard rails.
The missile struck.
There was an ear-splitting metallic crunch as Vulture-7 shimmied then flipped. A fleeting but intense heat washed over the colonel’s face. A half-second later, the fires were sucked out into the storm.
It was like being in a vacuum. Wind whipped at Lilan’s face as he turned to look behind him. Where there had once been the back of Vulture-7, there was now a gaping hole. The entire rear third of the transport was gone—along with everyone who’d been in it. Mark. Frank. Demorian. Leonard. They were just gone.
Momentum took over. His body locked up. Struggling, he turned his head to look directly across from him. Strom was still strapped in, but he looked unconscious—or dead. Tom, Donald, and Javon were wideeyed, but motionless against the rippling inertia. Catalina and Leslie were looking forward, screaming. Fighting to turn his head, Lilan looked out the cockpit.
Water. He could see its reflection in the flashes of lightning. They were about to crash into Lake Drummond. Gripping his armrests, Lilan watched as Tiffany desperately fought to pull up the ship’s nose.
Pull up, Feathers! Though he couldn’t gather the awareness to scream the words, they raced through his mind. Feathers, pull up!
The Vulture’s nose eased upward. But it wasn’t enough. Any second now, they were going to hit. Any second now.
Any second.
Impact.
 *
EDEN COMMAND
PACING PAST THE holographic globe with his hands clasped behind his back, Benjamin Archer breathed with impatient anxiety. His amber gaze focused on the corners of the ceilings, chin upheld as Rath observed from across the room. Sparse few others were there—co-conspirators hand-picked by Carol June.
Finally, the voice came.
“All airborne targets intercepted,” said Kang on their private channel. “Strike teams prepping for ground assault.”
Archer rested his hands on the holographic globe’s guard rail. No one else said a word.
PART II
22
THURSDAY, MARCH 15TH, 0012 NE
0242 HOURS
GREAT DISMAL SWAMP
VULTURE-7 STRUCK the water at a seventy degree angle, belly first. Lilan’s limbs flailed in all directions as the impacts came one after the other. The transport caught air, then it skipped, then it plunged nosefirst into the lake. It cart-wheeled upside-down as water surged into the open troop bay hole.
Lilan’s head was jostled in every direction as water flooded into the transport. All around him, things sparked and erupted. Warm liquid dripped from his face and arms. Blood. Sucking in a hard breath, his hands frantically unfastened his seat strap as water gushed over his body. The moment he was free, he pushed away from his seat and righted himself. Then everything was submerged.
A pair of hands pushed past him; there was no way to tell who they belonged to. Blindly, he felt for the other seats. There was no sinking sensation, almost as if the ship had already hit bottom. He could hear the muffled splattering of raindrops, even under the water. The belly of its hull was still above water.
The lake was shallow.
Hurrying through the cabin, Lilan felt frantically for anyone still strapped in. Feathers. Swimming forward through the transport’s remains, he felt Tiffany’s listless body still strapped to its chair. Unfastening her, he pulled the blonde back through the cockpit opening. Holding her under his arm, he swam them out of the ship and to the surface.
As soon as Lilan’s head broke the surface, he gasped violently for air, squirming to bring Tiffany’s head up as well. Rain pounded them like liquid bullets. Ripping off her helmet, he threw it aside. She wasn’t moving.
Whipping his head around, Lilan searched for anyone else on the surface. “Somebody!” Amid the flashes of lightning, he could make out the form of at least two others.
“Coach!”
Javon Quinton. The soldier immediately swam Lilan’s way. “Take her!” Lilan said. “Take her to shore! I’m going back down.” Tiffany was transferred into Javon’s arms; Lilan plunged beneath the surface again.
Swimming blindly through the wreckage, Lilan felt around the seats for anyone else. He found two of them: Strom and Catalina. Save her first. Unstrapping Catalina, he wrapped his arms around her. She squirmed as soon as she was free. She was alive.
Propelling out again, Lilan brought her out of the water. As soon as her head broke the surface, Catalina let loose a blood-curdling scream.
“Shivers!” Holding onto her shoulders to keep her afloat, he rotated her to face him. “Can you swim? Can you make it to shore?” He released her tentatively, and her head immediately sunk back under. Grabbing her again, he tugged her back up.
She was panicked. “My leg! I can’t!”
“Shivers! Listen to me!” He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at his eyes. “You have to stay up. Use your arms. You can do it.” He just needed enough time to pull out Strom and whoever else was trapped.
Catalina slung her hair from her face just as Lilan released her. Once again, she sank, only to pop up a moment later, arms flailing desperately, only to sink again in the next second. She couldn’t make herself stay afloat. Her screams were of pure torture.
Her leg had to be broken.
There was no one else to take her to safety. No one else to free him so he could save whoever was left in the ship. If he let go of Catalina, she’d drown. Abandoning the prospect of saving anyone else, he grabbed her tightly and fought to swim away. There was nothing else he could do. “Hold onto me,” he said. “Grab my back!” She struggled to comply.
Rain hammered against the surface of the lake. Every drop that hit Lilan stung. With visibility at near zero, he was forced to rely on lightning flashes to make out any of the environment around them. He knew the direction Javon had gone with Tiffany. All he could do was follow. And hope that he was swimming in a straight line.
Shot down. Intercepted, not by Noboats or Ceratopian ships, but by EDEN vessels—Vultures and Vindicators. Looking back briefly, Lilan watched as one of the hostile transports descended over the wreckage of Vulture-7. Pausing in the water, Lilan observed.
Could it have been a mistake? Some sort of radar malfunction? A friendly fire disaster? Spotlights shone from the Vulture onto the wreckage. Were they looking for survivors?
The Vulture’s nose-mounted cannon erupted orange. Bullets peppered the wreckage of Vulture-7. Lilan watched as its remnants were ripped to shreds.
This wasn’t a mistake at all. This was a hit.
Turning back around, Lilan swam harder. He had to make it to shore. With every lightning flash, he could see it grow closer.
Swim!
Catalina clung to him as he kept onward. Closer. Closer. His feet touched bottom. With the next flash, he could see them, Javon and at least several others, clustered on the shoreline.
Sloshing through the surf, Lilan eased Catalina around until he could carry her. As he tromped out of Lake Drummond, Tom King met him.
“What in the hell was that?” Tom was hysterical. “What in the hell was that?”
“Back off, King!”
Catalina’s head rolled as she scanned the marshy beach. “Tiff…”
Lilan carried her on land; he scanned the survivors. Javon, Tiffany, Tom, and Donald. That was it. Every other member of Charlie Squad had been lost.
“She’s hurt,” Lilan said to Javon.
The soldier reached out for Catalina. “I’ll carry her, coach.”
“No time! Get everyone to the swamp, now! How’s Feathers?”
“She a’ight. She lightheaded, but a’ight.”
“Get her up. Get everyone up and to cover! They’ll kill us if they see us.” He’d witnessed it firsthand. Glancing behind, he watched the enemy Vulture hover toward the shore. It wasn’t moving right at them, but it was too close for comfort. They were probably scanning for survivors.
Donald Bell was bent over on the ground, exasperated. Lilan could only guess how he’d made it to shore. Maybe Tom had helped him. “Get up, Bell!” The demolitionist obeyed.
Staggering to her feet, Tiffany pushed back her hair and stumbled forward. Javon rushed to help her to cover.
The six soaked survivors trudged into the marsh near the shore. Not a weapon, comm, or full set of armor was on any of them. Almost everything had been lost in the lake.
Lilan eased Catalina down atop the mud. The Canadian’s face was twisting in agony. “I need to feel your leg, Shivers.” He had to know what kind of condition she was in. Moving his hand over her leg, it took him barely a second to locate her injury. Her fibula was completely snapped. He could see it bulging beneath the skin by her calf. It was a miracle that it hadn’t punctured through.
“Quinton, find a stick!” Lilan said, focusing on Catalina immediately afterward. “I’m going to have to set this. It’s going to hurt.”
Tiffany woozily knelt by their side. The pilot’s forehead was bleeding. She was dazed, maybe concussed, but she was aware. She clutched Catalina’s hand.
“That was a hell of a job, Feathers,” Lilan said, eyes still on Catalina. “I don’t know how you did that.” They should have all been dead. Crash landings like that weren’t supposed to leave survivors.
As soon as Javon approached with a stick, Lilan placed it between Catalina’s teeth. “Bite on this, Shivers. I have to do this. It’s going to hurt.”
Panic-stricken, Catalina clamped her teeth around the stick. Her breaths grew heavy. Lilan placed his hands on the sides of the break.
“Oh God!” Catalina mumbled. “Oh God!”
Snap!
The shriek that erupted from Catalina’s vocal chords was excruciating. Her body twisted as her back arched up. The crown of her head dug into the mud.
“It’s done!” Lilan said. “It’s done—that’s it!”
Her wails continued.
Donald tapped Lilan on the shoulder. “Coach, they comin’!” The demolitionist pointed at the shoreline, where the EDEN Vulture was about to touch down.
Whipping back to Catalina, Lilan said, “I know it hurts, Shivers, but you have to stay quiet! You have to. Do it to keep us alive.” The Canadian’s moans were forced back.
The transport continued its approach. “Everyone, take cover!” Waving them behind trees and brush, Lilan scooped up Catalina and slid behind a stump. Clutching her against his chest, he leaned his head back and waited. “It’s okay,” he whispered. Catalina was whimpering uncontrollably. “It’s going to be okay.” Turning his head slowly, he watched the Vulture around the corner of the stump.
Engines whining, the transport revolved then landed on the shore. It couldn’t have been more than thirty meters away. Were it not for the downpour, the survivors would have surely been spotted. The aggressors simply didn’t know they were there.
The transport’s rear bay door lowered to the mud, and all at once, a squad of soldiers filed out. Lilan could hear them talking—shouting over the thunder and rain. They were clustering at the water’s edge.
“What are they doin’?” Javon asked from the next nearest tree.
Lilan shook his head. “I don’t know.” It didn’t look like they were hunting survivors. They almost walked nonchalantly. But what Lilan saw next really threw him for a loop. The transport’s pilot joined them, too. The Vulture was abandoned. “What in the hell?” Whatever the cause, every single enemy operative was out of the troop bay, which Lilan could plainly see from his angle. Every last one of them was mingling on the shoreline.
“I can take it,” Tiffany said. Lilan looked her way as she stared at him. “I can get in the ship. I can take it.”
It was the most irrational suggestion he’d ever heard. But so was the notion of EDEN shooting their own ships. If Tiffany could somehow get in that Vulture, if she could lift off, if she could turn its cannons on the aggressors, then pick up Lilan and the survivors…they might have a chance. A chance to what? He didn’t know. All he knew was that surviving in the swamp wasn’t an option. Not in their shape. Not with armed hostiles hunting them down. Once she was airborne, Tiffany could comm Hutchin from the transport. As insane as it sounded, it might be their only chance. Turning to Tiffany, he looked her in the eyes. “Are you sure you can do this?” For all he knew, she was suffering from a concussion.
She nodded determinedly.
That was all he needed to see. “Seal yourself in the ship, get on the radio, and comm General Hutchin. We’re going to work our way that direction,” he pointed along the lake’s shoreline. “I want you to get off the ground, take out as many of those hostiles as you can, then pick us up.” There was no doubt that Hutchin would send help. These enemy ships hadn’t been sent from Richmond—they’d approached from a totally different direction.
Pushing her hair back, Tiffany tied it into a ponytail.
“Hey,” said Javon to her, “you want me to go with you?”
Lilan cut off the request. “No. The fewer the better. She’s going alone because she can be quiet.”
Blowing out a breath, Tiffany looked at Catalina. The two locked eyes for a moment, then Tiffany prepared to move.
“Be careful, Tiff,” said the wincing Canadian.
“I will. I’ll be back.” Giving the others a final glance, Tiffany moved from her cover to weave toward the ship.
 *
EDEN COMMAND
AT THE SAME TIME
“ALL SHIPS ARE abandoned, all fighter pilots ejected,” said Kang over the War Room speaker. “Engaging autopilots for Novosibirsk and preparing to dispatch Superwolves for intercept.”
One arm folded across his chest in the War Room, Archer’s free hand covered his mouth from view. As the holographic globe highlighted the Vultures’ and Vindicators’ positions, one of the operators approached the British judge. “Sir, I’m getting more calls from Richmond. They’ve already identified the ships as Novosibirsk’s and are requesting permission to intercept.”
“Deny them,” said Archer calmly. “Tell them we have Superwolves en route.”
“Sir, they want to know what’s going on.” The operator sounded desperate. “I can’t tell them nothing.”
Archer looked at him. “Tell them we have a situation—say nothing more. Send a message to the global network to put all bases on orange alert.”
“Yes, sir,” the operator said, taking a step away before turning back. “Wait, you said all bases?”
The judge’s stare returned to the globe. “Yes, lieutenant. Don’t question me again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Archer’s voice rose. “Ears, gentlemen! As of this moment, we are responding to a matter of global security, not organizing an incident! This room is about to be very full. We must all play our roles.” The room full of conspirators affirmed, and Archer nodded to another operator. “Notify the Council, then call Russia’s President Belikov. His country’s largest base just declared war on EDEN.”
A squadron of Superwolves appeared on the globe, plotting lines taking them on an intercept course with the six ships from Novosibirsk.
“Get ready, Carol,” Archer murmured to himself. “You’re about to be a busy woman.”
 *
SLIDING IN THE mud, Tiffany pressed her back against a tree near the shoreline. The EDEN soldiers were still clustered by the water’s edge, leaving the transport’s bay door undefended.
Briefly, she surveyed the Vulture. Its hull was charred and worn. It looked more like a ship in line to be demolished than to fly. She gazed at the tail fin, where she saw the remnants of what appeared to be some kind of logo.
Like some kind of dog.
Catalina in his arms, Lilan and the rest of the survivors moved stealthily through the marsh. Though Lilan occasionally glanced back to see if he could spot the pilot’s progress, he knew they couldn’t afford to slow down. He had to trust Tiffany to get the job done.
Easing around the tree, Tiffany wiped the water droplets from her face. The hostiles were still clustered by the shore, completely unaware.
Crouching low, the pilot made her break. Positioning the Vulture between her and the hostiles, she bolted toward it, leapt up the ramp, then burst into the troop bay. The cockpit was ahead.
Whhhrrrrrr.
At the unexpected sound, Tiffany skidded to a halt. She whipped her head toward the rear bay door. It was closing by itself. Gasping wideeyed, she watched as it sealed her in. Immediately, the ship’s thrusters began to rumble.
“Ohmygod! Ohmygod!” Dashing to the cockpit, she inspected the controls. What she saw made her go rigid. The console was in ruin. Scorch marks were everywhere, like it’d been through a crash. She reached for the ship’s comm, only to realize after her hand was extended that there was none. There was only a vacant socket. The autopilot indicator—one of the few functional components to be seen—began to urgently flash green. Heart pounding, she flipped the switch for manual control. The autopilot overrode it. Freezing in the seat, Tiffany clutched her scalp with both hands.
The ship was launching on its own.
“Look!” Tom said, pointing at the shore. Lilan and the rest of them stopped and turned just in time to see the transport lift off the ground. But its cannons didn’t fire. On the contrary, it was like a routine takeoff—and not one of the hostiles on the beach seemed concerned.
“Uhhh,” was all Lilan could muster as he watched the ship rise, pivot, then slowly drift away.
Tiffany screamed at the ship at the top of her lungs. “Why are you doing this?” She searched desperately for any button that retained functionality. There was no working comm, no working manual override, almost no working anything. On the verge of hyperventilating, she dashed from her seat back to the troop bay, tearing through overhead bins and lockers while the ship picked up speed through the sky.
Finally, in the second-to-last locker, she found what she was looking for: an old, seemingly abandoned handheld comm. Wiping her hair from her forehead, she looked at the frequency. It was a setting that looked nothing like Richmond. Swallowing hard and with no other options, she hesitated, whispered a prayer, then pressed in the button.
 *
NOVOSIBIRSK, RUSSIA
“DUDE, THAT’S BULL,” Travis said from his upper bunk, looking down from his comics. “Stellar Man could beat Commander Kill any day of the week.”
William scoffed. “How old is Stellar Man? He was invented what, two hundred years ago? Commander Kill is so much better.”
“Just because he’s newer?”
“No, just because he’s better.”
Travis slammed his book down. “How is he better? Stellar Man can fly, he can shoot lightning, he has skin as strong as iron!”
“He doesn’t have any weaknesses, dude!”
“That’s what I’m saying!”
William threw up his hands. “But that makes him so lame!”
Travis’s comm suddenly queued. Raising an eyebrow, he snagged it from his nightstand.
“Commander Kill rocks,” said Williams.
“Shut up.” Engaging the talk button, Travis held it to his lips. “Y’ello.”
ACROSS THE PLANET, Tiffany’s eyes widened wildly. “Hello! Who is this?”
“DUDE, SHE SOUNDS hot!” exclaimed William.
Travis hurled a pillow at him. “This is me,” he answered. “Who be you?”
“This is Tiffany!”
William nodded confidently. “Oh yeah. Tiffanys are always hot.”
“Well hello there, Tiffany,” mused Travis. “This is Stellar Man.” He placed his hand over receiver and whispered to William. “It’s Max. He’s getting some chick to screw with us.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it’s from one of our comms. Who else would be screwing with us? Egor?”
TIFFANY BLINKED and stared at the comm. “Stellar Man?” she murmured to herself. Pausing confoundedly, she spoke again. “I need your help, Stellar Man!”
WILLIAM RUSHED TO the side of Travis’s bunk. “Dude, tell her you’re fighting Commander Kill! Do it!”
Travis sniggered and held up his hand. Clearing his throat, he deepened his voice. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, good citizen. You see, I’m staving off an attack from Commander Kill.”
“Dude, staving! That word is awesome!”
They high-fived.
TIFFANY’S MOUTH HUNG open. She didn’t have a reply.
TRAVIS SPOKE AGAIN. “What kind of assistance do you require?”
William cut in loudly. “Is it sexual?”
Travis cracked up and jerked the comm away. “Dude!”
The demolitionist lost it.
EYES NARROWING, Tiffany answered, “No, it’s not sexual!”
“Then how may I be of stellar service to you?”
Carrying the comm to the cockpit, Tiffany sat down and looked out the window. The ship was flying full speed through the storm. “We just got attacked by EDEN ships! We don’t know where they came from, but I’m in one of them now and I don’t know where I’m going.” She pored over the console. “For some reason the autopilot’s overriding manual control. I can’t get it to switch back!”
TRAVIS AND WILLIAM stared at the comm in silence. For several seconds, neither said a word. William finally broke the quiet. “This prank sucks.”
“THERE’S NO COMM in the ship, it’s like this thing’s held together with duct tape!” She eyed the radar. “I’m in formation with four Vindicators and another Vulture, all on the same trajectory. They must all be on autopilot!”
A LOOK OF concern struck Travis’s face. “Wait a minute,” he spoke into the comm, “you said the ship didn’t have a working comm. How are you on one now?”
Her breathing heightened. “I found it in a locker! It was the only one in the ship.”
“What ship?”
“I don’t know! This ship! This…piece of crap!”
Holding out a hand of seriousness, Travis leapt off his bunk and walked to the middle of the room. “I need to know what ship. Read me the serial number.”
Several seconds passed before the voice answered. “It’s VD723-442-MX09. There was something on the tail, like a dog.”
Travis’s mouth fell open. His face shaded pale. “Oh my God,” he said off-comm. “She’s in the Pariah.”
“I HAVE NO IDEA where I’m going! This thing just took off on its own. I wasn’t even trying to do anything!”
ALL LEVITY WAS gone as Travis’s tone increased. “Tell me exactly what happened. You said you were attacked?”
“Yes, by ships from EDEN! My unit was sent on a mission near Lake Drummond.”
“Lake Drummond?” William mouthed in bewilderment.
Tiffany went on. “We don’t know why they attacked us, but the rest of my team is on the ground! The hostiles abandoned their ship and I climbed on board. Then it just took off!”
“Where is Lake Drummond?” Travis asked.
“In the Great Dismal Swamp!”
Travis looked at William, who shrugged. “Where’s the Great Dismal Swamp?” Travis asked. “Is that in Russia?”
“What?” the voice shouted. “No it’s not in Russia! It’s by the Virginian coast. Who the hell am I talking to?”
“This is Travis Navarro, in the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk.”
She sounded stunned. “Novosibirsk? Why the hell am I talking to Novosibirsk?”
“Why the hell are you flying in my ship?”
There was a distinct pause from the other end of the line. When the woman’s voice returned, it was low in disbelief. “Oh. My. God. I think I’m flying to you.”
The hair stood on Travis’s arms. For several seconds, he said nothing—he simply stared in a blank stupor. Finally, he queued the comm again. “Hold please.” Breaking the connection, he turned to a new frequency.
“Dude, who are you calling?” asked William.
Travis locked eyes with William as he prepared to speak on the line. His dreadful expression said it all. “Hello,NovCom?” The pilot swallowed. “I need to talk to General Thoor.”
 *
“THAT HO LEFT us!” Tom said as the transport disappeared out of view. “Y’all see that?”
Javon shook his head. “Man, what’s goin’ on?”
“She didn’t leave us,” Lilan said definitively. “Did you see those troops on the ground? They weren’t even fazed when that transport took off. That was an autopilot kicking in with her inside.”
Catalina was panicked. “Where is she going? What if they take her prisoner?”
“Forget that trash,” said Tom. “We gotta get outta here.”
“Forget that trash?” asked Catalina furiously.
“Hey!” said Javon, stepping in front of Tom and looking at him. “You best back it off, King.”
Ignoring the rising tempers, Lilan pointed toward the lake. “We have to keep moving. Those hostiles think our dead bodies are in that wreckage. When they find out they aren’t, they’re going to come looking for us. We’ve got until then to get out of this swamp or to get somewhere where we can hide and sort this out. So let’s get moving.”
Tom and Javon glared at one another for several moments, before the latter turned away. Crouching down, he scooped Catalina in his arms.
The group’s trek resumed.
 *
IGNATIUS VAN THOOR was in the midst of an afternoon nap when his comm sounded. Grunting groggily, he lifted his head and stared at the comm on his stand. Sitting upright and allowing himself a moment to become alert, he queued the comm up. “Thoor,” he said gravelly.
“General, this isNovCom. We have received a request from Travis Navarro of the Fourteenth. He says he needs to speak with you immediately. He says it is urgent.”
Running a hand through his hair and breathing heavily, the general paused to collect his senses. “Put him through.”
“Yes, general.” The voice hesitated. “I would also like to advise you… the global network was just raised to orange alert.”
“Orange alert? For what?”
“It has not been defined.”
Thoor’s quarters fell into silence. He nodded absently. “Give me Navarro.”
“Yes, general.”
Several seconds passed, during which General Thoor closed his eyes and simply breathed. Finally, Travis’s trembling voice crackled through. “General Thoor? This is Travis Navarro with the Fourteenth. Remington’s unit.”
“I know what the Fourteenth is. Speak.”
“General, I just received a transmission from a woman who claims to be on a transport on its way here. She’s saying EDEN attacked her unit with that same transport. I’m not sure how she got on board, but she said the autopilot kicked in automatically.”
A bewildered look struck Thoor’s face. “EDEN attacked this woman’s unit? And she is with EDEN?”
“Yes, sir. The transport she commed me from…it’s ours. It’s the Pariah.”
Thoor’s eyes opened widely. New alertness came. “I want to clarify. An EDEN unit was attacked by an EDEN vessel that belongs to us and is now en route to us?”
“Yes, sir. It sounded like multiple ships took part in the attack.”
“Where are they now?”
“North America, headed this way.”
Thoor rose from his bed. “Thank you.” He closed the channel, changing his frequency toNovCom. “This is Thoor. Can you verify that multiple vessels with Novosibirsk signatures are en route to The Machine from North America?” Several seconds passed, but verification indeed came. “Dispatch Gagarin Wing on an immediate intercept course. Tell them their job is to escort these vessels back to Novosibirsk. Instruct them to engage any other approaching aircraft. Send a message to EDEN Command clarifying orange alert. I am on my way to you now.”
 *
“JUDGE ARCHER!” one of the operators yelled. “I have two squadrons of Vindicators launching from Novosibirsk on an intercept course with the transports!”
Archer’s head swung the man’s direction. “What?”
“Sir,” another operator said, “I’m getting a comm from Novosibirsk Command requesting clarification on orange alert.”
Archer pointed back to him firmly. “Deny them! Cut them off!” He looked at the first operator. “How could they possibly know about these transports?”
The operator shook his head. “I have no idea, sir. No one’s sent a word to them.”
“What’s their time to intercept?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“And our Superwolves?”
“Thirteen.”
Archer’s eyes narrowed. “I want those transports blown out of the sky before Thoor’s ships are within a thousand kilometers!”
 *
TRAVIS WAS RUNNING full speed towardNovCom. Shortly after getting off line with General Thoor,NovCom had demanded his presence. With his beloved ship in the equation, he wasn’t about to argue. On his own accord, he had commed Max to tell him the news. Upon Max’s own insistence, the technician was en route toNovCom himself, whether The Machine wanted it or not. This was something big.
A sentry was waiting for Travis when he arrived, and they hurriedly escorted him through the security door and to the top of the control tower. It was the pilot’s first time ever being there, asNovCom was all but off-limits to standard personnel. It was exclusively Nightman territory.
The control room bustled furiously, with multiple operators on multiple consoles. On one of the displays, the Pariah and its airborne companions were being tracked. But another display caught his attention, too. On it was a squadron of Superwolves just over the Sahara Desert.
“Who’s that?” Travis asked, pointing.
TheNovCom shift supervisor turned Travis’s way. “Are you Navarro?”
“Yes.”
“Come with me.” The man rushed acrossNovCom, directing Travis to a seat by a radio panel. “Queue up the comm from the Pariah on this panel. I want the woman on loudspeaker.”
Without argument, Travis set up the comm’s signature.
One of the security guards approached the supervisor. “I have a Lieutenant Axen on ground level requesting access toNovCom. Did you request him?”
Turning around quickly, Travis answered before the supervisor could. “I requested him. He knows the Pariah as well as I do. He needs to be here.”
The supervisor seemed to deliberate before nodding his head. “Let him up.”
Moments later, Tiffany’s channel was queued. “Tiffany, can you hear me?” asked Travis.
Her voice emerged. “Yes, I hear you!” Her heart rate echoed in her voice.
Travis opened his mouth to speak on, but the supervisor cut him off. “American pilot, this is Novosibirsk Command. A squadron of Superwolves is currently on an intercept course for your aircraft. We believe its intention is to destroy you.”
Travis’s jaw dropped.
“We are dispatching a wing of our own to escort you to Novosibirsk, but the Superwolves will reach you first. Your orders are to alter your course for Madrid, Spain. You are to use the city as cover from assault until we arrive to escort you. The Superwolves will not fire while you are near heavy populations.”
“I can’t!” Tiffany screamed. “I already told you, I can’t get back manual control!”
The supervisor nodded calmly. “We know.” Then he looked at Travis. “We have someone troubleshooting your problem now.”
Blinking, Travis turned. “Wait, you’re talking about me?”
“The Pariah has always been a unique ship. Who better to fix it than its pilot? The Superwolves will reach her in eleven minutes.” He motioned to his sidearm. “You have six.”
The door acrossNovCom opened; Max rushed inside. Scanning for Travis, he stopped when he found him. “Trav! What in the—”
“No time to explain!” Travis said. “We need to figure out how to disable an autopilot override lock!”
“Wait, what?”
Travis turned to the radio. “Tiffany, you still there?”
“Yes!”
“Tell us everything you’ve tried to do.”
ABOARD THE PARIAH, the blonde was frantic. “Okay, I tried disengaging, and it didn’t work. I pulled the breaker, and that didn’t work either!”
“THE BREAKER DIDN’T even work?” asked Max. “How is that even possible? The breaker should go right to the source.”
NovCom’s elevator door opened again as General Thoor marched inside. Visor cap veiling his eyes, the Terror’s glare swept the room, settling on Travis and Max. Looking away, he approached the supervisor.
Max nor Travis had time to care. “Okay,” Travis said, “what would cause a circuit breaker not to work?”
“This is the Pariah we’re talking about, now.”
“I know, but has that ever been a problem before?”
“I don’t even know if it can be,” Max said. “It’s like unplugging something from an electrical outlet. It should work without fail.”
The supervisor looked their way. “Five minutes.”
Glancing at the supervisor, Max turned back to Travis. “Five minutes until what?”
“Until he has two less bullets,” he answered.
“Veck! Okay. The way the breaker’s designed, failure shouldn’t be possible. Is the control mode working?”
Travis got on the comm. “Tiffany, is the control mode working?”
She answered quickly. “Completely dead.”
Travis and Max looked at each other. They spoke at exactly the same time. “A second autopilot!”
“TIFFANY,” TRAVIS said over the comm, “we think they might have installed a secondary autopilot somewhere on the ship.”
She blinked. “Like, you’re kidding, right?”
“It makes sense to a degree. If this was a crucial mission, they would have wanted something more dedicated than what was already on board. What we’ve got to do is find out where they put it.”
Kneeling below the seat, Tiffany began opening panels. “Why wouldn’t they replace the system that’s already in place?”
“If I had to guess, because there was too much damage to the main systems. Rather than overhaul everything, it was probably easier to attach the processor to a secondary system.”
Tiffany nodded. “Processor, right.” Abandoning the pilot’s seat, she scrambled back to the troop bay and knelt next to a floor grate. “Processor’s where it should be, right?”
“If it’s not, we’ve got a whole new set of problems.”
Removing the grate, Tiffany shoved it aside and laid down on the floor, sticking her head into the cavity.
THE SUPERVISOR LOOKED at Travis and tapped on his watch. The pilot nodded aggravatingly. “Talk to me, Tiff. Are you in the mainframe?”
“Oh my God,” she said breathlessly. “I have never seen a bigger mess in my life.”
Max smirked. “She’s in the mainframe.”
“Just look for the processor,” Travis said to her. “Forget everything else.”
Her voice was despondent. “Words cannot convey how utterly hopeless I feel now that I’ve seen this thing’s innards.”
“Okay, okay! She needs some TLC, I know. Just freakin’ focus.”
She grunted over the comm, presumably from the mainframe’s tight fit. “All right, I think I…I’ve got it! I’ve found the processor. Do I even need to follow the wires?”
“No,” answered Max. “Just rip ’em out.”
“Rip ’em out!” echoed Travis.
Several seconds passed before Tiffany’s voice reemerged. “They’re out. Hang on, lemme check the controls.”
Fingers crossed, Max and Travis held their breaths.
SLIDING BACK INTO the pilot’s seat, Tiffany grabbed the joystick, easing sideways just slightly. The ship complied. “I’ve got control!”
The voice she heard next wasn’t Travis’s or Max’s. It was one she’d never heard before. “This is General Ignatius van Thoor. Take cover in Madrid immediately. Our Vindicators are en route.”
 *
“JUDGE ARCHER!” SHOUTED one of the radar operators, “one of the transports just broke formation!”
“What do you mean, broke formation?” Archer asked.
The operator looked horrified. “I mean someone took manual control. Someone’s on board!”
In the same moment that Archer’s face lost its color, the door to the War Room opened. Pauling, wearing his presidential garb, rushed into the room. “What the hell happened?” he asked frantically. Blake followed in behind him.
“Mr. President!” shouted Archer, blatantly loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “Thank God you’re here!” Several of the room’s occupants eyed one another warily.
As soon as he saw Archer, Pauling rushed to him. “Benjamin, what happened?”
“We’re still gathering information, but apparently a false dispatch was sent out to a unit from Richmond, Falcon Platoon.”
“A false dispatch?” asked Blake, playing his role.
Archer nodded. “Yes. The unit was intercepted mid-flight by another squadron.” His focus shifted to Pauling, his tone lowering. “The ships were Novosibirsk’s.”
Several other judges hurried into the War Room, Torokin included.
“Sir,” Archer went on, “Falcon Platoon was Strom Faerber’s unit.”
At mention of Strom’s name, Torokin’s ears perked. “Strom? What happened to Strom?”
Blake raised a hand of silence to Torokin as he and the others continued to listen.
“We’re sending transports to the crash site now to look for survivors,” Archer said, “and we have Superwolves on an intercept course with the Novosibirsk ships.” He eyed Blake tellingly while speaking to everyone. “However, it seems Thoor is trying to beat us to the intercept. He’s dispatched ships of his own on an intercept course.” Blake couldn’t hide his look of genuine shock. Archer went on anyway. “We should intercept the culprits before Thoor’s Vindicators arrive, though one of the transports has broken formation.” He looked back at the radar operator. “Do we have a bead on that rogue transport?”
The operator nodded. “Madrid, sir.”
Archer looked at the president. “We’ve tried on numerous occasions to contact Novosibirsk and Thoor. They haven’t responded.”
“If that really was Strom Faerber’s unit,” Blake said, “I think Thoor’s motivation is clear.”
Nodding, Archer finished the statement. “He wanted to hit us where it hurts.” He looked at Pauling. “I think he just declared war.”
Pauling’s eyes narrowed. Walking past the others, he rested his hands on the guardrail that surrounded the holographic globe. He stared at the blips and their intercept courses. When he spoke, his voice was low. “Well, now he’s got one.”
 *
TRAVIS AND MAX stood behind Thoor as the general and his staff observed their radar screens. The Pariah had put clear separation between itself and its pack, making a beeline for Madrid, where Gagarin Wing would meet it. The Superwolves from EDEN Command had apparently caught onto this, as a pair of them had also broken off their intercept course for a direct route into Spain.
Despite the Superwolves’ speed advantage, the Pariah was too close to Madrid to be intercepted beforehand. So long as Tiffany adhered to the plan and remained low amid the buildings of the city, EDEN would have no choice but to hold their fire. Novosibirsk was sending well over three dozen aircraft into the fight. Even with their superiority, if the Superwolves decided to pick a fight with Gagarin Wing, they were risking being wiped out by sheer numbers.
It was a foregone conclusion that the other transports in Tiffany’s autopilot-led squadron would be lost, intercepted by the Superwolves before any of Thoor’s Vindicators could even get close. Being that all of those aircraft were presumed to be unmanned, Thoor didn’t seem overly concerned. His focus was solely on the one aircraft that mattered. The Pariah needed to be retrieved. This was made abundantly clear to Tiffany, personally, by the general. It was as encouraging as Max or Travis had ever heard the man dubbed the “Terror.” In talking to Tiffany, Thoor used phrases such as “do not be afraid,” and “we will not let them harm you.” It was an indicator of one of two things: either Thoor was growing soft in his old age, or this was a situation that caught him completely unprepared. There was little doubt it was the latter.
The bigger mystery was why this was happening in the first place. There were several unlikely possibilities, and one frighteningly likely one. This could have been a bona fide mistake on multiple fronts—a miscommunication for the ages. Or it was some sort of renegade act, and Tiffany was not only a mastermind, but an actress to be praised. Those were the unlikely answers.
What was likely was that this was a setup. The Pariah had originally been dubbed “unsalvageable” by EDEN, only to mysteriously appear now and attack another EDEN unit. The pilot of the aircraft, frantic, described soldiers in EDEN uniforms assaulting her friends on the ground. A preprogrammed autopilot had pointed her straight for Novosibirsk—the perfect “evidence” that Novosibirsk had set up the assault. The global network at orange alert, yet apparently cutting itself off from Novosibirsk’s communication. And what was left in the wake of all this? A very guilty looking Nightman base.
The next forty minutes played out exactly asNovCom had anticipated. The main squadron of Superwolves intercepted and destroyed the unmanned aircraft. The pair that went after the Pariah threatened but never engaged the cursed transport in Madrid, finally retreating when Gagarin Wing arrived. Global news outlets began reporting an incident involving Novosibirsk and an undisclosed unit from Richmond, with only the promise that more news would come “as the situation develops.” The world was watching the largest city in Siberia.
As the Pariah drew to closing distance, Travis, Max, Thoor, and his entourage abandonedNovCom for the hangar. A ghost was returning to its lair. The feral dog—and all of its secrets—was coming home.
Cold gusts whipped across the airstrip. Hands shielding his eyes from the blasts, Travis stared into the overcast, late afternoon sky. Watching. Waiting.
Then finding.
At first, the distant dots were indistinguishable, though as they neared, their outlines could be made out. The Vindicators of Gagarin Wing were stretched out across the horizon in a defensive formation. They moved forward slowly as they prepared for descent. And in the center of them all, guarded on every side, was the Pariah.
Hair standing on edge, Travis took a step forward. Max watched from behind. Even Thoor and his men seemed lost for words. The prodigal transport had returned. The Vulture that had redefined notoriety was now flying into Novosibirsk with a full fighter escort.
Engines whining, the Pariah aboutfaced over the airstrip. Its hull bore every single char mark and scar Travis could remember—badges of honor for the chariot of the Fourteenth. The dog on its tail fin, almost completely blacked out by scorch marks, snarled with animosity.
The hangar came to life.
“I want every computer system of this ship removed and searched,” said Thoor. “Take it apart piece by piece if you need to.” Moving forward in unison, a crew of technicians ran toward the transport as soon as it touched down.
“Piece by piece?” asked Travis, whirling around.
Max put his hand on Travis’s shoulder. “It’s gotta be done, Trav. That ship’s got some explaining to do.”
“But—”
“It’ll be okay.” Max’s own eyes hovered over the ship. “She’ll be okay.”
As the Pariah’s rear bay door lowered, Travis watched as a gang of technicians swarmed around it. Then she appeared. Virtually ignored by the technicians around her, Tiffany Feathers emerged through the crowd. Muddy locks of blond hair dangled over her forehead. She looked to be in a daze.
“Tiffany!” Travis ran toward her.
Searching at the sound of her name, she found Travis as he neared her. Jaw trembling, the female pilot broke down. She collapsed in his arms.
“You made it,” he said, talking as if he’d known her for years. “You made it.”
Sucking back her sobs, she pulled away and looked frantically at him. “My friends!” She tugged him back toward the ship. “We’ve got to go get my friends!”
Max put his hand on her shoulder. “Just calm down for now. We’re gonna go get your friends.” He looked at Travis sidelong. “Eventually. Maybe.”
“No,” she said vehemently, tugging Travis’s sleeve. “We have to go! We have to go now!”
“You’re not in any shape to do that,” Travis said.
She persisted. “You don’t understand!”
“Richmond pilot,” said an approaching pair of sentries. Before Tiffany could respond, she was grabbed by both arms.
“Hey!” said Travis. “Get off her!”
Tiffany was lifted off the ground, shrieking and kicking. They were dragging her away.
Travis furiously gave chase. “She just got on the ground! She needs water and rest!”
A fulcrum stepped in his way. “She is being taken to interrogations,” the Nightman said. “She will not be harmed.”
“Yeah, you’d like us to believe that, huh?” asked Max.
“You will be contacted if needed,” said the fulcrum.
No room was left for the men to protest. Stepping back, the fulcrum turned and followed the sentries. Travis and Max could only watch as Tiffany disappeared into The Machine.
23
THURSDAY, MARCH 15TH, 0012 NE
1611 HOURS
“SOMEBODY HELP!” Kicking and scraping at the sentries who carried her, Tiffany screamed at the top of her lungs. The pilot’s face was covered by a dusty brown sack, forced over her head shortly after she’d been dragged from the hangar. She could taste the sackcloth in her mouth; its fibers touched her tongue every time she screamed.
“Somebody help me please!” Her words were tear-stricken, frantic. The sentries began a downward descent; Tiffany’s ears popped to adjust to new depths. The air grew mustier. One of the sentries spoke—a language she didn’t understand. His voice reverberated like a machine’s. She was violently thrust forward.
Hands freed, she ripped the sack from her head, whirling around just in time to see a stone door groan shut, slicing off the lone shaft of light that had been there. Darkness consumed her. Scrambling to the door, she pounded her hands upon its slimy surface. “Let me out! Somebody let me out!” Each syllable was accompanied by its own panicked heave. She pressed her forehead to the stone, her face locked with tears.
A dark blue hue emanated from behind her. The blonde spun around and shrieked. Someone was there. The light was just enough to betray his form—a cape and broad shoulders, and a visor hat that blacked out his face. He stood like a statue. Tiffany scampered backward into a corner.
“What is your name?” His voice reverberated off the stone—an emotionless drone.
Tiffany flinched. The voice repeated itself. Body trembling in terror, she answered, “Tiffany Feathers.”
Silence. The man looked at her, his visor hat turning slowly her direction. He didn’t seem to breathe.
“Please let me go,” she said, fingers grabbing the tangled hair by her scalp. The pilot’s lips quivered.
“What was your mission?”
“My mission?”
“Yes,” the voice said.
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
The man’s tone never changed. “You were dispatched to a location in North America. What was your mission?”
“Noboats. We were called out to some Noboats.”
“Continue.”
She pressed harder against the corner. “We went to Lake Drummond. We got intercepted by some other ships. Four Vindicators and two Vultures.”
“The Vulture you arrived in. Was it one of them?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, please let me go.”
Her pleas were ignored. “How did you acquire this aircraft?”
Pushing her hair back, she said, “They landed. We thought they were trying to find us. But they abandoned their ships.”
“Where did they go?”
“I don’t know. They just went outside. I snuck on board, I was going to try and rescue my friends and fly us away. But the ship’s autopilot engaged.” Her breathing intensified. “I couldn’t turn it off, then I found that comm and talked to Travis—he said I was in his ship—”
He cut her off. “Were the operatives who tried to kill you from EDEN?”
“Yes!” She seemed eager to answer. “Yes, they were! I don’t know why they attacked—”
“Is your intent to destroy this facility?”
Tiffany blinked. “What? No…no!”
“Are you part of a conspiracy to destroy the Nightman sect?”
“No!”
“Remove your clothes.”
Silence struck the stone room. Tiffany’s mouth hung open. “W-What?”
“Remove your clothes.”
Panic hit her. “No, wait! Why do—”
The form moved. Its arm lifted until it pointed straight at her. The contours of a pistol glinted in the lighting. “You will remove your clothes, or we will.”
Breaths sharpening, she opened her mouth to plea once more. A shot rang out—the bullet ricocheted off the stone above her, she screamed and ducked down. Her words poured out amid heaves. “Okay! Okay!” Fingers shivering, she unzipped her flight suit. “Please don’t rape me.” She repeated the words between every sob.
The form said nothing, nor did it move. It remained statuesque, its pistol aiming straight for her head.
It took several minutes for Tiffany to completely undress. On the verge of hysteria, she threw her clothes at the man’s feet. She curled into a ball.
“You are now the property of the Nightmen,” he said. “You will not attempt to leave this facility. You will not attempt to contact any outside source. Failure to follow these rules will result in your termination.” At the conclusion of the words, he bent down and retrieved her clothes.
Lifting her head slightly, Tiffany watched as the faint blue hue faded away. The cell was pitched in darkness. From the back of the room, the sound of stone grinding against stone cut through the silence. The man’s footsteps stepped backward. Stone grinded again, then silence prevailed.
Arms hugging her exposed body, Tiffany exhaled in cold, shivering breaths. “Hello?” Her echo was the only response she received. Wobbling to her feet, she pressed against the wall, searching its damp, slimy surface for any kind of crease. Slamming her palms against the wall, she screamed as loud as she could. “Someone let me out!”
On the opposite side of the hidden stone door, Thoor handed Tiffany’s clothes to one of the fulcrums beside him. “I want every piece analyzed for tracking devices. If any are found, contact me immediately.”
“Yes, general,” said the fulcrum.
“Clothe her, then assign her to the pilot.”
The fulcrum canted his head. “The pilot, general?”
“Navarro, from the Fourteenth. He brought her to safety—being with him will alleviate her fear. She has tasted terror. Now we will give her someone to confide in. If she possesses information, it will flow freely to him.”
“But general, what if Navarro defies you? What if he sets her free or aids her in contacting EDEN?”
“He knows better.”
Reservedly, the fulcrum acknowledged.
“Instruct him not to let her escape from his sight. She is not to leave, nor may she contact anyone outside of this facility.” Once again, the fulcrum affirmed. “Go.”
 *
TWENTY MINUTES LATER
TRAVIS WAS STILL in the hangar, despite the sentry’s earlier instructions to return to Room 14. He hadn’t been able to tear himself from the scene around the Pariah. Technicians were hauling out entire consoles. The ship’s interior was being disassembled. As the ravaging went on, the color in Travis’s face continually drained.
A new sound emerged behind him: a woman’s screaming mingled with intense moments of struggle. Turning quickly, Travis watched as Tiffany was hauled back into view. Breaking away from the Pariah, he ran in her direction. “Hey! Let her go!”
She wore an EDEN uniform that was oversized. When Travis approached, the sentries pushed her toward him. The moment she made contact with Travis, she violently shoved him back.
“Get away from me!”
He raised his hands up. “Whoa, whoa! It’s okay!”
“Don’t touch me! Who are you people?”
“I’m not one of them!” He shook his head vehemently. “Do I look like one of them? I kept you alive, remember?”
One of the sentries approached him. “She is not to leave The Machine. She is not to contact the outside world.”
Blinking, Travis said, “Hang on, wait a minute—”
“Should she violate either of these rules, both of you will be terminated.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Then it clicked. “Wait, no! No way! You expect me to…?” Tiffany listened as the conversation continued.
“She has been assigned to you. You are to ensure she adheres to our orders.”
Travis’s face fell. “I can’t watch this girl! I’ve got a unit to pilot, I just got my ship back! You gotta give her to someone else.”
“She will remain in your custody until she is needed elsewhere.”
“Wait,” said a still-flustered Tiffany, “I’m to remain in his custody?”
“She must never leave your sight.”
Travis lost it. “That’s impossible, man! What if I gotta work on the ship? What if I gotta take a dump?”
“Make it work.”
“Make it work?”
Tiffany quickly backed away. “Hell no! I’m not gonna sit by this guy while he takes a dump!”
“See?” proclaimed Travis. “She’s gonna run off first chance she gets!”
“I am not here to give you solutions,” answered the sentry. “She is to remain with you at all times. Ensuring that happens is your concern.”
Travis threw his hands up. “How the heck am I supposed to do that? Handcuff myself to her?”
The sentry turned and walked away.
Pointing at Travis, Tiffany slowly stepped back. “You listen to me. I’ve been shot down, shipped to Russia, stripped naked, and interrogated by a creeper.” She slowly backtracked. “I am not staying with you! I’m going after my friends.”
“You can’t, Tiffany.”
“Watch me.”
“News flash! You’re in Novosibirsk. What are you gonna do, hail a cab?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve already stolen one ship today.”
“Look,” he said exasperatedly, “I know things are crazy for you right now—”
“You know?” Her volume rose; she pointed to the west. “I just watched my entire platoon get shot down! I just watched half my friends die, and the other half is still out there. And you think you know?”
He rolled his eyes.
She inhaled sharply. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
She sneered back. “You totally did. You did like this,” she said, rolling her eyes in demonstration.
“What? I so did not!”
Her eyes narrowed scathingly. “You’re a sucky eye-roller and a liar.”
“Okay, time out. Let’s start this thing over,” Travis said. “I’m not your enemy. I’m not gonna try to shoot you, I’m not gonna try to strip you—”
“Hell no you’re not gonna strip me!”
His hands flailed. “Stop! Just stop! Let me talk without interrupting—”
“You were talking about stripping me!”
“I said I wasn’t going to strip you!”
She yelled, “Then why’d you use that word if it wasn’t on your mind?”
“It was contextual reassurance!”
“What?”
Travis’s palms hit his face.
All of a sudden, a gloved hand grabbed Travis’s right wrist. Tiffany’s wrist was clutched, too. Before either of them could react, they were thrust together as handcuffs snapped closed between them.
Travis’s eyes widened. “No freakin’ way!”
The sentry nodded pleasingly. “That was a really good idea.”
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no!” exclaimed Tiffany. “This is not cool!”
“I wasn’t suggesting that you actually handcuff us together!” said Travis.
“He said he had to take a dump!”
Travis shot her a stupid face. “I didn’t say I had to take a dump, I said I might have to take one in the future.”
“Oh, whatever, as if there’s any chance you’ll never have to take a dump again in your life!”
“Well hell, it’s the same for you!”
“Oh yeah? Well I can hold it.”
“For freakin’ days?”
“We’re not gonna be together for freakin’ days!”
The sentry quietly snuck away.
 *
ROOM 14 WAS buzzing with activity. The moment word leaked from Max and William that the Pariah had returned, every single Fourteenth operative—the lone exception being Travis—flocked to Room 14 in search of answers. The burden of finding them fell on Dostoevsky.
Several things had been relayed to Dostoevsky from the Citadel, all of which he conveyed to the Fourteenth. Several transports had been shot down. Klaus Faerber’s son was aboard one of them. The Pariah was among the interceptors. That all of the interceptors, the Pariah included, had made a beeline for Novosibirsk immediately after their attack was as damning as evidence could be against the base known as The Machine. And according to the Citadel’s claim to Dostoevsky, that was exactly the way EDEN wanted it.
The key was the Pariah itself. It had been shipped off for repair, away from Novosibirsk. It was never returned, the word from EDEN being that it was unsalvageable. Clearly, it had been salvaged.
The question was why?
It smelled of a setup. Novosibirsk had been lied to by EDEN, that much was provable—at least from Novosibirsk’s point of view. But if this was indeed a setup, EDEN would undoubtedly deny that the Pariah or any vessel from Novosibirsk had ever been shipped to them for repair. And if that was believed by the rest of the world, as it likely would be, then only one truth would be plainly visible to them: Novosibirsk had just killed Klaus Faerber’s son.
“So if everything in the world points to us,” David asked, “how are we supposed to prove that it wasn’t us?”
Dostoevsky answered, “A woman pilot flew the Pariah back to The Machine. I don’t know who she is, or if she is involved in anything—”
“She’s not,” Max tactfully interrupted. “Just trust me on that one.”
The fulcrum nodded. “Regardless, she may be the key.”
“So Thoor could just show this girl to the rest of the world, right?” asked David. “She can tell them what really happened.”
Hesitating, Dostoevsky said, “At this time, that is not what the general wishes to do—not yet. We do not know if EDEN knows she is here. I think the general wants to let EDEN accuse him first, so that when she is revealed, it will be in the wake of their deception.”
“We need to tell Scott this,” said Svetlana. “He needs to know what is going on.”
“He will find out soon enough, if not by us, by the rest of the world. If Faerber’s son was indeed on one of those ships, this will be a global event.”
“Hell o’ a way to make the world turn on yeh,” Becan said. “Kill the son o’ its most beloved hero.”
“If it’s a set-up, it’s genius,” said David.
Svetlana spoke again. “Yuri, we must tell Scott the truth. If he hears this from the news, he will not know what really happened.”
“We cannot do that, Sveta. It could compromise his cover. He will find out the truth, rest assured.”
“He knows what they told us about the Pariah,” said David. “That it couldn’t be repaired. He’ll know something’s not right.”
The door to Room 14 was suddenly and wildly flung open. A calamitous racket of footsteps and shouts followed.
“It’s gotta be there, it’s gotta be there!”
“Ow! You jerk, stop moving so fast!”
“Time is of the essence. I have to move fast!”
After a flurry of bewildered stares, the occupants of the lounge rose from their chairs and rushed to the bunk room, where Travis was frantically tearing through one of the closet toolboxes. Handcuffed to his wrist was the battered blond pilot.
“I got it!” said Travis, pulling a handsaw from the toolbox. He and the woman separated their handcuffed wrists as Travis began to furiously saw.
“What the hell?” Max asked.
Stopping the saw motion, Travis inspected the cuffs, then chucked the saw back in the closet. “Veck!”
“Travis, what is the meaning of this?” Dostoevsky asked firmly.
“They cuffed us together!” answered Travis. “A sentry did it. He said I was responsible for watching her!”
Tiffany waved timidly at the Fourteenth. “Hello.” She returned to Travis. “Okay, seriously. Fix this now.”
“Travis, why are you watching her?” asked Max.
Throwing up his free hand, Travis answered, “I don’t know! Why does anything here happen the way it does? Why’s the food suck? Why are there Nightmen? Why do we have a dog?” He pointed at Flopper, whose tail was wagging merrily.
“Oh, he’s cute!” Tiffany said.
“Whoa!” said William. “Is that the chick from the comm?”
“Yes, Will, this is the ‘chick from the comm.’”
“Dude,” William said, silently mouthing to Travis the word hot.
Tiffany was deadpanned. “I could totally just read that.”
Dostoevsky was less than amused. “Travis, stop digging around. We need to discuss this.”
“No,” Tiffany said, “he needs to cut this thing so I can go get my friends!”
William’s eyes sparkled. “She’s got friends?”
“Not those kinds of friends, idiot,” said Travis.
Max cleared his throat. “I don’t want to rain on you guys’ parade, but you ain’t cuttin’ through those.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those are tungsten carbide. Unless you got a diamond hacksaw sittin’ around, you might as well start rehearsing your vows.”
Shaking her head emphatically, Tiffany said, “There is like, no way I’m staying attached to this dork. There’s gotta be a key.”
“Yeah, there’s a key,” Max answered, “but if a sentry hooked you guys up, count me out of the team tryin’ to find it. I don’t feel like getting shot in the face.”
Covering his face, Travis fell on his rear. As soon as Tiffany’s hand followed, she yanked it back. “Stop pulling me!”
“I can’t help it!”
“Why are you giving up? Go talk to that sentry guy!”
Travis growled loudly. “Max is right. If a Nightman has the key, there’s no way we’re getting it back. They’d shoot us for asking.”
“Okay,” said Tiffany, eyeing everyone, “what the hell is a Nightman?”
Silence fell over the room—no one wanted to answer. After several seconds, Dostoevsky addressed the group. “Max, Sveta, David, stay. The rest of you, go find something to do.”
The unselected operatives groaned.
Tiffany turned, jerking Travis’s wrist. “You heard the man, let’s go.”
“Not you,” the fulcrum said irritatingly. “You two are obviously staying.”
The blonde’s eyes narrowed.
Within a minute, the unselected operatives had left Room 14, leaving Dostoevsky, Max, Svetlana, David, and the linked Travis and Tiffany alone. They moved to the lounge, where Travis and Tiffany claimed a table together. To ensure their privacy, Dostoevsky closed and locked the lounge door.
“All right,” said the fulcrum. “Talk.” His focus fell on Tiffany. “What is your name?”
Her face fell. “No. Freaking. Way. I am not doing this again!”
Dostoevsky raised an eyebrow.
“When I got here they stuck a sack on my head and dragged me down to some musty old cellar where they were asking me all these questions about who I was, what happened, and if I was trying to bring down the ‘Nightman sect,’ whatever that’s supposed to be.”
Waving his hand, Dostoevsky said, “I am not going to do that to you, I promise. I am asking who you are because I want to know. I am Yuri Dostoevsky, acting captain of the Fourteenth.”
“That’s not a captain’s uniform.”
He eyed his black jumpsuit. “I am what is known as a fulcrum. It is a position of leadership among the Nightmen.”
She ugh-ed.
“If I may?” David intervened. “I’m from EDEN, too, Miss…” He eyed her nametag. “…Medvedev?”
“Yeah,” she sighed. “This is totally not my uniform.”
“Right. Anyway. You’re probably wondering what’s up with all the black people everywhere.”
Her brow furrowed. “What black people?”
“No—no, not those kinds of black people.”
“See what I’ve been dealing with?” Travis asked.
David continued. “The people wearing black uniforms. They’re called Nightmen. They used to be a Russian military sect, disbanded a long time ago. As you can see, they’re not exactly disbanded today.” She seemed to be listening. “The Nightmen run this base, even though it belongs to EDEN. People like us, in EDEN, are kind of like…guests.”
“More like hostages with room and board,” mumbled Max.
“The captain here,” said David, pointing to Dostoevsky, “he’s a Nightman, too. He’s a fulcrum—it’s like a rank.”
She raised a free hand. “What makes them different from EDEN?”
From the other side of the lounge door, William yelled, “Because they murder people!”
David pounded his fist. “Damn it, Will!”
Kicking at the lounge door, Dostoevsky said, “If I hear any of you in that room again, you will all get beaten!” Footsteps could be heard retreating back to the hall. The bunk room door closed.
Tiffany looked mortified. “Nightmen murder people?” She stared at Dostoevsky.
“That probably wasn’t the best way for you to hear that,” said David.
“Not all Nightmen are like you think,” Dostoevsky said with resignation.
Tiffany pushed back her hair, dragging Travis’s hand along. “I just want to go back to Richmond.”
Upon mention of the base, David blinked. “You came from Richmond?” She nodded. “Some of us came here from Richmond, too! You ever heard of Falcon Platoon?”
“Umm, yah. That’s totally my unit.”
David’s face fell. “Wait a minute. What?”
“My unit, my friends. We’re in Charlie Squad of Falcon Platoon.” She blinked. “Hey, wait a minute, are you Remington?” At the mention of Scott’s name, Svetlana’s eyes widened.
“Remington’s our captain!” said David. “You mean to tell me you’re part of Colonel Lilan’ crew?”
Tiffany nodded emphatically. “That’s why we have to get back! Everyone who survived is hiding in the marsh. If we don’t rescue them, they’re gonna die!”
“How many survived?” David asked. “Did Lilan and Tacker make it?”
Frowning, Tiffany answered, “The colonel did. But Major Tacker was riding with Delta. They didn’t make it.”
“My God.” David ran his hand over his head. “Who else made it? Those were our friends.”
“Cat made it, so did Javon, Tom, and Donald. And Lilan. That’s it.”
“If you mean Donald Bell, I knew him. Lilan’s the only other name I recognize.”
“I think a lot of people have changed since you’ve been there. They either got transferred, or got preggers, or whatever.”
David tilted his head strangely. “Someone got pregnant?”
Before either of them could speak further, Travis cleared his throat. “Okay, this is a wonderful conversation and all, but can we please focus on this?” He lifted he and Tiffany’s cuffed wrists.
“Yeah,” said Tiffany, “we need to be separated so I can go get my friends!”
David looked at Dostoevsky. “Captain, I know this isn’t exactly convenient, but if there are survivors on the ground, they could be more evidence that this is a set-up against Novosibirsk.” He hesitated. “And those are some of my friends, too.”
Max folded his arms. “Not to cut off the good captain before he can answer, but EDEN sent Superwolves to take Tiffany down, Dave. That airspace is gonna be infested.”
“There’s gotta be a way!” said Tiffany. “We can’t just leave them there.”
Closing his eyes, Dostoevsky lowered his head. It wasn’t prayer—just contemplation. After several seconds, he looked up again. “There may be a way.” As the others watched him expectantly, he turned toward the exit.
“Where you goin’?” asked Max.
“To talk to General Thoor,” the fulcrum answered.
 *
THOOR WAS IN the middle of an emergency meeting with his counsel when Dostoevsky marched into the Throne Room. The others present—Oleg, Antipov, Marusich, Saretok, and Krylov—turned to regard the once-revered fulcrum.
“I thought I smelled something,” said Oleg in Russian.
“You come here unrequested,” Thoor said coldly.
Ignoring Oleg, Dostoevsky focused on Thoor. “I come to offer a solution.”
“I offered him a solution a long time ago,” said Oleg, “but he didn’t let me kill you.”
“Strakhov, quiet,” Thoor’s gaze returned to Dostoevsky. “To which problem does your solution pertain?”
“The rest of the unit from Richmond—Falcon Platoon,” Dostoevsky said. “There is a way for us to rescue them undetected.”
Several members of the counsel swapped smirks. The general responded, “Do you not think we have considered using our Noboat?”
It was indeed the solution Dostoevsky had in mind. The general went on.
“It presents too great a risk. We cannot lose it to interception, and even if we do rescue the survivors and return, EDEN will have detected its materialization. If they trace it to us, it will be used as additional evidence against us.”
Dostoevsky shook his head. “We must try, general. These survivors can vouch for the actions against us.”
“We already possess one survivor,” Thoor said. “We need no others. She alone is evidence of their treachery.”
Looking at Dostoevsky, Oleg spoke conciliatorily. “For the record, Yuri, I agree with you. The rest of our brethren do not share our opinion.”
Slamming a fist into his palm for emphasis, Dostoevsky kept on. “This is important, general. One testimony is insignificant, but many will make an impact.”
For several seconds, the general said nothing; he simply stared at the impassioned fulcrum. Finally, calculatingly, he canted his head. “If one testimony is insignificant, why do you infect my people with yours?”
It took a moment for the low-blow to set in. Dostoevsky’s eyes narrowed.
Oleg spoke again. “I agree that there is more to gain than to lose by rescuing the survivors. Even if they detect dematerialization, how will they know that it comes from us? Unless they see us leave the ship, they will only be able to claim that the Bakma briefly surveyed the scene. That is not unlike things the Bakma have done before.”
“There is nothing more to gain,” Thoor said again. “We have one witness—that is enough.”
Clearing his throat, Dostoevsky said, “The survivors are comrades of Remington.” Eyebrows rose across the counsel—Thoor’s included. “The unit that was shot down—it is the unit that Remington and his comrades were transferred from.”
As Dostoevsky kept speaking, Thoor’s expression drifted in contem plation.
“That could be of value. The girl, Tiffany, says that the captain of the unit is one of the survivors. Would it not be beneficial to have a captain as a witness? Tiffany is a young, inexperienced woman. Will the media believe her words, or will they think that she has been deceived by us into believing we are innocent?” This time, it was Dostoevsky’s voice that grew calculated. “But to have a captain as a witness…that is altogether different. His testimony brings legitimacy. And when the world is ready to turn on you, legitimacy is a very powerful tool.”
Silence came over the counsel. For several long seconds, the only sounds in the Throne Room were the flickers of the wall torches and the drips of things unseen. It was Oleg who finally broke the quiet.
“Let us do this, general. The Noboat will not be traced back to Novosibirsk. We are Nightmen. We do not fail.”
The Terror’s eyes distanced, before they shifted back to Dostoevsky. He lifted his chin. “Very well, Strakhov. You will lead the First on the recovery mission.” Oleg nodded; Thoor returned to Dostoevsky. “Inform Voronova that she will accompany them on the Noboat.”
Blinking, Dostoevsky said, “General?”
“If the survivors are injured, they will require a competent medic. Who better to risk on your plan than your own?”
“General, please! I will go myself. I will find another medic as competent as—”
“It has been decided, captain of the Fourteenth,” Thoor said. “Voronova alone will accompany the First.” He turned to Oleg. “Take whatever Bakma you need from Confinement to operate the Noboat. Take Marusich, Krylov, and whatever other operatives from the First you will require. Begin now. Time has just become critical.”
“Yes, general.”
Looking at Dostoevsky, Thoor observed the horrified expression on his face. He slowly leaned forward. “How do you like your plan now?”
24
THURSDAY, MARCH 15TH, 0012 NE
1735 HOURS
OLEG, MARUSICH, AND Krylov marched into Confinement, their brazen paces and expressions more than enough to alert everyone in the room—scientist and specimen alike—that something beyond the norm was amiss. From behind his glass-partitioned cell, Tauthin observed the three Nightmen as they engaged in a heated discussion with Petrov, the chief scientist. Then they turned to Wuteel’s cell.
“He is the engineer,” said Petrov, motioning to Wuteel, “but you will have to take the Ithini as well.”
“No,” said Oleg. “That will allow them to conspire telepathically. You will come. You speak their language. You will intermediate. What other captives will we require?”
“I do not know. Ask Wuteel.”
“Open his cell.”
Petrov complied, and Wuteel was grabbed by the collar and jerked into the open room.
“Tai-kash`na vi-krola, nish-gassa Voruu?” Petrov asked the Bakma.
Wuteel looked at the human strangely, then spouted off a lengthy answer. Petrov looked at Oleg. “He says two—him to monitor the engine room and one to sit in the bridge.” The scientist turned to Tauthin’s cell. “He says that one, Tauthinilaas. He is a supervisor. But he is smart; you cannot trust him. If you put them in a Noboat, they will try to escape.”
Oleg shouldered his rifle. “If he is smart as you claim, he will know what kind of mistake that would be. Bring him!”
Meanwhile, in Room 14, Dostoevsky broke the news to the rest of the crew: Svetlana had been ordered on the rescue mission. As could have been expected, a verbal fight ensued.
“This is not what I wanted!” said Dostoevsky. “I told him to take me instead, that I would find another medic, but he would not listen. He wanted it to be Sveta.”
David was at the forefront of the opposing side. “There’s no way she’s going on that ship with Oleg! Yuri, were you out of your mind?”
Dostoevsky was almost snarling. “I did not have a choice. Oleg will not harm her—that I know. With Scott in Cairo, she is too valuable an asset for Thoor to risk losing.”
“But what if the freakin’ ship gets shot down?” Max fired in return. “What if EDEN blows our little asset out of the sky?”
Fanning her face furiously, Svetlana listened as the group went backand-forth. She was too flustered for words.
“Tell him I wanna go instead!” said Tiffany. “They’re gonna need me, anyway. How else is my squad supposed to know to go with them?”
“None of us expected Sveta to be chosen, but she has been,” Dostoevsky said. “Thoor will not allow the mission to go any other way.”
“Did you even stand up to him?” asked Max. “Did you even fight for her at all?”
Displeasure struck the fulcrum. “What would you have done, Max?”
“I’d’ve punched that dregg in the face!”
“At which point you would have been shot dead, and Svetlana would have been taken anyway. Am I wrong?”
The technician said nothing.
“One must pick his battles, Max,” Dostoevsky said. “There is being a hero, then there is being foolish. Who here knew that Sveta would be ordered on this mission? No one. But we asked for this. Now we must deal with it.” He knelt next to Svetlana. “You have experience in things like this. You have been with us on many missions. The First is strong—they are the best of all units in Novosibirsk. Perhaps better than us.”
“If something happens to her, it’s on your head, Yuri,” said David.
Svetlana spoke to David before Dostoevsky could defend himself. “It is not, David. Everything Yuri says is true. He could not have done anything to stop this. This is how Thoor is. This is how he controls. If he wants something, he gets it, or everyone hurts. For this mission, he wants me.” She exhaled gravely. “I must go.”
“Becan’s gonna go ballistic when he finds this out.”
“Then explain to him the truth,” she said, “and assure him that I will be okay.”
Rising to the forefront, Dostoevsky spoke again. “We need to get you to the Citadel. From there, they will take you to the hangar with the Noboat.”
She nodded quietly.
“Everyone else, pray,” said Dostoevsky. “If you want to help, that is how.”
As Svetlana rose, Tiffany leapt up and rushed to her. Travis yelped as his wrist was jerked along. “Please be okay,” said the blond pilot. “I didn’t mean for anyone else to be dragged into this.”
“I will be okay,” Svetlana said, smiling. “Trust me, this unit has been through much worse.”
Tiffany nodded solemnly. “Look for a girl named Cat. That’s my friend. They were heading toward the eastern side of the lake—that’s where I was supposed to pick them up. I don’t know where they would have gone after. The coastline’s far away, but they may have still started heading in that direction. Cat has a broken leg, so they can’t move fast.”
Svetlana nodded.
Urging her toward the door, Dostoevsky said, “We need to go, Sveta.”
As the rest of the group looked on, Dostoevsky and Svetlana left from the lounge. David, Max, Tiffany, and Travis were left alone.
 *
SVETLANA’S JOURNEY to Novosibirsk’s hidden hangar was as unconventional a trek as she had ever experienced. After armoring up, she was led to the Citadel of The Machine by Dostoevsky—a place she’d never been before. A brown sack was unceremoniously placed over her head, where she was informed it would remain for the duration of their journey.
East, west, north, south—at some point, they walked in each direction. Dostoevsky explained that the confusion was meant to discourage visitors from memorizing the route to the hangar. Only a select few Nightmen knew the hangar’s location. Prior to that particular journey, not even Dostoevsky had been among them. Twenty minutes later, the walking subsided, and the brown sack was removed. Before Svetlana sat the Bakma Noboat.
The Noboat’s dark, ray-like wings hovered over the ground, giving the ship a lifelike quality that made it seem as if at any moment, it would come to life and glide across the ground like it was on the ocean floor. The massive engine grill sat idle on the rear of the ship, its metal gratings as cold as the surface temperatures outside. Beneath its forward hull, sticking out beyond the nose as if designed to announce their intent, were dual plasma cannons.
This was the chariot of the enemy, a vessel that had been to other stars, possibly other galaxies. Sometime long ago, Bakma had boarded this ship for the first time, preparing to travel to that small blue dot lost in an arm of the Milky Way. They’d passed whole other worlds, sailed through cosmic dust like pirates on an intergalactic brigantine. And that brigantine—that extraterrestrial lifeboat of destruction—was sitting in their hangar.
“Hello, Svetlana,” said Oleg as he approached her. The neatly-bearded Russian stared smugly. “Don’t worry. It’s not time to kill you yet.” Pushing past her, he proceeded to make his way toward the vessel.
Beneath the sky-blue tint of her EDEN visor, Svetlana’s eyes narrowed.
“Are you okay?” asked Dostoevsky.
She nodded. “There are many things that frighten me. He is not among them.”
Concern was etched across Dostoevsky’s face. He hesitated before speaking. “I did not mean for it to come to this, Sveta.”
She silenced him with a hard shh. “You are a good man, Yuri. I am proud of who you have become. This is not your fault.” When his somber expression remained, she leaned forward and placed a kiss against his cheek. She smiled sincerely. “It was not so long ago I slapped you there. What a difference faith makes.”
Very faintly, a smile escaped from Dostoevsky’s lips. “If I recall, you slapped me more times than I was kissed.”
“Ha!” The blonde winked well-intently. “When I come back, I’ll finish the job.”
“Save those for Remington,” said the fulcrum. “He will be eager for them when he returns.”
At the mention of Scott’s name, her countenance deepened. “Yuri, if something happens—”
“Nothing will happen,” he cut her off gently, pointing upward. “Faith.” Her smile returned, and she turned for the ship.
Oleg was waiting when Svetlana approached the ramp. Marusich and Krylov were standing beside him. “Welcome to the First, Svetlana,” Oleg said. “Board, and we will depart.”
Without a word, Svetlana—the lone person in an EDEN uniform—walked up the ramp.
Though far from the largest of alien vessels, Noboats were nonetheless quite larger than Vultures. They had to be. Not only were they troop transports, they were habitats.
There was a smell to Noboats that was impossible to remove. It was part Bakma, part something else—an acidic, almost silicone odor that all Noboats shared—a pungent tang that struck as soon as one entered the antechamber. It was as prominent as it was sour.
Every span of ceiling space was aligned with pipes and conduits ranging in color from dark gray to deep violet. White contour lighting followed every angle and corner, ensuring that every pathway in the vessel was, while not well lit, lit just the same. Despite the Noboat’s curved exterior, the interior was hard and rigid. It was industrially extraterrestrial.
Upon entering a Noboat, one was immediately offered a choice of left or ahead and right. Ahead and right led to the ship’s only true hallway—a short corridor lined with several rooms: an armory, supply room, kitchen, stable, brig, crew quarters, and engineering section. If one chose the left, they were taken straight through a pair of security doors into the bridge, a large, octagonal room with several “essential” stations: one for a pilot, a navigator, an engineer, and a captain. Or at least, those titles were the closest human equivalents.
The Noboat was bustling with activity, almost all of it Nightman. Almost. As soon as Svetlana entered the bridge, she caught sight of the all-too-familiar Bakma sitting in the pilot’s chair. The Bakma caught sight of her, too.
“Setana?” His bulbous eyes widening, Tauthin rose from the chair. The action was met by immediate hostility, as a guarding Nightman slammed his hand on Tauthin’s shoulder and shoved him back down.
Svetlana came to the alien’s defense, all acrimony from their conversation in Confinement cast aside. “Leave him alone.” The words were more order than request. “He was calling for me, idiot.” Her gaze returned to Tauthin. “Are you okay?”
“He cannot understand you,” the slayer said. Svetlana ignored him.
Tauthin spoke to Svetlana simply. “Remata haar?”
She frowned and answered, “No, he is not here.” She pointed to herself, then to him. “Only me and you.”
“Noh,” said the alien. “Meah, yuu, Wuteel.”
“Who?” she asked.
The slayer interrupted again. “Stop speaking to him, woman.”
Glaring at the Nightman, Tauthin enunciated in near-perfect Russian, “Zaat-knis.” A smirk stretched across Svetlana’s face. Tauthin went on. “En-gin room. Wuteel is. Con-traala.”
“Someone else is in the engine room,” she said, nodding. “I understand.”
Oleg’s voice captured the bridge. “Everyone, pay attention! We go, we rescue the survivors, then we return! This operation is quick and direct.” He sat in the captain’s chair. “It is time,” he said to the slayer by Tauthin.
Nodding, the slayer set his comm to speaker mode. “It is time, Petrov,” he spoke into it. The scientist’s voice emerged from the other end.
“Understood.”
On the other end of the ship, Wuteel stood behind the guard rail that surrounded the quartz crystal—the heart of the Noboat’s chameleon technology. The scrawny alien engineer was surrounded by slayers, their assault rifles pointing at him from every direction. Petrov, present as well, looked at Wuteel. “Now,” he said in Bakmanese. Without a word, Wuteel placed his gnarled hands on a control panel by the railing.
In the bridge, Petrov’s voice came over the slayer’s comm. “Wuteel is ready, captain.”
Oleg acknowledged the update from his chair. “Thank you, Petrov.”
Without warning, Tauthin rose from the pilot’s seat. A flurry of weapons were aimed at him. The alien froze.
“You fools,” said Svetlana, standing between the alien and the Nightmen. “Do you really think he is trying to escape? Where would he go? Find out what he is trying to do before you point your guns at him!”
“What is going on?” asked Petrov over the comm.
A flurry of words flew from Tauthin’s mouth as his irritated eyes darted from Oleg, to the slayer, to the comm. Petrov’s voice was heard, as a lengthy exchange in Bakmanese ensued. Finally, the scientist spoke in Russian. “He says he must go to another station, that it takes more than one person to operate the bridge. He is not a pilot by nature—he is a captain. He says he must now play multiple roles.”
Svetlana leaned toward the alien, speaking softly. “Where do you need to go?” Extending his arm, the alien pointed to a console on the port side of the bridge. Svetlana turned to Oleg. “See? That is all you need to do. He is not a fool, he will not try to fight you all.”
After giving Svetlana a hard stare, Oleg motioned toward the indicated console.
Tauthin didn’t move. Instead, he spoke sidelong into the comm. His words were passionate—guttural. He seemed angry. Once again, Petrov emerged to translate. “He says he cannot be questioned every time he moves. If you want to fly this ship with only two crew members, you must let them work together without interference.” The scientist paused. “You should let them work, captain. I will be here to monitor their discussions.”
Across the bridge, Marusich folded his arms disapprovingly.
“As you say,” said Oleg to Petrov. The fulcrum stared at Tauthin, slowly leaning forward. “I challenge you to try and deceive my crew, alien. Go to your controls.”
Wrinkling his knobby brow, Tauthin’s cheekbones lifted as his wirethin lips pulled back. His jagged teeth were revealed.
“It is okay,” said Svetlana, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Just do what you need to do.”
Rising from the pilot’s chair, Tauthin walked to the port console. The slayer with the comm followed him.
“Lekasha`tasshki. Kuris ta-vech,” said Tauthin loudly.
Petrov translated, “Preparing for zone generation.”
“Zone generation?” Oleg asked.
Tauthin’s fingers moved over the control panel. The bridge’s white contour lights faded, a dark red hue taking their place. Everyone in the bridge tensed. Tauthin spoke on.
“Energy level, clear,” translated Petrov. “Hull integrity, clear. Atmospheric analysis, complete.”
In the engine room, Wuteel’s focus remained on the control panel by the quartz crystal. “Ni-digash, tuun-si, daga.”
Petrov shook his head disapprovingly. “I do not know all of his words,” he confessed into the comm. “He said something is beginning.”
Wuteel’s hands worked the engine room controls furiously, shifting his focus between the panel and the crystal. “Tukissa-jun di, valasha tenkaa.”
All of a sudden, a pair of massive metallic arms unfolded up from the floor. Every Nightman in the engine room flinched as the arms extended upward and outward to surround the crystal on two sides.
“Nish-ta,” Wuteel said.
“Engaging!” said Petrov in translation. The scientist’s voice was quivering.
“What is engaging?” asked Oleg from the bridge.
Petrov shouted back, “I do not know. I cannot understand!”
“You are here because you know their language!”
“They are not using simple words,” said Petrov exasperatingly. “This is technical speak, scientific terminology. I do not know this.”
The Nightmen on the bridge flinched as the lights changed again, this time from red to dark blue.
The metallic arms began to orbit the crystal as a loud hum emerged from every direction. Wuteel’s arm muscles tensed. “Vish kin-dar, Uman.”
A sensation like electricity filled the air in the bridge. The humans’ hairs stiffened.
“He says to prepare ourselves!” said Petrov.
Tauthin continued on the controls. “Dunishni Nish-ta gen.”
“Grounding discharge!”
The humans’ hairs fell limp again.
Svetlana’s heart pounded. She clutched a guard rail next to Tauthin’s console, darting her eyes in every direction as the bridge—and the rest of the ship—came alive. Her breathing intensified.
In the engine room, the metal arms had spun to the point of blurring. Inside them, the crystal was glowing blindingly white. The humans in the room shielded their eyes; Wuteel scrutinized the display. “Valasha zaan.”
“Established!” shouted Petrov over the hum. “Something is established!”
“Raag-nech ta-vech!” said Tauthin.
“Generating rift!”
“Raag-nech ta-vasch!”
“Rift Generated!”
Oleg rose from his chair. “Rift? What rift?”
Tauthin’s whole body tensed. “Kor-eeshna mag`ahn!”
“Beginning dimensional shift!”
“Dimensional?” asked Oleg, his eyes widening.
There was a deafening crackle, as if ten thousand lightning bolts had suddenly struck the bridge. For a fraction of a second, everything flashed white. Svetlana clutched the rail with both arms.
There was a second flash, as vibrant as the first, as the crackling sound of voltage subsided with a sizzle. The acidic smell of the ship grew sharper. Then, stillness.
In the engine room, the brightness of the crystal subsided. The mechanical arms continued to spin, their pace slower. The Nightmen and Petrov, all gripping whatever sturdy object was nearest them, slowly unshielded their eyes. Unaffected, Wuteel stood by the console.
As collective breathing resumed in the bridge, Tauthin glanced at Svetlana. “O-ver.”
Her heart was pounding, her skin paled. She looked at Tauthin with terrified eyes. So did half of the Nightmen. Looking back slowly at Oleg, Tauthin spoke loudly.
Petrov translated again. “He says we are in the Zone.”
Even Oleg had been affected by the happenings. Chest moving up and down, the fulcrum stared wideeyed at the alien. Surveying his stillrecovering crew, he took a centering breath and adjusted his uniform. “Are we invisible?” Several moments later, he answered his own question. Looking at the view screen at the front of the bridge, he could clearly see the Nightmen in the hangar pointing and searching. They were trying to find the ship. “What happened?” he asked, looking at Tauthin.
Several harsh words escaped Tauthin’s mouth. Petrov translated moments later.
“He says your simplistic mind would not comprehend.”
Snarling, Oleg pointed at the pilot’s seat. “Go back to your station.”
Tauthin didn’t obey at first. Turning to Svetlana gently, he placed his gnarled purple hand over hers. It took a moment for her to recognize the simple reassurance. But when she did, she found a moment of relief. Rising, Tauthin walked back to the pilot’s seat.
Oleg shifted in the Bakma-designed chair. “Take us in the air. We have a mission to complete.”
Despite the significance of mankind’s first human-controlled liftoff in a Bakma vessel, it was impossible for the Noboat’s launch and subsequent flight to rival the exhilaration and terror of the “dimensional shift,” as Tauthin had called it. Shortly after the Noboat rose from the hangar floor, the crew found themselves soaring through an underground tunnel which ended on an angled ascent to the surface of Novosibirsk. The hole was so gaping and obvious that it must have been plainly visible from the surface, lending those inside to conclude that the hole must have been covered until just before liftoff in order to keep it hidden. As to how the hangar came to be in the first place, that topic was never discussed. There were more important matters at hand.
Gliding through the overcast sky, the Noboat moved slightly more sluggishly than the typical EDEN Vulture, a result of the Noboat’s superior mass. Just the same, it took virtually no time at all for the occupants to get accustomed to the ship’s movements.
Though they spoke little, Svetlana remained glued to Tauthin’s side. It was a telling irony that in a ship full of human beings, it was the alien that made her feel safest. Tauthin was at least willing to ease her nerves whenever possible—nerves that showed despite her obvious attempts to hide them.
Within only ten minutes of flight, the Noboat was nearing the east coast of North America. Despite the fact that they were in an alien ship reading alien gauges and looking at alien displays, Earth was Earth, and the shape of North America was easily recognizable on the Bakmanese version of a digital map. From the pilot’s seat, Tauthin once again began speaking. Petrov translated through the comm. “He says he is detecting numerous human assault craft. Vultures and Vindicators.”
“I think I see them on this display,” said the slayer at navigations. “There appear to be many ships, captain.”
“Any sign that they detect us?” asked Oleg.
“I don’t even know how to tell.”
Tauthin spoke again. “He said he needs to be directed on where to go,” said Petrov. “He does not know our terrain.”
Rising from his chair, Oleg folded his arms and stared out the view screen. He grinded his jaw in contemplation.
“The American pilot told me that they were heading to the east side of the lake there,” Svetlana said, looking back at Oleg. “She thinks they will continue east. One of them has a leg injury, so their movement will be slowed.”
The slayer at navigation pointed at the view screen. The bridge followed his indication, where a wall of dark gray appeared on the horizon. “It must be a storm, captain.”
“What does the radar say?”
Looking at the display, the slayer rubbed the back of his neck. “I have no idea.”
“Bakma,” said Oleg, “what can you see about this storm?”
“His name is Tauthin,” snapped Svetlana. She turned to the alien and spoke in English. “Tauthin, the weather ahead of the ship. Can you tell me about it?”
Pressing several buttons on a console next to the pilot’s seat, Tauthin caused a layer to overlay on the map screen by the controls. Bakmanese flowed as Petrov once again translated.
“He does not recommend entering the storm, captain. The conditions are too severe.”
Marusich, standing beside Oleg, leaned toward the fulcrum captain. “It is not too severe for us, captain.” Krylov, standing in the back, said nothing.
“Take us to the lake,” said Oleg. “Low altitude. Keep us away from all EDEN vessels.” As Petrov translated for Tauthin, Oleg sat back down in his chair. The Noboat descended, entering the wall of the storm.
The ship was still almost fifty kilometers from the coast, though their speed was closing the gap quickly. The bridge grew eerily quiet as its human occupants scanned the ceiling and walls, almost as if they expected to hear a crash of thunder or feel rain pounding against the hull. But almost nothing could be felt.
It was as black a sky as Svetlana had ever seen. The downpour completely blanketed the view screen. Visibility was zero.
“Tish`naa volo-aash gad, Uman deklan vish. Nokuun`a.”
“He is detecting the remains of several human vessels, one of which is in the lake.”
The slayer at navigations turned to Oleg. “That is where the highest concentration of EDEN vessels is, captain.”
Elbows propped on the chair’s armrest and fingers interlaced, Oleg hesitated before speaking. “Take us east of the lake. Keep us low.”
“As you wish, captain,” said the slayer. “We are approaching the EDEN patrols.” He wiped sweat from his brow.
The atmosphere in the bridge grew noticeably tense. Though no one said it aloud, it was more than clear by the crew’s fixation on the view screen that everyone was thinking the same thing. They were approaching EDEN vessels in a dematerialized Noboat. They were doing exactly what the Bakma had been doing to them for years.
“Do you know how many ships we have lost like this?” asked Marusich quietly.
Almost synchronized with Marusich’s words, the first pair of Vultures appeared before the Noboat. Their outlines were barely visible through the deluge, but they were there. And they were completely oblivious to the alien craft coming at their rear.
Tauthin remained perfectly quiet, despite the constant eyes upon him. Even Svetlana, standing next to him, kept constant vigil over him. It was as if everyone expected the alien to open fire at any moment. That was what his species did.
“Should we look for the survivors’ heat signatures in the swamp?” asked Marusich.
Oleg shook his head. “That is what they would have been doing.” He indicated at the Vultures. “They are patrolling, looking for anything. If heat signatures would be working, the survivors would already be apprehended. The rain is interfering with thermal imaging.”
“Then they will have men on the ground.”
“Yes,” Oleg nodded. He looked at his executive officer. “And so will we.”
A slanted grin curved at the corner of Marusich’s lips. Turning to the other Nightmen, he said, “Prepare yourselves, slayers! We drop.” The bridge came to life, as the multitude of slayers readied their weapons. Krylov shouldered his sniper rifle as the metal plate of his helmet slid over his face. Marusich looked at Svetlana. “You are coming, Voronova.”
She glanced at Marusich before looking down at Tauthin. The Bakma’s focus was squarely ahead. Everything else was ignored. Inhaling deeply, Svetlana left him to join the away team.
“Give me your helmet,” said Oleg emotionlessly as Svetlana passed him.
She looked at him strangely. “What?”
“It is trackable. They will be searching for any sign of EDEN survivors. We don’t need them coming after you.”
Svetlana stared at the helmet attached to her side. Eyes narrowing, she removed it and gave it to Oleg. Opening a panel at the helmet’s rear, he deactivated its tracker. He gave it back to her. “You remember how to use a pistol, right?”
She yanked her hair into a short ponytail then put her helmet on, unholstering her sidearm and cocking it loudly. Her glare lingered on Oleg before she turned for Marusich.
Tauthin spoke on as the Noboat descended.
“He says in order for soldiers to leave the craft, it must materialize on the ground. This can be done after the door has opened, but before any soldiers can step out.”
“Kiish-ni glaashv`ga ton rekkan. Plaash-na-vin.”
“It will take five to ten seconds before the ship can dematerialize again. It will be detectable during this time.”
“I understand,” said Oleg. “Bring us down three kilometers east of the lake.”
Past the bridge by the antechamber, Svetlana and the First’s away team prepared for touchdown. The medic’s sidearm was firmly in her hands, pointed at the floor.
Beneath the mechanizations of his helmet amplifier, Marusich chuckled. “You look cute. Very fearsome.”
“There is something you are not thinking about,” she said, eyes ahead despite his presence behind her. She tightened her grip on her pistol. “One should never make enemies with the medic.”
Readjusting his shoulders, Marusich looked ahead at the door.
Things outside cracked and snapped—tree limbs being broken. They were on their way down.
Svetlana closed her eyes, inhaling a deep, focused breath.
Crunch!
They were down.
Oleg’s voice emerged over Marusich’s comm. “No one step out until the ship has materialized. He says anyone who exits prematurely will die.”
Ahead of the away team, the antechamber ramp door lowered down. The outside world came into view. The rain was torrential. Droplets hammered the already standing swamp water. Despite the fact that it was daybreak, everything was dark.
A loud electric crackle emanated from the Noboat, as it flashed back into visible existence. The interior lights returned from dark blue to white. “Go!” shouted Marusich. “Everyone out, now!” The Nightmen wasted no time as they dashed out of the ship into the swamp. There were a dozen in the away team.
As soon as Svetlana was under the rain, she winced in discomfort. Unlike Nightman armor, EDEN armor was not fully-contained. Though the cold rainwater never made it onto her uniform, the blast to her neck was more than miserable enough. It took her several seconds to fully get used to it. The Nightmen around her spread out in several groups until a stretched human wall of sorts had been created. “We are dematerializing,” said Oleg through the comm. “Communication will be lost. We will be following you.”
The Noboat arced with an array of blue bolts. After another loud crackle, the ship disappeared. Its impression was plainly visible on the ground.
“TUUSH NEVAA DON`REECE,” said Tauthin from his seat.
“He says the EDEN vessels shifted when we materialized,” said Petrov.
Oleg leaned forward. “Move us—now.”
OUTSIDE, THE AWAY team watched as the indentation in the water lifted away. The Noboat was leaving.
“All Nightmen,” said Marusich, “move west, quickly!”
The operatives of the First darted from their positions around the trees and headed in a westerly direction, past the place where the Noboat had landed and in the direction that would ultimately take them to Lake Drummond. Svetlana followed them. Water bombarded the medic’s visor, hindering her ability to see beyond the veil of rainfall. Her TCVs were on, but even their effectiveness was limited. Beyond ten meters, almost nothing could be made out.
“Keep moving,” said Marusich. “EDEN will be passing over this area soon.” Barely five seconds later, the sound of low-flying aircraft reverberated over the storm. “Cover!”
Nightmen dove in all directions—some into brush and some under the water. In their black armor, they blended in seamlessly with the darkness of the swamp. Except for Svetlana. The blonde was searching frantically for a place to hide, finally sliding behind a tree trunk and pressing her back against it as hard as she could.
A white spotlight illuminated the ground. It was a Vulture, hot on the trail of the Noboat that had appeared on everyone’s radar. The ship slowly passed over the trees, its massive light swaying from one direction to the next, occasionally passing over a Nightman but unable to distinguish any of them from the dark terrain.
“Nobody move,” said Marusich through the comm.
Closing her eyes, Svetlana pressed against the tree harder. The Vulture was still above them.
Suddenly, there was a crackle in the sky. Svetlana and the Nightmen looked up to see the Noboat materialize behind the Vulture. Plasma fire soared in the transport’s way.
The Vulture never stood a chance. Its desperate attempts to avoid the attacks were useless, as several blasts struck the tail of the ship. Orange plumes exploded.
“Move!” Marusich shouted. “Everyone move!”
As the Noboat disappeared again, the operatives in the swamp darted from their cover, running full speed in the opposite direction of the plummeting Vulture. Trees could be heard snapping in half as the ship slammed into the ground.
Huffing as she trudged through the mire, Svetlana asked, “Why would they do that?”
“Instead of hiding,” answered Marusich, “he is coming into the open! He is showing them that he is here, that it is dangerous to stay!” The fulcrum was already breathing heavily. “I believe he wants them to hold off their search!”
“That Vulture was full of innocent soldiers!”
Marusich growled. “For all we know, they helped shoot down the American unit in the first place.” After several seconds, he dropped to a knee.
Bending over forward, Svetlana propped her hands on her knees, catching her breath. She tucked the wet tips of her ponytail back under her helmet.
“The survivors should be west of us, if they were at the lake before. If one of them truly has a leg injury, they will not have come this far. We should be on an intercept course.” The fulcrum looked at Svetlana. “You must lead. You must be visible, to lure them to you.”
Svetlana listened closely.
“If they see us coming first, they will not abandon their cover. But for you, they may reveal themselves.”
“What if they think I am here to kill them? How can they tell the difference between me and someone from the Vultures? I look like anyone!”
Marusich answered, “Remove your armor.”
“What?”
“That is how they will tell the difference. You will obviously not be here to hunt them.”
She shook her head. “What if they have weapons? They will shoot me on sight!”
“No, they will not. A defenseless woman in the swamp is not a threat. They will be curious and come to you.” He motioned to Krylov. “Krylov will shadow you from behind. He will kill anyone who puts you at risk.”
“I am bait to you,” Svetlana spat.
The fulcrum remained calm. “Then you tell me. What would make better sense?” Several seconds passed; she offered no answer. “Then proceed. We will support you.”
Glaring at Marusich, Svetlana unfastened her chest plate. Piece by piece, she removed the EDEN armor. Her helmet was the last part to go. Closing her eyes in the downpour, she stretched her neck and wiped back her hair.
“Doronin,” Marusich said, “carry her armor. We cannot leave it behind.”
Arms on her hips, Svetlana waited for her armor to be collected. She handed the man named Doronin her gun. “I have no comm!” she shouted at Marusich.
“You will not need one!” He motioned forward with his rifle. “Go!”
Cursing under her breath, Svetlana turned to the west. She trudged on armorless through the mire.
OVERHEAD, THE NOBOAT hovered above the Nightman away team. Even with the low visibility, they were close enough to the ground to make out Svetlana moving forward. There were no longer any Vultures in the vicinity, though a squadron of Vindicators had begun circling the area from high above over the new crash site.
His bulging eyes narrowing at the view screen, Tauthin addressed Oleg. “Vacha`shnna du Setana zoch-taar?”
“He wants to know why the woman is alone,” said Petrov.
Oleg answered, “Tell him to shut up and watch the sky.”
SVETLANA’S BODY shivered. The temperature was already cold—the drenching downpour made it worse. Dodging her way through sticks and shrubs, she waded through at times waist-high swamp water. Though deep spots could have been anywhere, she was yet to succumb to one. Maintaining a course as straight as possible, the medic kept on.
All of a sudden, the rain above her stopped falling. Looking down and around at the water beneath her, she saw a distinct absence of droplets hitting the surface. Slicking back her hair with both hands, she squinted skyward. There was nothing visible blocking the downpour. In that moment, she realized what it was. “Thank you, Tauthin,” she said quietly to herself. Looking ahead through dripping lashes, she wiped her face and moved again.
The Great Dismal Swamp was living up to its name. Barren trees with little to no leaf cover jetted up from the ground, their roots spread out like tentacles, often completely disappearing under the surface of the mire. An earthy, slough-like stench wafted through the air, despite the hypothetically cleansing rain. There were no signs of life anywhere.
Though Svetlana’s first ten minutes of walking seemed to drag on forever, the minutes that followed consistently went faster. Dry from the waist-up from the shelter of the Noboat, she trudged ahead through the waters of the swamp. Occasionally she glanced behind her for a sign of the First, but there were none. She could only trust they had her back.
Snap!
It was as loud a sound as one could have heard amid the fury of a thunderstorm. Svetlana went rigid. Eyes searching ahead, the blonde inherently reached for her sidearm, only to realize that she had none. She muttered in disgust.
The patch of swamp she was in was indistinguishable from the patches whence she’d come. She was standing in shin-high water, surrounded by muddy islands and stark gray trees. Nothing stood out visibly.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
Nothing answered. Resisting the urge to look behind her and give away the First’s cover, she took another step forward.
Snap!
The snapping was louder and more distinct. Freezing in place, Svetlana pinpointed its origin. It was coming from ahead and to her right. The environment was far too wet for branches to snap like that without heavy pressure being applied. There was no doubt in her mind that something alive was causing it.
“I hear you!” she called out, hesitating again. “Please come out. I am not here to hurt you!”
Suddenly, she heard something. It was stifled, yet audible just the same. Whimpering. Female whimpering, coming from the same direction as the snapping. Her heart rate increased.
Chernobyl. This exact same thing had happened in Chernobyl, except the whimpering in that case had been from a necrilid. Just the same, she was once again being lured. Very slowly, Svetlana took a step back. “I am not coming closer!”
Nothing moved.
Svetlana’s body tensed as raindrops drenched her again. The Noboat—her umbrella of protection from the weather—was drifting somewhere else. Maybe Tauthin or Oleg saw something she didn’t. Swallowing, she held up her hands and addressed her unseen adversary. “I am no fool—I will not come closer!”
From just beyond a large tree ahead of her, a male figure stepped out. He emerged so quickly, Svetlana actually flinched back. With what appeared to be a rifle raised against his shoulder, he said through gritted teeth, “Just hold it right there.”
Svetlana’s hands slowly raised. “I am not with the ones who shot you down.”
“Bull.”
“My name is Svetlana Voronova. I am from Novosibirsk.” Squinting through water drops, she focused on his rifle. It wasn’t a rifle at all. It was a conveniently-shaped branch. Slowly, the blonde shook her head. “That is not a gun.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Yes. I will bet. Shoot a round to prove it.”
The man remained still. “I bet you’d like that. For me to waste my ammo. Nice try.”
“Tiffany told me where to find you,” Svetlana said.
At mention of the pilot’s name, the man lowered his “gun.” With his attention garnered, Svetlana wasted no time in continuing.
“Her ship came to us on autopilot,” she said. “I am from a unit called the Fourteenth. The ship she was aboard, it was stolen from us several months ago.”
The man’s posture tensed. “Stolen? By who?”
“By EDEN.”
“Like hell.”
She grew sterner. “Your name is Lilan, isn’t it?” He didn’t respond. “You had a soldier named Remington, correct?” That got a reaction. Even from a distance, even with torrential rain falling between them, the change in his expression was obvious and clear. “Scott Remington is a part of my unit,” she went on. “You sent him to Novosibirsk, yes? He came to us. David Jurgen, Becan McCrae, Jayden Timmons. They are all part of the Fourteenth.”
For the first time, the man seemed to be listening. “You know Scott Remington?” He asked the question as if to reaffirm the statement.
Wiping back her wet bangs, she nodded. “Yes. He is my commanding officer.”
For several seconds, the man did nothing. He didn’t move, he didn’t speak. He simply stared at her. Finally, he lowered his guard completely. “Get outta here.”
All of a sudden, several black men emerged from the surrounding tree cover. All of their hands were in the air. As soon as Lilan saw them, he shouted blatantly, “Hey! Get back to your cover—”
“Uhh, coach?” one of the men tactfully interrupted him. “We kinda didn’t have a choice.”
No sooner than the statement was made, the Nightmen made their presence known. There was one behind each of the survivors of Falcon Platoon, their collective assault rifles lifted and ready to fire. Spinning around, Svetlana saw Krylov approaching from behind her, the sniper’s rifle aimed at Lilan’s head.
“Lower your stick,” Marusich said to Lilan as he emerged with his brethren.
Lilan’s eyes gleamed. Hurling the stick into the water, he spat, “Why don’t you just kill us now and get it over with?”
“If we wanted to kill you, you would already be dead.”
Fuming, Svetlana shoved the barrel of Krylov’s rifle another direction. Whipping her head to the Nightman collective, she went off on them in Russian. “You want to earn their trust, yet this is what you do? You ignorant oafs!”
“Shut up, woman,” said Marusich. “We just got what we came for.”
She turned back to Lilan, speaking English again. “Forget these men, listen to me. Everything I told you is true. Tiffany did come to us, and she told us where to find you. She has a friend, her name is Cat. She has a broken leg. I know this because Tiffany told me.”
Lilan said nothing.
“I am a medic. I can help her.”
“I don’t want you touching her,” he said back.
Growling, Marusich lowered his rifle and stepped forward. “This is wasting time. Take them into custody.”
Grabbing her shoulder, Svetlana rolled her head back in frustration. Leveling her gaze at Lilan, she glared bitterly. “Just do what he says. I will explain when we board the ship.”
“What ship?” Lilan asked.
Behind Lilan, one of the survivors looked skyward. “Hey! It stopped rainin’ over here!”
Lilan looked back at the operative, then at Svetlana. They were both still getting saturated. Setting her hands on her hips, the blonde offered a look that screamed brace yourself.
“Your operatives may want to move!” Marusich shouted.
The Nightmen within the void of rainfall pushed the captive survivors forward until everyone was back under the storm. Moments later, the branch snapping began, descending through the trees until it reached the mire’s surface. As the Noboat’s shape pressed into the water, the Falcon survivors stared wideeyed and speechless. There was an arc of electricity, and the ship materialized.
Oleg screamed over the comm. “Everyone, board, quickly!”
Lilan was awestruck. “What the hell is this?”
“We must go!” said Svetlana, urging him forward. “Hurry! Someone carry the girl with the broken leg!”
In the bridge, Tauthin shouted loudly.
“He says EDEN fighters are approaching!” translated Petrov.
Oleg ran to the antechamber to frantically wave on the away team. “In! In! Come in now!” The Nightmen ran full speed into the vessel, the hostages in their midst. “Dematerialize!” As the last of the away team entered, the antechamber ramp lifted.
Her damp hair tossed wildly, Svetlana was bustled forward with the throng.
“Put them in the brig!” someone shouted.
“Wait!” the medic turned around. “Let me go with them.” Weaving though the Nightman traffic, she followed the survivors into the brig area. There was a loud crack like thunder as dematerialization happened again. The interior lights returned to dark blue. None of the survivors were talking. They looked wild-eyed.
Oleg’s voice emerged over the comms. “Brace for evasive action!”
The crew barely had a chance to grab onto something. The Noboat’s thrusters engaged at full power, ramping the vessel skyward then spinning it to the west. The motion threw nearly every person inside off their feet. In the next second, the vessel burst forward.
The chaos lasted for almost two minutes before it subsided, distance and invisibility putting the Noboat safely out of harm’s way. For the first time, stillness came for everyone. Except for Svetlana. The medic sought out Catalina immediately, and while the other survivors observed, she began the process of treating the Canadian’s broken leg, at least as best she could in the brig of a Bakma Noboat.
“It’s Svetlana, right?” Lilan finally asked after several minutes of nearsilence. The only sounds that had emanated in the brig prior to then were those of whimpers and brief screams from Catalina as Svetlana tended to her. Strapping a splint to Catalina’s leg, the blonde nodded in response to Lilan’s question. Observing her for several moments longer, Lilan said, “This is my crew—at least who’s left.” He nodded toward each person. “Javon Quinton, Donald Bell, Tom King, Catalina Shivers.”
Looking up from Catalina’s leg, Svetlana smiled weakly.
“I got about ten thousand questions right now,” Lilan said quietly, “but I guess I’ve gotta start with this one. Why’d they shoot us down?”
Leaning against the wall—her first comfortable moment since leaving Room 14—Svetlana propped her elbow on her knee. Her fingers disappeared beneath her damp strands. “We think EDEN is framing us.”
“‘Us?’”
“Novosibirsk.” When Lilan said nothing, she went on. “One of the ships that attacked you used to be ours. My unit’s, the Fourteenth’s. It was damaged several months ago and sent off for repair. We were told it was too damaged to be fixed.” She lifted her fingers blithely. “Obviously, it was not.”
Lilan seemed to contemplate the explanation. “So EDEN attacked us, in your ships, to make it look like you?”
“I know how it sounds,” she said.
“It sounds nuts.”
Svetlana sighed. “The questions you have, we have, also. This caught us all unprepared.”
Silence hung again, until Lilan moved on. “And you said Feathers is okay?”
Tilting her head, Svetlana asked, “Feathers?”
“Tiffany.”
“Yes,” she smiled softly. “She is fine. She is with the rest of my unit.”
“And Remington’s your commanding officer?”
Smile lingering, she nodded her head.
It took a moment, but a small grin escaped from Lilan, too. “Well, hot dog. I thought Novosibirsk would be the end of him. How’s he doing? Are we about to see him?”
“He is on assignment now,” she said. “But I am sure you will see him soon.”
“On assignment?” asked Lilan scrupulously. “How does an EDEN operative go on assignment?”
Looking down, she played awkwardly with her fingers. Her mouth opened for a full five seconds before anything came out. “I do not want to lie to you. It may be best for you to know before you see him…”
“Know what?”
She lifted her eyes. “Scott is a Nightman.”
The look on Lilan’s face revealed every emotion. Shock. Disbelief. Nothing at all good. His expression was mirrored by Catalina.
“He was lured in by them. They…forced him to make a mistake. Now he wears their armor.”
Tom raised his hand. “What the hell is a Nightman?”
“They’re good-for-nothing murderers, that’s what they are,” answered Lilan. “And if Remington’s one of them, he’s a good-for-nothing murderer, too. There’s no other way about it.”
A defensive glare appeared on Svetlana’s face.
“He’s a Nightman?” Lilan asked again. “He’s really a trashing Nightman?”
“It is not how you think,” she said.
Lilan was red-faced. “When I had Remington, he was something special. He was the best young soldier I’d ever had. I knew that place would kill him.”
“Please, listen—”
“What the hell is a Nightman?” Tom asked again.
Lilan answered, “You kids are too young to even remember. They’re terrorists. Instigators, a fanatical cult.”
“It’s those guys out there?” asked Donald.
“Yeah, the ones with the guns to your backs. That’s what a Nightman is. And Thoor was the worst.”
Svetlana gleamed murderously. “Do not even compare Scott to Thoor.”
“He had to kill someone to get in, didn’t he?” Lilan asked. The other survivors raised their eyebrows.
“Yes—” Svetlana said, getting cut off before she could continue.
“He had to take an innocent life, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but—”
Lilan never backed down. “Who was it? An innocent woman? A guy down the street?”
She slammed her palm on the floor and screamed, “The person he thought murdered his fiancée!”
Lilan started back. He tilted his head.
“Scott’s fiancée came to visit him, and she was murdered by a Nightman. They gave him a name and claimed it was the man who murdered her, but it was only the name of who they wanted him to kill. And because of his passion—his love for his woman—he naïvely took that innocent life.
“He wears their armor so that he’ll never forget what he did. So yes, he is a Nightman, and yes, he is one by choice.” She pointed her finger at him. “But you will not judge him—I don’t care who you are. Scott knows what he did, and God knows his heart. And if you are going to Novosibirsk to bring more judgment upon him, I will throw you out of this ship right now, without regret. Are we clear?”
No one else said a word—not a single person. They simply stared at the blonde who’d just laid down her law. Settling back down, Svetlana pushed her hand hard through her hair.
“He’s more than just your commanding officer, isn’t he?” Lilan asked quietly.
Her eyes gave her away.
Nodding slowly, Lilan leaned back himself. He watched her for several seconds before speaking again. “I apologize, Svetlana. I didn’t know.”
Looking away briefly, her fury simmered down. She closed her eyes again.
For the duration of the flight, no one else spoke in the brig. Their only companion was the hum of the Noboat’s engines. And that was fine with everyone.
Midway back to The Machine, word was given to Oleg and his crew not to return to Novosibirsk. Instead, they were instructed to fly to a safehouse in the Nightman recruitment city of Krasnoyarsk. There, Lilan and his surviving crew were to be hidden away, in order for EDEN to perpetuate the lie that all of Falcon Platoon had been killed in a transport crash over Lake Drummond. Only then would Thoor gain the upper hand. As typically, human lives were the general’s leverage. It was just as well to the Falcon survivors. They were alive.
For the moment, that was enough.
25
THURSDAY, MARCH 15TH, 0012 NE
2323 HOURS
NOVOSIBIRSK, RUSSIA
TIFFANY’S BROWN EYES narrowed at Travis in the bunk room. She leaned into his face from beside one of Room 14’s several shower curtains. “Okay. Repeat the rules.”
Sighing irritably, Travis moved to place his hands on his hips. When her cuffed hand awkwardly followed along, he relented. “I don’t need to repeat the rules, I know the rules.”
“Noooo, no, no, no, buster,” she said, “I am about to be—hello—naked behind this curtain. And whether I like it or not, your right hand’s gonna be with me. You are going to repeat the rules.”
Travis cleared his throat harshly. “No touching—”
“Ah, ah, ah! That’s not what I said.”
“It is what you said! Verbatim!”
“No, I said don’t even think about touching.”
Irritably, he groaned. “Fine. I won’t think about touching.”
“Continue.”
“I will not walk away from the shower stall.”
“Yes,” she affirmed, nodding. “That one’s important.”
He went on. “I will not ‘enjoy’ this.” He scowled. “Which, by the way, is the stupidest rule of them all.”
Ignoring the comment, she motioned for him to continue.
“I will not look, and lastly, I will not adjust the temperature knobs… as tempting as that may be.”
“Do it and die.”
“I still fail to understand why you have to take a shower tonight.”
She grabbed her hair with her free hand. “Umm…hello? Can you see this?” She motioned to her body. “Are you here on planet Earth, seeing what I’m seeing? I look disgusting.”
Grumbling with disdain, he looked away. “Whatever. Just get it over with. This is retarded.”
Glaring murderously, the dingy-haired blonde stepped into the stall and jerked the curtain closed, taking everything from Travis’s right elbow on down along with her. As the Pariah pilot blew up at his hair, his arm was jerked back and forth as the Valley Girl squirmed. Clothes were unzipped as the jerks and movements became more forceful. Then Tiffany stopped.
“What?”
She hesitated. “I’m having some problems here.”
“Oh really?”
“Sarcasm is totally not needed right now.”
“What’s the problem?”
She fidgeted again. “I can’t take my clothes off. Well like, I can take some, but like, I’m having some trouble where we’re cuffed. Like…I don’t think I can get completely undressed.”
He stared ahead with stoicism. “Well like, maybe you should have, like, you know, thought about it, before you, like, hopped in the shower.” Jerking out her hand, she made him slap his own face. “Ow!”
Fidgeting violently for a short while longer, Tiffany finally proclaimed her nudity. “Attention, Travis: I am officially mostly naked. Repeat the rules again.”
“Take your frikkin’ shower!”
Out of view, the nozzles gushed forth.
The door to Room 14 opened; William and Derrick stepped in. As soon as they saw Travis standing by the stall, they tilted their heads. “What are you doing?”
Travis answered, his expression blank. “I’m standing here.”
“Where’s the girl?” Derrick asked. When Travis didn’t answer, their eyes drifted to the active shower. Their jaws simultaneously dropped. “Whooooa!”
William rushed forward. “Dude, seriously?” he whispered less-thandiscreetly. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” said Travis.
“Dude…dude…” William repeated.
“Is she naked?” asked Derrick.
Tiffany screamed in anger. “Yes, I am naked! Oh my God, you are the most clueless men I have ever met in my life!”
“You mean you can touch her?” William mouthed in silence.
Travis slid his free palm down his face.
“Here,” said Tiffany, jamming a shampoo bottle into his cuffed hand. “Hold this.”
Throwing his other hand up, Travis said, “I thought I wasn’t supposed to touch you!”
“You’re not touching me, you’re touching my shampoo. Deal with it.”
Staring at Travis in bewilderment, Derrick said, “I don’t understand you, man. How are you not lovin’ this?”
“Yeah,” said William, “you’re handcuffed to a hottie who’s naked. People fly to Vegas to do that!”
Derrick nodded. “And you’re always talkin’ about how lucky Scott is, and how pretty Sveta is, and Esther.”
“And how lonely and desperate you are,” William added.
“Guys!” Travis’s face flushed bright crimson. “Shut the hell up!”
“Lonely and desperate, huh?” Tiffany asked. “Terrific.” She positioned Travis’s shampoo hand over her head. “Squeeze. Okay, stop.”
Red-faced, Travis glared at William and Derrick. “I’m not lonely and I’m not freakin’ desperate. And this is not fun for me!”
“Why not, man?” Derrick asked.
“Imagine if hemorrhoids could talk. It’s like living with that.”
Tiffany stopped lathering. “Wow.”
Shifting his attention to the curtain, Travis went on. “Yeah, I understand you’ve been through a lot, and everything that’s happened to you has sucked. But you’re acting like you’re the only one who’s inconvenienced here!”
“Excuse me, but what better things do you have to do, right now, other than fix your rusted-out ghetto ride? Do you have friends in grave peril?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do!”
“Oh, as if.”
“I have five friends in Cairo as we speak!”
She spun in his direction on the other side of the curtain. “But are they in grave peril? Are they stuck in a swamp? Are people trying to kill them? No? I didn’t think so! Now hold the freaking conditioner.”
William grinned at Travis and nodded. “So hot,” he mouthed silently. The pilot rolled his eyes.
“Anybody hear from that Swedish girl yet?” asked Tiffany.
Looking strangely at the curtain, Travis asked, “What?”
“The one who went after my friends, you pea brain.”
“Wait, you mean Sveta?”
“Yeah, that’s her.”
“Sveta’s not Swedish!”
Room 14’s door opened again, but this time it was Dostoevsky and David who stepped through. As soon as they were inside, they stared at Travis by the shower.
The pilot rolled his eyes. “Yes, it’s what it looks like.”
“Wow,” said David. “Some guys get all the luck, eh?”
“Any news?” Travis asked irritably. “Please say yes.”
Nodding, Dostoevsky answered, “The Noboat has landed in Krasnoyarsk. Svetlana and the survivors are safe.”
“Wait a second!” shouted Tiffany, pulling back the curtain just enough to stick out her head. “They just arrived where?”
“Krasnoyarsk. It is a city—”
She cut him off. “They were supposed to come here!”
“Apparently,” said David, “the powers that be think they’ll be safer somewhere else. They’re at some kind of a safehouse.”
Dostoevsky nodded. “Krasnoyarsk is a city with high Nightman presence. There are many places your friends would be safe. Do not fear for them. It is important for General Thoor that they be treated well. They are valuable to him, and not as prisoners.”
Before Tiffany could speak, Travis addressed her. “They’re safe. That’s what matters, right? You can sleep easy knowing they’re not gonna die.”
Smoothing back her hair, Tiffany blew out a breath. Her eyes shimmered faintly as she averted them to the ceiling. A second later, she disappeared behind the curtain again.
Travis’s focus returned immediately to Dostoevsky. “Any luck with a key? Or a way to cut these things off?”
“I will be honest,” Dostoevsky answered, “that is not at the top of our priority list, Travis.”
“Well veck, bump it up!”
“You two are kind of cute,” said David.
The curtain pulled back again as Tiffany’s head popped out. For several seconds she glared murderously at David, before she disappeared behind it again.
William made for the lounge. “I’m gonna go be alone now.”
The room door opened again. Becan stepped inside. As soon as he saw the clustered group, he blinked. Then he looked at Travis by the shower. His mouth fell, and he pointed to the curtain. “Is tha’…?”
Moaning in unison, the group around him dispersed.
“Wha’? What’d I say?”
 *
THREE HOURS LATER
BULGING EYES FORWARD, Tauthin watched Novosibirsk grow near in the main view screen. His gnarled hands were on the controls, as they had been since the moment they’d left to rescue Falcon Platoon. The Bakma officer was being watched like a hawk by two slayers, as ordered by Oleg, who was still in the Noboat’s equivalent of a captain’s chair. They’d been told to observe Tauthin—to learn from him. Though a Bakma might have been behind the controls at that moment, this Noboat belonged to the Nightmen. They needed to learn how to use it.
Svetlana, still damp-haired and dirty, stood as close to Tauthin as she was allowed. Though none of the Nightmen in the bridge smelled particularly pleasant after the Great Dismal Swamp, no one emanated the odor of the slough more than her. Unlike the others who’d had the option of removing their smelly armor, she’d been saturated to her core. Only Tauthin’s gamey musk was more prevalent.
Lilan and his surviving operatives had been left behind in Krasnoyarsk, in the equivalent of a hole-in-the-wall prison, locked behind literal iron bars in a stone concrete cell. Though officially dubbed a safehouse by Oleg, in practice it was the farthest thing from. Lorded over by three armed slayers, Lilan and company were forcefully sequestered. Svetlana had tried to assure them as best she could that they would be safe—the Nightmen had no reason to harm them. The Falcon prisoners were not comforted.
Dematerialized—or shifted, as Tauthin and Wuteel called it—the Noboat cruised at a low altitude toward The Machine. Stealth had been their top priority in transferring the Falcon captives to their prison in Krasnoyarsk. The Noboat had landed outside the city, where very briefly it “shifted” into the visible world, just quickly enough for the Falcon survivors to be ferried to the city itself, courtesy of a dilapidated van that met them at the landing site. In order to ensure continued covertness, Novosibirsk wasn’t going to actually see the Noboat returning. Its secret, sub-level hangar was simply left open. The Machine would know the Noboat had returned only after hearing it clump down.
Oleg’s attention remained purely on the view screen, issuing understated orders to the crew as they hovered on. Occasionally, brief dialogue of a technical nature would take place between Tauthin and Wuteel through their human mediator, the scientist Petrov, though for the most part, the two Bakma remained silent.
Staring through the strands of dirty hair that dangled over her eyes, Svetlana watched the Noboat begin its descent. For the first time, the area around the underground hangar was visible. It was barely two kilometers away from the outer limits of The Machine, in a small patch of open field surrounded by snow-covered birch trees. The Machine was positioned between the hangar and the city of Novosibirsk, visible in the far distance, ensuring that both camouflage and separation would keep snoopers away. Anyone who wanted to pry would have to go through Thoor’s kingdom. And that was never a good idea.
Its thrusters lowering, the Noboat gently descended through the entrance. The corridor to the heart of the secret hangar flew past on the view screen. A short while later, they arrived at the landing zone. Oleg ordered the Noboat to materialize, and the vessel de-shifted and settled on the concrete.
The moment the Noboat powered down, Tauthin’s shoulders were grabbed by the slayers. He was pulled violently away from the controls.
“Stop it!” said Svetlana, shoving one of the slayers away. “Leave him alone—he has done all you ask.”
Oleg approached from the side, the black-bearded Russian eyeing her coldly. “You are quick to trust, Voronova. What do you think this thing would do to you if it had you alone?”
“I can’t imagine anything worse than what you would do.” Lip curling in disgust, Svetlana looked away from him. She forced herself between the slayers and Tauthin. “I will escort him. And if he tries to escape, you can shoot me.” Her glare returned to Oleg. “You would like that.”
Smirking magniloquently, Oleg motioned for her to move Tauthin. “Be careful what you wish for. Go.” A nod to the slayers allowed them to give Svetlana the reigns—at least in that aspect.
Placing a hand on Tauthin’s back, Svetlana’s narrowed glare softened as she turned to the alien. “Let us go back. It will be okay.”
Once again, a brown sack was placed over Tauthin’s head. The alien grunted disapprovingly, but offered no resistance.
It took twenty minutes for Svetlana and her escort of slayers to guide Tauthin and Wuteel through the twisting stone corridors that led to The Machine. No one spoke during the whole journey—the only sounds were the metallic footsteps of the Nightmen and the shuffling of the extraterrestrials’ feet. Only when the troupe had reached familiar territory were the sacks lifted from the Bakmas’ heads. Several minutes later, they were back in Confinement.
Blowing up her hair, Svetlana watched as Tauthin and Wuteel were pushed to their respective cells. The blonde lingered behind Tauthin as he walked obediently inside, stepping backward only after he’d crossed the cell’s threshold.
What none of the humans in the room caught was the brief—and purposeful—look that Tauthin gave Ed. Discreetly, the Ithini’s oval lenses throbbed. The connection was made. Instructions flew from Tauthin’s mind. Ed’s eyes twitched wider. He looked at Svetlana.
Svetlana’s gaze was still on Tauthin when it hit her. She blinked confusedly, as if struck by a sudden headache. The medic winced and touched her temple. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the headache vanished. Eyes flickering to Tauthin, she cocked her head.
The glass door slid into place, separating the Bakma and the blonde. Tauthin’s gaze remained fixed at nothing in particular.
“Go.” A slayer pulled Svetlana away. “Back to your dog house.”
Stumbling back slightly, Svetlana never glared at the Nightman who pulled her. She simply rubbed her forehead, looked away bewilderedly, then made for the door. She gave a brief glance to Tauthin outside of Confinement before she disappeared around the corner, into the halls.
From behind his own glass partition, Wuteel stared oddly at Tauthin. Ed quickly connected them.
What happened with the female? asked Wuteel telepathically.
For several seconds, Tauthin transmitted nothing, his dark purple eyes staring at the corner Svetlana had disappeared around. Very slowly, his brow lowered. When the black ones took me, she came between us. She wanted to return us gently, herself. Her kindness caused their oversight.
Their oversight?
Tauthin looked at Wuteel. They left her vision unimpaired. Across the room, Wuteel’s eyes widened. Her mind is strong, but inexperienced. She did not sense the siphon. I know the way to the Zone Runner.
Baring his teeth, Wuteel growled excitedly.
Ed’s connection grew to span all the Bakma in Confinement. Tauthin’s thoughts pulsed through the room.
Brethren.
One by one, the captives’ minds coalesced. Looking up from their metal cots, they focused on Tauthin in his cell.
The Earthae possess a Zone Runner. I know its location.
The surprise was evident in the connection. Sparks of incitement pulsed throughout the invisible circuits of telepathic energy. The emaciated, scarred Nagogg, a Bakma rider whose lips had been ripped off by the Nightmen during a torture session, spread his permanent skeleton’s grin. He turned his head to one of the captured canrassis.
Tauthin’s thoughts pulsed on. We have been constrained—tortured—since the day we were taken. Yet our hour draws near. Soon the flood waters of our wrath will inundate this room.
Cricking his neck, the titanic Gabralthaar tensed his shoulders. The Bakma brute’s thick arm muscles bulged. In the next cell over, the warrior Ka`vesh narrowed his eyes.
When the moment arises, refuse to be contained. We are already free from the Khuladi’s chains. Soon, we will be freed from the Earthae’s.
From one cell to the next, the Bakma in Confinement roared in their minds. Nik-nish, the pilot whose feet had been sawed off. Uguul, the battered warrior who’d been starved into submission. Kraash-nagun, the foot soldier elite whose eyes had been gouged. All bore the scars of The Machine.
Tauthin’s deep purple glare narrowed further. Bide your time, brethren. Our reckoning approaches. His stare steadfast, Tauthin lowered himself slowly onto his cot, locking eyes with his fellow Bakma POWs.
Human scientists bustled from one end of the room to the next. Some held clipboards, others scientific instruments. Some conversed quietly, others were focused on their tasks at hand. Had any of them been tending to the captives, they might have noticed the intensity emanating from their cells. They might have noticed the focused glares of concentration. They might have discovered that Bakma possessed goose bumps, too.
Svetlana never mentioned her headache to anyone in Room 14. After receiving hugs from the various members of the Fourteenth, and assuring Tiffany of her friends’ well being, the blond medic made a beeline for the shower. She enjoyed every moment of it—the warmth of the water, the cleanliness of soap, and the comfort of a freshly-cleaned towel. Completely comforted. Completely at home.
Completely oblivious to the rebellion she’d just set in motion.
26
THURSDAY, MARCH 15TH, 0012 NE
0900 HOURS
CAIRO, EGYPT
SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER
DUST, SAND, AND GRIT. It was a combination in Scott’s teeth he hadn’t felt in years, and it grew more visceral with every gust of desert wind that blew past him and Natalie. The Caracal captain was dressed appropriately for the weather, sporting a black tank top, fatigues, and mirrored sunglasses that looked more akin to Texas law enforcement than EDEN. Her chestnut hair tied into a ponytail, she scrutinized the Caracals with stoicism as she and Scott approached.
Scott’s appearance was the total opposite. He was in full uniform, filling the role of “good cop” to Natalie’s bad variety. It wasn’t intentional. He simply didn’t have anything else to wear. Tank tops weren’t exactly all the rage in blustery Novosibirsk.
Natalie had said little to him that morning thus far—nothing beyond what was necessary. A slight discomfort existed between them; the vibe Scott felt was that their night out at Sabola had gone a little more intimately than she’d anticipated. He sensed that her defenses were up. His were, too. That was fine with him. The more she left him alone, the more he could focus on his true mission.
Though Thoor had never given Scott a specified time limit to find H`laar and return to Novosibirsk, Scott knew the timer was running. Every day without progress was one day less for Svetlana.
Despite the fact that this was officially Scott’s operation, there was no question that Esther was the mission’s determining factor. Their success or failure was contingent on the scout’s ability to infiltrate Confinement and make contact with H`laar. Thankfully, Natalie had been true to her word, and Esther had been given the go-ahead by the captain to pursue her own “training” endeavors. The scout was absent from the session and on her own.
Boris’s job, while less glamorous, was equally critical. He needed to use his special kit to gain access to Cairo’s network. It wasn’t the equipment or Boris’s technical savvy that Scott doubted—it was the Russian’s mettle. For Esther, deception was as natural as breathing. It wasn’t quite the same for Boris. Scott tried to imagine what Boris’s response would be if a security guard questioned him, and the only thing he could picture was the technician stammering or wetting himself. Neither would serve their mission well. Just the same, Boris had been working hard in his free time to figure out Cairo’s systems. He’d been dutiful as always.
Scott scrutinized Natalie discreetly while she spoke to the Caracals. She was giving them a between-exercise motivational speech about responsibility, dedication, and the importance of hard work. Her words were passionate and genuine. And they needed to be. Because if Scott’s mission was difficult, Natalie’s was nigh impossible. She was supposed to turn the Caracals into an effective fighting force. In the span of one morning session, a realization struck Scott that made him pity Natalie to a degree he’d never pitied anyone.
The Caracals were horrible.
Operatives got winded. They keeled over. They huffed and puffed as if they’d just run from Marathon to Athens. The work Natalie was making them do was intense, to be fair, but it paled next to a standard training session at Novosibirsk. Their level of ineptitude was actually a marvel. They were out of shape. They were devoid of desire. They were going through the motions like tired paper delivery boys on cold winter mornings. Even Jayden, barely up to mission shape from his extended infirmary stay, was leaps and bounds ahead of these operatives.
Sensing his anxiety, Natalie approached him after assigning the group low-crawl drills. Hands on her hips, she exhaled in disgust as she watched the operatives begin their work. “Okay, you’ve seen what they can do. Give me the truth.”
“This is gonna be a lot of work.” Saying it just once didn’t seem to be enough. He shook his head. “I’ve never seen operatives like this.”
“Believe it or not, this is progress. You should have seen my first day with them.”
“The stuff we were able to do in Novosibirsk, I couldn’t even dream of pulling off with these guys. Have they been doing anything here at all?”
She frowned. “Getting lazy and out of shape. Once you get used to doing nothing, it’s hard to break the habit.”
“How can an EDEN base accept this?”
“This is a research base, commander,” she answered. “The emphasis hasn’t been on response until recently.” The operatives who finished the low-crawl drill—far behind Auric, Jayden, Boris, and Logan—breathed exhaustively with their hands on their knees. “You played football, right?”
Scott nodded.
“You remember two-a-days?”
Laughing painfully, he nodded. “Oh, yeah. I remember two-a-days.” They were a stretch of training camp when teams practiced once in the morning and once in the afternoon.
“What position did you play?”
“Quarterback.”
Her gears were turning. “Well I don’t know too many quarterbacks, but if I had to take a guess, I’d say you probably have an aggressive mentality. Move down the field and score, again and again. Am I right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well congratulations, commander,” she said. “You just became my offensive coordinator. I want to start working some ‘two-a-days,’ with morning focusing on fortification and afternoon on assault. I’ll take the former, you’ll take the latter. Can you write up a training plan for your sessions?”
She was playing to his strengths—trying to put him in charge of something he’d be motivated to put his all into. It was a good tactic. “It might kill them.”
“Then maybe they’ll send us capable replacements,” she said, eyeing him with a sidelong grin. Though he couldn’t see it behind her mirrored sunglasses, he had a feeling she winked. Turning ahead, Natalie rallied the Caracals for a post-exercise word.
Natalie explained the concept of two-a-days to them, and for the most part, they seemed to comprehend it. For a culture that thought footballs were supposed to be round, Scott considered their understanding alone a victory.
All-in-all, their session lasted just over three hours. Natalie ran them through several more drills, allowing Scott to lead a few just to get used to command—or so she thought, at least. The operatives panted their way through the exercises, but managed to survive. Whether they’d ever reach the point where they could actually accomplish anything on the battlefield was yet to be seen.
Shortly after the Caracals were dismissed by Natalie, Scott retreated to his room to plan out his “two-a-days.” It wasn’t a direct part of the H`laar mission, but it was nonetheless part of his cover, and he had to maintain it. With little else to do until he heard from Esther, Scott sat down with pen and paper and went to work.
 *
ONE HOUR LATER
Unified Motion.
Scott stared at the two words atop his journal page. He’d written several pages already in preparation for his new training regimen, covering everything from assault terminology to species-specific tactics. Now he was reaching advanced material—Nightman material.
Advantages: fastest travel time, intimidation.
The Caracals were a far cry from “Machine” efficiency, but that didn’t mean Scott couldn’t aim high. He might be gone with H`laar long before reaching the second page of this regimen. But what did he have better to do? Until Esther got in touch with him about her Confinement infiltration plan, nothing. He was in hurry-up-and-wait mode.
Requires muscle memory and total combat awareness. Also courage and trust.
Scott’s words were simple, and at times scattered. But he knew what he was talking about. That was all that mattered right then.
He was in the middle of writing the next line when he heard the first footsteps outside his door. Wrinkling his brow, he looked up. It was hurried walking—trotting. It sounded like several operatives. They’d passed right by his door. Glancing down again, he returned his pen to paper.
More footsteps. Back-to-back-to-back, from even more operatives now. People were running in the halls. Watching the door strangely, Scott placed his pen down, stood up, and walked to his door. Pulling it open, he looked into the hall.
“What in the?” His words were drowned out by the stampede of boots. Operatives were sprinting down the hallway. Voices reverberated off the walls. Everyone looked alarmed. Darting back into his room, Scott grabbed his comm off his nightstand. Emerging into the hall again, he followed the throng.
The legion of operatives were gathering in one of the nearby hubs—spacious intersections complete with public facilities, benches, and information consoles. Everyone was gaping at the mounted corner monitors. Craning his neck to see over the crowd, Scott listened in to what was apparently a newscast. It was some sort of breaking event.
“While Richmond will not elaborate on whether or not Strom Faerber was aboard one of these transports, we have confirmed that the unit, Falcon Platoon, is where he was assigned.”
“Falcon Platoon?” Scott blurted aloud.
The anchorman looked at the camera gravely. “We want to repeat, for any viewers tuning in right now, that an unspecified incident has just occurred between a unit from the EDEN base of Richmond, Virginia—the unit containing Strom Faerber, son of Vector Squad Captain Klaus Faerber—and several aircraft allegedly from the Russian base of Novosibirsk.”
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” asked Jayden, hurrying to Scott from behind. Auric and Boris flanked him.
“Katie,” said the anchor, “give us a rundown of the facts so far. What exactly do we know?”
The reporter spoke concernedly. “At just past 0200 hours, Richmond time, a callout was given to a unit called Falcon Platoon, dispatching them to an area near Lake Drummond in southeast Virginia. Several minutes prior to arriving at their dispatch location, they were met by several aircraft believed to be from Novosibirsk. An unspecified incident took place resulting in at least one aircraft down.” She frowned. “While none of this information has been confirmed officially by EDEN, we can confirm that at this time, all EDEN facilities are at orange alert.”
Jayden’s mouth fell. “Dude, Falcon Platoon? Novosibirsk?”
“What is Falcon Platoon?” asked Auric.
“That was our unit back at Richmond,” Scott answered. “That’s where we came from.”
The display transitioned from the news station to a press room—some sort of conference. The EDEN logo was clear along the back wall. Scott, his comrades, and everyone else in the room watched as an older woman with auburn hair stepped behind the podium.
“Who is that?” Boris asked.
Scott shook his head. “I don’t know. She looks familiar, but…” His words trailed off as the woman’s name appeared beneath her on the screen.
Judge Carol June.
“Okay. Okay!” The woman held up her hand, talking to someone just off-screen. Her focus turned to the conference room as she adjusted the podium mic. No time was wasted on an introduction—the people at the conference were apparently well acquainted with her. “I just want to lay a few ground facts here before we get to questions.” She seemed irritated. “At 0205 hours Eastern U.S. Time, Richmond received a callout, to which Falcon Platoon was dispatched, under the command of Colonel Brent Lilan. At 0238, Falcon Platoon made contact with several unidentified aircraft. Shortly after, all contact with the platoon was lost. Those are the facts. Now, your questions.”
Though the camera remained on June, hands could be heard reaching for the ceiling. She nodded at someone in the audience. “Pete.”
“Carol, rumors are flying in from the NSU about a call put in to President Belikov directly from EDEN Command. No other nation reported receiving this kind of call. Are the Soviets involved in this situation?”
June shook her head. “We have no reason to believe the NSU is involved.”
“Then why was a call made to NSU headquarters?”
“You’re talking about rumors, Pete. I don’t talk about rumors.”
“I’m just trying to clarify whether or not a call was made to President Belikov.”
The judge’s glare deepened. “You’re asking me to speculate on the nature of this incident, and I’m not in a position to do that.”
“No speculation, Carol, I’m just trying to verify whether or not a call was made.”
“Yes, President Belikov was contacted by EDEN Command.”
“What was the nature of the call?”
She waved him off. “You’re asking for classified information. I can’t provide that.”
“Is Novosibirsk involved in this?”
He was ignored as June focused elsewhere. “Samantha.”
An Australian woman spoke. “What were the specifics of the initial callout, ma’am?”
“That’s still under investigation.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“Not at this time.”
The woman persisted. “Did the callout come from EDEN Command?”
“Like I said, it’s still under investigation.”
“I’m not asking for results, ma’am, I just want to verify the origin of the callout.”
June’s eyes narrowed. “Sam, listen—”
“—I’m not asking for classified information—”
“What you’re asking for isn’t something I can discuss.”
The woman sounded surprised. “You can’t confirm a simple callout?”
“Everything is a process. Right now we’re on step one of about fifty. When we get to fifty, we’ll have a lot more to disclose.” She moved on, motioning to another reporter.
“Can we confirm for the record that Strom Faerber was assigned to this unit?”
June nodded. “I can confirm that, yes.”
“Was he present on this callout?”
“By all indications, yes.”
Scott listened as the questions kept coming. Were Strom Faerber’s whereabouts known? Had Klaus been contacted by EDEN Command? What would Strom’s death mean to the captain of Vector Squad? None of those questions Scott cared about. There was only one thing he wanted to know.
“Judge, do we know whether or not there are any survivors?”
June’s face gave her answer away. “We have numerous aircraft combing the target location to look for survivors. But at this time, we are not optimistic.”
Not optimistic. Scott’s shoulders sagged.
“Dude…” said Jayden beside him.
Running his hand through his hair, Scott turned away from the display. Pushing through the crowd, he fought to find breathing room. He found it in the hall before the hub.
Falcon Platoon, his first unit, gone. Colonel Lilan and Major Tacker, his first commanding officers, presumed to be dead. Scott didn’t know or care about Strom Faerber. That was the rest of the world’s problem. The loss of Lilan, Tacker, and whoever else was left in Charlie Squad was what hit home. That was his unit. If not for Chicago, Scott might have never been noticed and never transferred to Russia. He, David, Jayden, and Becan might have been in that crash with them.
Just as concerning as the loss of Falcon Platoon was the mention of Novosibirsk in the press conference. It was obvious to every single person watching that June wanted to avoid that topic at all costs. Something was plainly wrong.
A prompt came up on Scott’s comm. Glancing at the display, he saw Natalie’s name. She must have just heard the news. “Hang on, guys,” he said, stepping away and bringing the device to his lips. “This is Remington.”
“Scott…” Sure enough, that’s what the call was about. He could tell by her voice. “My God, have you heard?”
“Yeah,” he answered somberly. “I heard.”
She hesitated. “Are you okay?”
He wasn’t sure how to answer at first. Lilan, Tacker, and the others were a jolt to his heart. But Scott was a man who’d lost his fiancée and who was trying not to lose Svetlana, someone he cared about dearly. The prospect of loss followed him everywhere. He was used to it. “It won’t be a distraction, ma’am.”
“Scott, I’m not worried about a distraction. I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine, captain.” He felt like being formal. It just seemed appropriate.
Another pause. “Just remember I’m here. You can always come talk. If you—if you need to.”
He realized how dismissive he sounded. It wasn’t what he meant. “I’ll come see you tonight.” He wasn’t even sure why he’d said it, but it felt like a natural part of the conversation’s progression. At least she’d leave him alone until then.
“Hey, man,” said Jayden, “what do you think’s goin’ on with Novosibirsk?”
“I don’t know,” Scott answered. The impression was that Novosibirsk was involved somehow in the crashing of Falcon Platoon. Could that possibly be true?
He was tempted to comm Dostoevsky. Or Thoor himself. But something told him to hold off on that. Let the situation play out. See what EDEN reports first. If there was something Scott needed to know, someone from Novosibirsk would get in touch. Nothing from the news report or the press conference changed the fact that he needed to find H`laar. This was day two, and they hadn’t even officially begun the hunt.
“All right, guys,” Scott said discreetly. “Esther’s supposed to be starting her work today. There’s nothing any of us can do until we hear from her. Forget about Falcon, forget about Novosibirsk. We’ve gotta have a one-track mind, here.”
The others nodded.
“Boris, you’re a big player in this. Have you looked at any of the public consoles, to get a feel for anything?”
Boris nodded. “It has been quite amazing. This kit from Antipov, it is like technician’s dream. It uses an encryption de-convertor, which I have never even seen before. Before the source signal even touches the primary pathway, I am able to completely bypass the interceding guardian.” He moved his arms emphatically. “And you should see the security system here as compared to The Machine! It is like being a physicist then going back to kindergarten. They are using a guardian that cannot even process a double—”
“Okay, okay,” Scott said, “whatever, I believe you.” Nerd language. “Can you gain control?”
Sighing, Boris answered, “Yes, commander.”
“Good. That’s all I want to know. Keep at it today, keep working, then show me something tangible. Go with him, Jay.”
The Texan acknowledged, and the two departed. Auric faced Scott solemnly. “If Novosibirsk did attack those ships…”
“I know,” Scott said. Auric, like him, understood the full gravity of the situation. If The Machine was involved in this, their mission in Cairo suddenly got a whole lot more complicated. And complication was the last thing they needed more of.
He’d know where he stood when he heard from Esther. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing, she was the hinge of the operation.
Their future fell on her.
27
THURSDAY, MARCH 15TH, 0012 NE
1757 HOURS
CAIRO, EGYPT
THAT EVENING
TAP. TAP. TAP. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
High heels on tile. The repetitive sound echoed on Cairo’s ivory floors.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Esther’s passive brown eyes looked ahead through her rectangular glasses, her inverted bob dancing gracefully as her feet kept perfect rhythm. Dressed in her tan cashmere suit and licking freshly glossed lips, the girl who had only several hours earlier been Esther Brooking paused by a hover tram pickup point. Zipped handbag in hand, she tapped her nails as she waited.
Catching sight of a security guard standing by a column, Esther sashayed toward him, leaning her body tentatively his way. “Excuse me?” The guard cocked his head and smiled. She smiled, too. “Where should I go to meet a Mister Holmes?”
“Giro Holmes? With Xenobiology?” he asked.
Laughing embarrassingly, she said, “Yes, that’s the one! I’m a civilian contractor. I’m supposed to be seeing him today, though I must confess, I’m a tad lost.” She watched as a tram pulled up, turning back to the guard and wincing gently. “I’m not even sure which tram I’m supposed to take.” Everything about her body language was intentional, particularly the way she cocked her hips. Her brown eyes settled on the guard’s.
He chuckled. “Well, if you want to go to Xenobiology, that’s not the one you want to get on. I will show you where to go.”
Her face lit up. “Thank you so much!”
As he began to walk, he glanced back. “Where are you from?”
“I work for a company in Melbourne,” she answered. “It’s on the southern coast of Australia.” Extending a hand, her smile remained. “Calliope Lee.”
“Ekpo.”
“Just Ekpo?”
He laughed. “Yes, just Ekpo.”
“Well, just Ekpo, I think you just saved my day.”
Several minutes later, “Calliope” found herself being led through the various twists and turns of the Anthill. Occasionally groups of armed operatives rushed past them, as if en route to something urgent. After witnessing this several times, Esther raised a genuinely curious eyebrow. “There seems to be a lot of activity. What’s happening?”
Ekpo shook his head. “It is because we are at orange alert. The defense force has been activated.”
“Orange alert?”
“You have not heard?” he asked, looking at her strangely. When she didn’t answer, he went on. “Novosibirsk has attacked a ship from EDEN. They killed Klaus Faerber’s son.”
Esther’s jaw dropped. “What?” For that single moment, her guise disappeared. She quickly reassumed it. “I mean, how? Why?”
“They sent ships to America and somehow intercepted the unit with his son. They shot him down then tried to return to Novosibirsk. Only one ship made it.”
“Why would Novosibirsk do that?”
Ekpo shook his head sadly. “I do not know. I have never met anyone from Novosibirsk, but I have heard terrible things. Their general is named Thoor. He is a bad, bad man.”
“He must be,” said Esther. “To kill Klaus Faerber’s son.” She watched Ekpo with hesitant eyes. “So…what happens in an orange alert? Are you going to go to battle?”
“I will not, no. Unless Novosibirsk decides to come visit Cairo.” He chuckled. “But I don’t believe they care about us.”
Brushing her bob back past her ears, Esther kept her deeply troubled eyes averted from him. “So you don’t work much with Novosibirsk?”
“No,” he said. “We are unrelated.”
“They don’t ever send extraterrestrials this way? I know how much focus Cairo puts on Xenobiology. It’s the reason I’m here.”
Motioning with his arms, he affirmed casually. “We get things from time to time from all bases. But I do not do much with that. Holmes will be able to tell you much more.”
Esther smiled and extended her hand. “Well, I look forward to meeting him.”
For the next several minutes, Esther followed Ekpo away from the security hub and down several winding halls. She scanned the area around her constantly, her high heels tapping rhythmically as she followed the security guard. The more they walked on, the more the demographics changed. Fewer and fewer soldiers walked about now. It seemed as if everyone was some sort of scientist.
“The tram to Xenobiology is not part of the regular tram system,” Ekpo explained. “Some of the other science wings also have their own trams, but Xenobiology is the most secluded.”
As their trek continued, the hall they were on gradually grew wider. When it reached its climax, they were standing in a kind of miniature pavilion. The room was sparsely populated, despite the various circular tables that sat along the walls. At the end of the room was a red metal door with a pair of armed guards standing beside it.
When Ekpo was in earshot of the guards, a short dialogue in Arabic took place, the names Calliope Lee and Giro Holmes arising once from the otherwise indecipherable chatter. The two guards occasionally looked at Esther; she met them each time with a timid smile.
“I explained to them who you are,” Ekpo finally said, “and that you are here to see Holmes. One of them will take you to him now.”
Eyes widening, she asked, “Now?”
“Yes. Run your I.D. through the reader.” Pointing to a wall-mounted card reader beside the door, Ekpo stepped aside to allow her to near. When she ran the card through the device, a green light appeared. The door slid open. “You are now in the system. Because you only have a civilian I.D., you will not be able to pass through the other security measures. Simply present your I.D. to one of the guards on post and they will manually bypass whatever checkpoint you are at to let you through.”
Nodding, Esther rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m sure I can find Holmes on my own—I’d hate to take someone away from their post.”
Laughing quietly, Ekpo winked. “This is what we do, Miss Lee.”
“Well thank you so much.”
“I must return to my post now,” he said, waving as he stepped back. “They will take you to his office.” Turning, Ekpo left her alone with the guards.
Walking through the red metal door, one of the guards motioned for her to follow. She obeyed, soon finding herself walking down a short hallway that ended with a second checkpoint. A retinal scanner was built into the wall. Ignoring it completely, the guard instead approached a small keypad mounted beside the door, where he typed in a short combination. Esther stretched her neck to watch the input, but to no avail. The guard’s body was blocking the keypad. There was an affirming chirp, and the door slid open.
Beyond two immediate security checkpoints were the trams bound for Xenobiology—two parallel pickup points heading off into the distance. The room was as plain as could be. No murals on the wall. No ambient noise. Everything from the walls to the ceiling was stark white. It was more than obvious that this had been constructed after EDEN’s purchase of the theme park metropolis.
“Where do the two trams go?” she asked.
Approaching the tram station on the right, the guard once again inputted several codes into a terminal keypad. Another green light, another chirp. “Heaven and Hell,” the guard answered humorlessly. “It is what they call Confinement and Administration.” He looked back. “Administration is Hell.”
Though Esther said nothing, the hair on the back of her neck bristled. Looking at the terminal display for the rightmost tram, she watched as a digital ticker counted down. One minute, thirty-seven seconds, and moving: the time it would take for the tram to arrive.
Stepping briefly to a glass window shielding the standing zone from the tram track, Esther looked at her reflection. Angling her head, she scrutinized her glasses and inverted bob. Absently, she gripped her handbag tighter.
The time it took for the counter to tick down was spent in silence, as nary a word came from the guard or Esther. The first true sound she heard was the hiss of the tram as it drew near. Moving away from the track, she watched it slide smoothly into position. It was a small tram—only a single car without a driver. On the tram’s door was a small image of a flame.
Administration.
Motioning for Esther to board the tram, the guard followed in behind her. Taking seats across from each other, they gripped the hand rails as the door slid shut and the tram began to hover away.
Any amount of comfort that had existed between Esther and Ekpo had completely dissipated with the new guard. He spoke only when spoken to, and the words he used were short and matter-of-fact. The whole while the tram moved, he said not a thing. The only way for Esther to diminish the uncomfortable atmosphere in the tram was to keep her eyes ahead through the car’s front window. They were moving fast. Very fast. It was impossible to determine their exact rate of travel, but it was clear that they were traveling a significant distance. There was a noticeable arc to their direction as well as a constant downward descent. They were spiraling beneath the surface of the Anthill. Like riding down a corkscrew.
Another digital display in the tram was counting down their time to arrival. As it approached zero, a literal light at the end of the tunnel could be seen. The tram slowed, coming to a stop at another docking station. With a hiss, the doors slid open. Rising from his seat, the guard exited the car. Esther followed. The tram behind them remained in place, awaiting its next assignment.
This second hub was much like the first, right down to the second parallel tram. Were it not for the fact that they had indeed traveled somewhere, it would have been easy to believe they were in the exact same hub as before.
At the far wall was another security door with a new pair of guards. Esther’s guard approached them, and once more, an Arabic conversation ensued. Nods were exchanged, and the guard who’d gone with Esther walked back to the car they’d arrived on. One of the posted guards addressed her. “Follow me.” Once again, a keypad was used, and once again, the security door slid open. The manual bypass was apparently at every checkpoint as an alternative to the scanners.
Immediately beyond the security checkpoint was a reception area—and vastly different aesthetics. Gone was the stark white barrenness of the tram hubs. Wooden columns lined the walls. The floor was lushly carpeted in dark red. A receptionist smiled from behind her desk.
“She is here to see Holmes,” said the guard.
The receptionist looked at them strangely before turning to a display on her desk. “What was your name?” She was American.
“Calliope Lee,” Esther answered.
Shaking her head, the receptionist said, “Did you have an appointment? I don’t see it on the calendar.”
Esther’s palms began to sweat. Her pupils searched the area, stopping at the nameplate on the receptionist’s desk. Her gaze returned to the receptionist, just as the woman turned back from her monitor. “Are you…Janice?”
The receptionist blinked. “Yes, I am.”
“I believe I spoke with you several months ago. I’m a civilian contractor working with EDEN. I’m based out of Melbourne.”
Janice looked dumbfounded.
“I’m working with Sydney on a reevaluation of their Xenobiology department,” said Esther. “I’d wanted to speak with Mister Holmes about his operations here to take back with me to Melbourne. My meeting with Sydney is in a month.” She offered the most confused expression she could muster. “You don’t recall speaking to me at all?”
Exhaling exasperatingly, Janice shook her head. “I’m so sorry, I don’t. But I talk to so many people. I don’t know why I didn’t put it on the calendar.”
“Does Mister Holmes know I’m here today at all?” Esther asked, grimacing for effect.
“No, I’m sure he doesn’t.” Janice’s words were accompanied by a sigh. “I’m so sorry, Miss Lee, I don’t know why I didn’t put this on the calendar.”
Maintaining a hopeful smile, Esther asked, “Do you think it’s possible for me to still meet with him?”
Janice picked up her desk phone. “I’m calling him right now to see if he can fit you in. Again, I’m so sorry.” Her tone abruptly changed. “Giro! Would you have time to visit with a Miss Calliope Lee? She’s a civilian contractor helping out Sydney.” Several seconds passed before she spoke again. “No, it wasn’t. That’s my fault.” Another pause. “Great! I’ll send her back now.”
Esther smiled as Janice hung up. “He can see me?”
“Yes,” she said, sounding relieved. “I’ll show you to his office.” The guard, upon hearing Janice take over, bowed out of the room.
“Before we go, does there happen to be a restroom here?” Esther asked.
Janice pointed. “Yes, right down that hall, first door on your left. I’ll be here when you come back.”
“Thank you so much.”
Walking down the indicated hallway, Esther found the women’s restroom. Stepping inside and seeing that it was empty, she closed and locked the door. She placed her hands at the edges of the sink. “Oh my God,” she said breathily, moving a hand over her rapidly beating heart.
“Calliope Lee,” she whispered to herself. “Calliope Lee.” Blowing out a breath, she examined her glasses and hair, then looked herself in the eyes. “Hi, Mister Holmes, I’m Calliope.” She shook her head. “Hi, Mister Holmes, I’m Calliope Lee. Hi, Mister Holmes—Calliope Lee.” Flapping her lips disgustedly, she said, “Hi, Mister Holmes, I’m Esther Brooking. Got any Ceratopians I could borrow?” Cracking her neck, she took several moments to compose herself. Straightening her cashmere suit, she walked out the door.
Janice was waiting for her when she returned. Together they left the reception area for the office of Giro Holmes. Office workers of various nationalities walked all around them, conversing quietly with papers and cups of coffee in their hands. Hell, indeed.
After several twists and turns down various halls, Esther and Janice finally arrived at Holmes’ office. Tapping on the door, Janice waited for a response. A voice answered from the other side. “Come in!” Janice opened the door, smiled politely, and ushered Esther in.
Giro rose from his chair, removing his spectacles and setting them on his desk. He smiled warmly and approached Esther. “Hello!” He extended a hand. “Giro Holmes, it’s very nice to meet you.” The man was a carbon copy of his photo from Scott’s folder. Despite the English sounding name, his accent was purely Indian.
Esther’s smile matched his. She shook his hand generously. “Hi, Mister Holmes—Calliope Lee.”
“Come, sit down. Tell me what brings you to Cairo. I am so sorry for the confusion with the calendar.”
Janice excused herself from the room as Esther sat. “I’m working with Sydney for a reevaluation of their Xenobiology department. I was hoping to pick your brain a bit and see how you’ve set things up here.”
Giro grinned, entwining his fingers as he leaned back in his chair. “So you get to work with Amisha, eh? How is that?”
Esther put the new name to immediate use. “She’s ambitious,” she said, restraining a knowing smirk.
“Yes, yes, she is. So what can I do for you?”
Adjusting her posture, she reassumed her professional tone. “Sydney’s mindset is that, if there are going to be any alterations, they need to happen while the cement’s still wet.”
Giro looked at her curiously. “I thought their Xenobiology lab was one of the first things finished?”
“For the most part, yes. But Amisha has several concerns about the current schematic going forward. She and the brass at Sydney are somewhat…” she frowned hesitantly, “at odds about this. That’s probably not something you should repeat.”
Giro shook his head quickly. “Of course not.”
“What she’s hoping to do is present an updated schematic—no drastic changes—with an additional two thousand square feet for Confinement.”
“Hmm.”
Esther straightened herself again. “I’m here primarily to see your Confinement facilities, if that’s something that can be arranged. I can absolutely work around your schedule.”
“Of course, sure.”
“I want to make this as convenient as possible. I know this visit wasn’t expected.”
“Did you want to go now?”
She blinked. “Ahh…sure. If it’s not a bad time for you.”
The director grinned widely. “It is never a bad time to go to Heaven.”
It took Esther a moment to get it, but when she did, she chuckled awkwardly. Dork humor.
“Just what we call things,” Giro explained. “This place is much like Hell. Too much red tape, too much paperwork. Seeing our alien visitors always puts our place in perspective. The universe is so big, and we are so very small. It never ceases to amaze me. Come. Let us go.” Smiling warmly, he led her out of the office.
As they walked toward the tram hub, Esther found herself subjected to constant questioning from Giro—almost none of which applied to her cover story. What was her favorite species? What did she think about the war? Had she ever seen an alien up close? The director’s enthusiasm was obsessive, almost childlike. For every answer she offered, he offered a story in return—how he’d discovered the Bakma species’ sense of humor, or how he’d taught a canrassi to perform for food. The man was a tome of knowledge and gullible to the point of a fault. He was easy prey.
The tram ride to Heaven was slightly longer than the ride to Hell. It made a certain degree of sense. Extraterrestrials would take advantage of any opportunities to escape, regardless of how unfeasible that might have been. It was good planning to put them farther away from escape than anyone else. The only sentient beings looking to break out of the administration wing were office workers.
The tram slowed to a stop; Esther and Giro stepped out. “So, two thousand square feet?” the director asked. “Does Amisha know what she wants to do with that?”
“Primarily Ceratopian storage,” Esther answered. “She’s not confident that she can keep them in custody the way it’s set up now; there’s just not enough room to house them comfortably.” She frowned. “It’s unfortunate that no one caught that during the planning phase, but…well, you know.”
“Hmm.” The vocalization was painful. “Yes, all too well, I’m afraid. Hindsight is always better. So is it Ceratopian Confinement you’re most interested in?”
She nodded. “That would definitely be the most beneficial. I need to go back with more information on that than anything else.”
“Well come right this way—and get ready.” Placing his eye against a wall scanner, Giro’s retina was read and accepted. The doors swung open, and Esther stepped inside. She went rigid immediately.
A soft-featured, uniformed Ithini stood in the center of the lobby, its oval eyes locked on them. The scout gasped out of sheer surprise.
“Good evening,” Giro said to the alien. Sliding his hands in his pockets, he looked at Esther. “Calliope, this is Ju`bajai.”
Goose bumps erupted on Esther’s neck. “It’s…”
“An Ithini, yes. Things are run somewhat different, here, you see. The extraterrestrials have come here to attack us—that much is obvious. But we make a mistake when we assume they’re all mindless killers. Ju`bajai, in fact, has been very helpful.”
Ju`bajai’s opaque gaze focused on Esther. The alien’s pupils started to widen.
“What’s he doing?” Esther’s breathing increased.
Giro smiled. “You mean what is she doing! Don’t worry, it’s all precautionary. Consider it a sort of background check. We humans can invent so many gizmos and gadgets to protect ourselves, yet this little one’s innate abilities can see deeper than any of them. This is just a security measure for everyone she doesn’t recognize.” He winked. “She’s just making sure you’re not here to kill us.”
“Wait a second! Is she about to—?” She never had time to finish the question. Her mind and the Ithini’s coalesced; a floodgate of memories burst forth.
“Alpha Private Esther Brooking, sir!”
As soon as she felt the comm pad, she knew why the Eighth was attacking.
Her lion. He would taint no one else.
“Make a choice, Scott. You can’t be loyal to Nicole and have Svetlana. Which girl will you dump?”
“It’s okay, you don’t have to answer. And you don’t have to worry; I’ll go on your mission. I think my point has been made.”
The wash of memories pulled back. Esther was thrust back into the present. Her stomach twisted into a knot as her lower lip dropped. She looked the Ithini straight in the eyes.
Slowly, Ju`bajai canted her head. Emotionless and still, it was almost as if the alien had stopped breathing. The two locked in a stare.
Giro smiled. “So, Ju`bajai, is Miss Lee here to kill us?”
Esther’s heart pounded. Her throat constricted. She prepared her legs to run.
Ever so slightly, the Ithini’s eyelids narrowed. It hissed to Giro without looking. “T’csh-ka.”
Giro chuckled and waved her forward. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? Come—let’s take you to Confinement.”
Esther looked at the Ithini. At no point had its stare deviated from her. Heart in her throat, she took a wobbly step forward. “I’m okay?”
“Of course. Come on in.”
Stepping cautiously around Ju`bajai, Esther studied the alien’s facial expression. As it turned its head to watch her, a single word was conveyed to Esther’s mind.
Liar.
Esther’s body shook. She felt every sweat gland that moistened; she sensed the color draining from her skin. Everything felt cold. “I’m—I’m sorry,” she said, looking at Giro and swallowing. “Do you have a restroom?” He hadn’t been with her when he’d first arrived in the administration wing. She could safely use the restroom cover again.
Looking at her oddly, Giro was struck by realization. “I am so sorry! I forget, not everyone has connected before. The first time can make you lightheaded.”
“Yes,” said Esther, nodding. “I just…I just need a restroom.”
As Giro showed her to a nearby restroom, Ju`bajai’s eyes watched her the entire time. As soon as Esther was inside and alone, she locked the door.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, pushing her hands through her hair as she back peddled into the corner. She covered her mouth. “Where are you?” she asked in a hushed, panicked voice. “Talk to me, you sodding gray! Why did you keep my cover?” She was alone in her mind. Ju`bajai’s presence was gone.
Hands against her temples, Esther shivered with every exhalation. Moving her fingers over her comm, they trembled over the queue button. The frequency was already turned to Scott’s. Contact was supposed to be for emergencies only.
A nauseous feeling swelled in her stomach. She swallowed again. “Control,” she whispered emphatically to herself. “Regain control.” Gaze settling on the door, she gathered herself before rising to a stand.
“Miss Lee?” Giro called from outside. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Yes!” she stammered, swallowing hard, then repeating the word confidently. “Yes, I’m all right. I just suddenly felt flushed.” Walking to the sink, she wet a paper towel then dabbed her forehead. Looking at her reflection, her brown eyes narrowed to a glare. “You want to play, you little gray scag? We can play.” Standing erect, she straightened her outfit. Turning, she went back for the door.
Giro was standing several feet away from the door, his spectacled gaze deep with concern. She sighed apologetically. “I’m so sorry. I’ve never felt quite like that before.”
He touched her arm compassionately. “I should apologize—I forget that an Ithini connection is new for some people. Most people who come through here have experienced connections before.”
“I’m ready,” she said, smiling as best she could. Nodding in reply, Giro turned to lead her to Confinement.
As she walked away, Esther slowly looked back at Ju`bajai. The Ithini was already looking at her. Nothing was said—nothing needed to be. The game between them, whatever it was, was afoot. Only when she was out of Ju`bajai’s earshot did she address Giro. “So that was an Ithini?”
“Yes. Ju`bajai is what is known as an IB. That means she was an Ithini captured with the Bakma. There are Ithini with both the Ceratopians and the Bakma, you see,” explained Giro. “The ones with the Ceratopians, we call them ICs.”
“What’s the difference between the two?” she asked innocuously.
“Mostly cooperation. IBs are more eager to assist, whereas ICs remain somewhat distant. It is easier to work with an IB. ICs are not always so trustworthy.”
Something clicked with Esther in that last statement—intuition. She looked back down the hall whence they’d come.
Giro continued, oblivious to her distraction. “It is rare to catch a female of any species. The Bakma we have captured are all male, as are all previous IBs. For whatever reason, Ju`bajai’s reproductive organs have been removed. This may have something to do with why she was allowed to be an exception.” His coy smile indicated he knew more than he was letting on. “She was picked up at a Coneship crash site in South America. When it was discovered that she was indeed a female IB, she was immediately sent here. Her level of intelligence is remarkable. We hope that by gaining her trust we will be able to learn more about her origins, and the origins of the Khu—” He bit his lip. “Of the Bakma.” Swallowing discreetly, he went on. “We believe giving her a working role will pay dividends in future interrogations. We are careful not to push her.”
“Sometimes a little push is all it takes,” said Esther under her breath.
“What was that?”
Her focus returned to him. “I said you don’t want to push her beyond what she can take.”
“Yes, absolutely. We must be careful with all valuable specimens. Ju`bajai does stay in a cell, much like the other guests here, though she is allowed to leave during regular working hours. A task gives her something else to think about, and another way to look at us beyond simply as her captors.” Reaching another security door, Giro once again placed his eye against a wall-mounted scanner. There was a satisfactory beep, and the door slid open.
It was a laboratory—one infinitely larger than the Confinement area at Novosibirsk. Scientists were clustered in every direction, a constant murmur hovering over the room. Everything was pure, pristine, white. The tiles were so glossy they reflected like mirrors. The temperature was easily ten degrees cooler; a clean, disinfected smell hovered in the air. Esther was struck by a moment of genuineness. “My goodness…”
“Welcome to Confinement, Miss Lee.” Pride beamed on the director’s face. As the door sealed shut behind them, he pointed to various doors along every wall. “Each species has its own wing, along with several other specialized wings. The Ithini are through the first door on the left, with the Bakma immediately following. First door in the back belongs to Ceratopians, followed by two wings for different specimens. The canrassi and necrilid pens are on the right.”
“How many aliens do you have here?”
“As of today, five hundred ninety six.”
She was awestruck.
Giro led her through the center of the room. “We try to keep as many sub-species as possible. All species come in multiple varieties. We humans tend to lump each of them in a single category, which is not correct.” He indicated toward the animal pen doors on the left. “Canrassis come in many varieties beyond simply fur color. From teeth, to scent glands, to body definition and size. Though there is only a single general structure to a canrassi, much like housecats, there are dozens of varieties.
“Many people do not realize that necrilids come in sub-species, as well. Some have intelligence comparable to dogs. Though it has not been reported on the battlefield often, we have found that several necrilid specimens learned how to mimic simple sounds. They are remarkably adept.”
Memories of Chernobyl flashed through her mind. “Mimic sounds, you said?”
“Yes, it is quite impressive.” He slid his hands into his pockets and eyed her, fighting off an incredibly wide grin. “Have you ever seen a necrilid?”
“No,” she lied. “I’ve never been near one.”
Chuckling quietly, he motioned for her to follow. “Come with me.”
She resisted immediately. “I’d rather not. I mean it.”
“No, no, I insist.” He reached for her hand to pull her along. “It is not what you think.” Looking to one of the scientists, Giro said, “Bring out one of the patrol units.”
Esther didn’t need to feign fear; hers was real. Her heart pounding, she found herself slowly trying to back away from Giro, but his hand held her wrist firmly. “Please, I’d really rather not,” she said. “I don’t need to—”
“It will be okay.” His warm smile never faded. “Do I look afraid?”
“But we’re talking about necrilids, here!”
He nodded. “That’s right. We are talking about necrilids.”
Eyes transfixed on the door to the necrilid pen, Esther held her breath as she waited for it to open. Every danger sense in her body was going off. When it finally did open, her whole body flinched.
There it was.
Its flattened head surveyed the room, golden eyes gleaming in their dark sockets. Its claws spread on the floor, it pivoted to examine several nearby scientists.
It wasn’t attacking. It wasn’t preying. It was looking around like a dog. Rising on its hind legs—a posture that brought it to a height greater than hers, it sniffed the air, then toppled back down to all fours.
Kneeling down, Giro snapped his fingers at the creature. “Who do we have today?”
“Tiburon,” said the scientist behind it.
“Ahh, good, good,” said Giro. Snapping his fingers again, he caught the necrilid’s attention. “Come here, Tibby.”
Lowering its head, the necrilid trotted to Giro in the center of the room. Halfway toward Giro, the creature’s eyes locked onto Esther. It altered its course straight for her.
“Oh my God,” she said, lurching back violently.
The necrilid’s posture shifted. It bore its fangs; a ravenous snarl escaped. It started to run toward her.
Giro grabbed hold of Esther, holding her in place. “It’s okay! It’s okay! Don’t show fear, don’t be afraid. It’s not going to hurt you.”
“Oh my God,” she whispered emphatically. “Oh my God!”
“They can sense people,” said Giro. “They are much like a dog. It is a defense mechanism.” He held an open palm to the approaching animal. “It’s okay, Tiburon. She’s okay.” He whispered to Esther, “Hold out your hand, let him sniff you.”
Her heart was beating through her chest. “This is all a dream.”
“Hold out your hand.”
Very slowly, she did as she was told.
Tiburon’s fangs remained bared until it apprehensively leaned toward her fingers. Dipping its head forward, its nostrils caressed her digits as it sniffed.
“He is learning you,” said Giro. “He is learning that you are not a threat. He will remember you after this.” As the necrilid sniffed on, the scientist’s smile widened. “Miss Lee, meet Tiburon. He is one of our pets.”
Pets. One of their pets. It was like hearing that the sky was green. But finally, as it became apparent that the creature was indeed subservient, Esther’s heart rate decreased. For the first time, her senses kicked in. She had never seen a necrilid this close before. She could smell its musky odor. She could look at its every detail. She was transfixed.
“Necrilids have skin somewhat like a shark’s, except more pliable and less coarse. In fact, necrilids most resemble a sort of shark-gecko hybrid. Despite what soldiers call them, they are not like bugs at all.”
Its nostrils relenting, Tiburon looked up at Esther and tilted its head.
“All necrilids have a somewhat flat head, as you can see.” The scientist tapped on the animal’s skull, producing several loud knocking sounds. The creature leaned away, but seemed otherwise unfazed. “While their heads tend to be somewhat elongated from side-to-side, Tiburon’s elongation is particularly pronounced—almost like a bonnethead shark, if you are familiar.”
She wasn’t.
“Necrilids also have active electroreceptors. They can generate an electric field and sense any distortions that enter it. Though not as powerful as a shark’s, it is far more sensitive than any land mammal on Earth. Most animals with this ability on our planet are aquatic.” He smiled. “In fact, this ability was discovered when several necrilids were released in a water pen. We believe that, at some point, we may even be able to create a necrilid deterrent system by using electropositive metals in standard combat armor.” Sighing, he slid his hands in his pockets. “Unfortunately, it may be for naught, as they can also shut off their receptors. They are quite complicated creatures. They have redundant predatory systems.”
Though Esther heard his words, she was barely listening. She was fully captivated by the necrilid sitting docilely before her.
“Shake,” said Giro. The necrilid raised one of its claws. The director took it. Lifting the palm upward, he revealed dozens of tiny suckers beneath its fingers. “This is how they climb so quickly.”
Laughing disbelievingly, Esther ran a hand through her hair. “Un-bloody-believable.”
“Now you see why every Xenobiologist wants to work here,” he said, smirking.
“And he just wanders around without a leash? Without a restraining device?”
Nodding, Giro answered, “Necrilids do not respond well to restraints. They are not like dogs in that way. They require a certain measure of freedom.”
“How long did it take to make him like this?”
“Only several months. Necrilids have incredible metabolisms—they breed and grow very quickly. It only takes a few generations to erase any preprogrammed tendencies.” He scratched the animal’s head. “Tiburon, like all of our patrol units, is very familiar with humans. He may still get nervous around new visitors, as he did with you, but he will not attack outright as necrilids do in the battlefield. We have bred that aggression out of them. Actually, we have approached EDEN Command about launching a necrilid companion program, to see if they could be utilized in the field, but…they are hesitant to try that, as I’m sure you can understand.”
She was taking in every detail on the beast. The tight texture of its skin, the yellow color of its edge-mounted, forward-facing eyes. The deep, purr-like rumble it made while at rest. Its streamlined, almost emaciated body structure, the likely result of its aforementioned metabolism. The next question was inevitable. “What do you feed it?”
For the first time during their conversation, Giro frowned. “It is probably better if you do not know.”
“No, tell me. I want to know.”
He hesitated. “Overcrowding is a problem at many animal shelters—”
“Nope!” she cut him off sharply. “Never mind! I don’t want to know!” She shook her mind clear. “Snakes and weasels. He eats snakes and weasels.”
“Erm.” Giro’s mouth twisted uncomfortably. “Yes. That is right. He eats snakes and weasels.”
Pressing her hand to her forehead, she turned away. “Okay. I don’t want to see this thing anymore. I can’t deal with this thing.”
Giro nodded and called for the animal’s removal.
“Snakes and weasels,” she whispered repetitively. As soon as the necrilid was gone, she looked sternly at Giro. “Please, Mister Holmes. This is all very fascinating, but in a span of ten minutes, I’ve been both mentally violated and completely disturbed. Would it be possible to see Ceratopian Confinement now?”
The director was all apology. “Yes—I am so sorry. I am not used to visitors like you. Everyone here is a scientist, they work with these specimens every day. But you have never seen these things before. I am so excited to show them to someone for the first time!” He settled down. “But yes, you are not here for that. Let’s go see the Ceratopian wing.”
“Thank you. I didn’t mean to sound rude.”
“No, no, it is my fault. It is just that you are…it is so…” He bit back his words. “Never mind. Come, let us continue.”
Nodding appreciatively, she followed his lead.
As Esther walked with Giro down the hallway of the Ceratopian wing, it came to light just how massive Confinement was in Cairo. It must have been as large as the barracks at Novosibirsk. Massive corridors, undoubtedly designed for Ceratopian transportation, branched in every direction. Spacious laboratories were set about at several intersecting hubs. Sets of Ceratopian armor and weapons were laid about on various tables, right there in the open.
“We learn from them constantly—from all of our specimens. We wish to win this war, of course, but we also wish to understand.”
Esther watched the examination tables as they passed. In one room, several cadavers were laid out.
Giro went on. “We call them Ceratopians, but their proper name—what they call themselves—is the Golathoch. While their war with the Bakma has only recently become public knowledge, it is something we have known for some time here. We are learning much about their thoughts on the Bakma. There is little respect shared between the two species. The Golathoch consider the Bakma little more than vermin.”
He slid his hands into his pockets. “The Golathoch come from a world with a more oxygen-rich atmosphere than we have on Earth. That is why they have such a large size. Their cells here maintain an oxygen level of twenty-five percent, reflective of their home planet, at least based on what we have learned. That is halfway from where we are now to the conditions of prehistoric Earth. They can function on our planet, but there is a noticeable loss in energy and efficiency over time.” He smiled somewhat. “If you notice, the canrassi seen with the Golathoch tend to be larger than those seen with the Bakma. This is why we believe canrassi exist on multiple planetary systems. Their size differs based on the oxygen level of the planet they come from. So far, all of the extraterrestrials we have discovered are oxygen-breathers. But this is not very surprising.”
The laboratories passed, and the two came upon the first row of cells. Inside each one was a Ceratopian. Some watched them as they walked by. Others sat idle on wall-mounted seats. An eerie silence filled the area.
Stopping in the middle of that hallway, Giro placed his hands on his hips. “As you can see, the usefulness of two thousand square feet will be halved when dealing with this species. How many square feet does Amisha already have?”
Esther paused. “Just over four thousand.”
The director seemed surprised. “Is it that small?” He looked around concernedly. “No wonder she wants more space.”
Walking to one of the cells, she watched a Ceratopian inside. The horned warrior turned its head to her. “How big are these cells?”
“Eighteen by twenty. So with two thousand square feet, you are only looking to add room for four or five Ceratopians.” A puzzled look struck him again. “She really only has four thousand square feet?”
“For Ceratopians, yes,” Esther answered. “Of course all of Confinement is much bigger.”
He nodded. “That is still small, but…I suppose Sydney is a small base.”
“You should visit some day,” Esther said. “It’s a beautiful facility.”
“Yes, I should.”
Hesitating for a moment, Esther spoke again. “Would you mind if I took some photographs?”
“Not at all, if you think it might help.”
“It’ll help to have a visual aid.” Unzipping her handbag, she reached in and felt around, pulling out a small camera a moment later. Stepping away from the cell, she took an angled picture of that side. Previewing the image, she frowned a bit. “The other side might work better.” Switching her position in the hall, she took a photo of the opposite row of cells, the Ceratopians closest to the glass all staring at her. “I’ll probably try to get some of the labs, too. I don’t think she’ll need any of those, but it’s better to have them and not need them than need them and not have them.”
Giro agreed.
Previewing the image she’d just taken, she slipped the camera back into her bag. “You mentioned that Ceratopian-Bakma skirmish…were you able to learn anything new from that?”
“Eh, a small bit. We retrieved some specimens, but none were outstanding.”
Leering faintly—and intentionally—she opened her posture to him. “I’m sure there must’ve been something new. That event sure was news to the rest of the world.”
For several seconds, Giro showed no reaction. He simply looked at her. Then slowly, subtly, a semi-hopeful smile curved up. “There is much I could tell you, about many different things, not just what we learn from specific encounters. Would you like to meet for dinner sometime?”
The directness took her by surprise. But her expression grew pleased. “I’ll be here for at least several days. I could probably swing a dinner conversation.”
“How about tomorrow night? We can meet in the cafeteria.”
“You mean here at the base?”
He nodded.
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”
Esther and Giro talked for several more minutes before they once again set out through Ceratopian Confinement, Esther occasionally pulling out her camera to snap several photos. Outside of Ju`bajai and Tiburon, she never personally encountered any other extraterrestrials.
That was fine by her.
All in all, she spent just over two hours with the director. Conversation grew friendlier as time passed, deviating from the business of Sydney to lighthearted banter about various other topics. By the time they were finished, Esther had successfully inserted her way, if not into his heart, into his circle of informality. It was precisely what she’d wanted.
Now, there was only one more thing she had set her mind to do. A simple gesture that needed to be repaid. As her time with Giro ended and she was escorted out of Heaven, Esther’s gaze sought and found Ju`bajai again. As she passed the Ithini female, she whispered to her a single, hushed word. A message of her own—one she knew Ju`bajai would comprehend.
“Liar.”
28
THURSDAY, MARCH 15TH, 0012 NE
2057 HOURS
PULLING HIS SHIRT over his head, Scott rolled his neck in a wide circle. Exhaling gently, he sighed with eyes closed.
What a day.
It was impossible not to be distracted by the events of Falcon Platoon, Strom Faerber, and the possibility of open aggression by Novosibirsk. News of the event was on every monitor in every turn of every hallway. It was all anyone was talking about. He and his comrades from the Fourteenth may have been the only ones who were trying to avoid it.
As he’d promised, he met with Natalie briefly that night. It was the shortest, most uncomfortable, and easiest encounter with her yet—one in which he was allowed to be distant and provide one-word answers while using the cover of the Falcon Platoon attack as justification. He’d only spent about five minutes with her before he excused himself, to her complete understanding. The truth was, he just didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Unfortunately, talking was about to be unavoidable.
Esther had informed him several minutes earlier via comm that she was en route to his room for the day-one update of her infiltration. Scott wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about that, but he knew how he did feel. He dreaded it.
Scott hadn’t spoken to Esther since her eruption in his room—since she’d learned he’d told others, particularly Svetlana, about their personal situation. Her pride had been shattered; she blamed him solely.
So did he.
There was a truth that Scott had settled upon in the days between his and Esther’s last conversation. This entire situation was due to his poor handling of that night when he’d called her to his room in Novosibirsk. She’d confessed her love for him. She’d killed a man for him. Even after everything he had done to her, she’d held on for that chance at his affection. Scott tried to envision how that scene would have gone had he handled things differently:
She was desperate for an answer. Searching, panicking. Then it came out. “Scott, I love you!”
…whoa. The first thought that struck Scott was that he hadn’t heard her correctly. But the Briton’s reaction confirmed it. She loved him. All of this passion, all of this willingness to take the burden of vengeance from his shoulders…it was all because she loved him. And he didn’t love her.
“Oh, Ess…” What could he say to her? How could he make her understand without destroying her? How could he let his friend down softly? Opening his arms, he moved in to draw her close. “I’m so sorry…please try to understand this.” She fell against him. Her saline soaked his uniformed chest. “I just don’t share those feelings.”
That was all the reimagining Scott needed. It was as far as he needed to go to know that he had handled her confession completely wrong. She hadn’t caused this. If Esther was guilty of anything, it was that she’d loved unrequitedly. She’d deserved better.
Esther’s knock came to his door. Though it wasn’t quite as familiar to him as Svetlana’s, it was recognizably a woman’s knock. Natalie wouldn’t be visiting him this late. Grabbing his shirt, Scott slipped it on and made his way to the door. Turning the knob and preparing for anything, he opened it to allow Esther entry. There was a moment of momentary surprise when he saw her as Calliope, though it passed. Eyeliner-laden eyes settling upon him, she curled her fingertips around the door frame and eased the door shut.
“Hey,” she said quietly as she slid her glasses from her face. Stretching her neck, she pressed a hand to her shoulder. It was probably her first relaxed moment all day. “Sorry I’m so late.”
Her tone wasn’t what he’d expected—it was downright placid. It was still the onset of the conversation, to be sure, but he’d take that over angry any day.
“Where do we begin today, Scott?” she asked, walking to the other side of his room.
“With the lifealtering topic of your choice, I guess,” Scott said, following her. “Falcon Platoon, Novosibirsk, whatever it was you found out today. We can…talk about anything.” It came out in a funny way. He wondered if she noticed. If she had, she never gave indication.
Esther leaned against his bathroom doorframe. “I wasn’t prepared for Novosibirsk. I didn’t find out until I was already working my way in.” The scout exhaled tiredly. “Do you think Thoor really attacked that unit from Richmond?”
“That unit was my old one.”
She looked at him oddly for a moment, then her eyes widened. “Oh my God, Scott. It is, isn’t it?”
He hadn’t said it to sound offended. He just wanted her to know. “As far as what I believe, I honestly don’t know. It would make zero sense for Thoor to attack EDEN now. Not when he’s on the verge of getting evidence against them. By evidence I mean H`laar.”
“I think so, too,” she said. “This smells dubious, but probably only to us. But even we have to admit, it sounds exactly like something Thoor would do.”
Scott nodded. “I thought about comming Dostoevsky, or even Thoor himself, but I’m hesitant to make any direct contact right now. Just in case our comms are traceable in any way.”
“Boris could probably do something. I’m sure there must be something he could deactivate. Has he learned anything yet?”
“He’s making progress. He was trying to explain some stuff earlier, but he was losing me by the word. He says he’ll have access soon, so I trust him.”
Silence fell between them. Standing in the center of the room with his hands in his pockets, Scott watched Esther as she gazed at the floor. What was this difference in her? What was she thinking about? Taking a few steps back until his back was against the opposite wall, he leaned against it and watched her.
Closing her eyes, she brushed back her hair. “God, Scott,” she whispered. “Today was insane.”
“Tell me.”
“I made it all the way into Confinement,” she said. “I can’t say I was prepared for that so quickly, but opportunities presented themselves and I took them. I expected security to be…well, more secure. But I supposed they’re more accustomed to keeping captives in than people out.”
He arched his eyebrow. “So they bought that you were a civilian contractor?”
Bending down, she produced her camera. She tossed it to Scott; he caught it. “They did. I’m supposedly working with Sydney.”
Examining the display, Scott flipped through the photos. “What is this?”
“As many photos of Ceratopians as I could take without looking too suspicious. Any of them look familiar?”
A frown formed on Scott’s face. He exhaled depressingly. “I can’t tell anything from these. I mean, I see the aliens, but nowhere near close enough to tell if one is H`laar. I don’t even know I trust my own memory.” He lowered the camera down. “He was tan. That’s pretty much all I’ve got.”
Esther had been studying Scott the whole while he was looking at the pictures, her pupils darting ever-so-slightly as she took him in. “There is a slim chance that I could get Holmes to show me H`laar, but even that’s a stretch.”
“You mean you actually met Holmes already?”
“I did a tad more than that. He asked me out. We’re meeting tomorrow night in the cafeteria. If I can get close enough personally to him, maybe I can get him to show me H`laar somehow. It’s a stretch, but it’s all I’ve got right now.”
He wondered if Esther felt as guilty about deceiving Holmes as he did with Natalie. Somehow, he doubted it. Don’t be judgmental, Scott. You’re no saint, either.
Hesitating, Esther spoke again. “There is one more remote possibility. There’s an Ithini who works in Confinement.”
“Works in Confinement?”
She nodded. “Her name is Ju`bajai.”
Her? Scott had never seen a female Ithini.
“They use her to screen new arrivals. Arrivals like me.” She dipped her head tellingly. “She knows who I am, Scott. She reached into my mind before I could even react. Apparently, they use her as a security measure. She knows I’m Esther, not Calliope. She also knows we came for H`laar.”
“That’s not good…”
“But for some reason—and I’m not entirely certain it eases my anxiety—she lied to Holmes to grant me access to Confinement. She told them I checked out, and that I was okay to go through.” She walked toward the bed. “Ju’bajai implanted the word liar into my head as I walked past her. According to Holmes, she’s an IB, but I have a sinking suspicion that she’s not. I think she was a Ceratopian Ithini. I also don’t think Holmes knows that. I think when he told me Ju`bajai was an IB, he genuinely believed it.”
She lowered herself in his desk chair. “I made sure to drop the hint to Ju`bajai when I left that I knew her secret, too. For whatever reason, I think she’ll make contact with me again.”
“But what if she’s not an IC? What if you just confused the heck out of her when you called her a liar?”
“Scott,” she said quietly, yet confidently, “she’s an IC. I just know.” She played with her hands. “I’ve intrigued her, at least enough for her to allow me into Confinement when she knows I’m working undercover. She’s allowing me to betray the staff there. To what end, I don’t know. But from everything I’ve heard, ICs are notoriously untrustworthy. I don’t think it’s a stretch that she’d willfully deceive her captors.”
It was that trust part that bothered Scott. “Esther, what if you can’t trust her?”
“I know. It’s a risk. But what part of this operation isn’t? Ju`bajai is a wild card, but she might be the card that wins me the hand. What I know for certain is that she’s in control. I can’t connect to her—she has to initiate it with me. I don’t know what to expect.” Reaching behind her head, she rubbed the back of her neck. “Can we talk, Scott?”
In four words, she had his undivided attention. Looking across at her, he instinctively pushed up from the wall, as if ready to meet her in the middle of the room. When she didn’t match him, he stood still. “Absolutely,” he said as compassionately as possible. “You know you can talk to me.”
She breathed a smile’s worth of laughter. Raising an eyebrow and asking in the most Esther-like manner possible, she asked, “Oh can I?”
It wasn’t meant as a slight. Just a small, well-intended poke at his hypocrisy. Offering a soft, sheepish chuckle, he nodded. “Yeah. You can.”
Lowering her head, she spoke thoughtfully. “Scott…” His name hung for several seconds. “I didn’t mean to do what I did.”
Canting his head, Scott listened.
“To challenge how you felt.” She eased her head up just enough to look at Nicole’s picture. It was on his nightstand, just as it had been in his room at Novosibirsk. “About Sveta and Nicole.”
Scott immediately caught Esther’s choice of words. Sveta. Esther never called Svetlana that.
The scout shook her head. “I know how much you love them both.”
“Ess…”
Her gaze traveled from Nicole’s photograph to the floor in front of the chair. Hands playing with one another, she almost looked up at him. “Something has kind of happened.” Scott looked at her oddly, but remained silent. “I guess I’ve had some time to gain a new perspective.” Her mouth hung open, as if she was about to say something else, then stifled the urge. Sighing, she finally regarded him. “Do you really believe everything happens for a reason? Do you think we’re allowed to follow our mistakes if it leads us to something better?”
This, he could answer. This one, in spite of his own all-too-frequent personal confusion, was easy. “Yes, I do. I think sometimes that leads us to places we never even thought we’d go.”
Esther’s lips parted, but she stayed silent.
“Is everything okay?”
Moving her head in sort of a half-shake, as if reflecting on something profound, the scout’s gaze grew distant. Scott could almost sense chill bumps on her arms. “Will you…” She paused, her voice shaking. “Will you pray for me?”
Now, there was no doubt. Whatever was going on under her surface was deep.
“I’m not too keen on prayer,” she said, “but if there is a God, I’d like to think that maybe he’s listening. If not to me, maybe to you.”
Religion was never high on Esther’s list, and he didn’t sense the case was otherwise now. Sparing a sermon, he said simply, “I will.”
Sniffling, Esther nodded. “Thank you, Scott.” She looked at her hands. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to stay with the Fourteenth. I understand if you say no.”
At that, he had to laugh. “Esther. First off, yes, definitely, absolutely. I never wanted you to leave.” Faintly, she smiled. “But I’ve got to ask, what in the world happened to you?”
She rolled her eyes, a bit defeatedly, then craned her neck. “Scott…”
“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.”
Laughing softly, she said, “No. I’ll tell you.” The scout played with her fingernails. “Two days ago, after me and you got into that fight…” Her words trailed. “Jay took me out.” When Scott’s eyes widened, she said, “Just for a beer. Just here in Cairo. I think he wanted to help me.”
Whatever shock Scott was showing on the outside reverberated tenfold on the inside. Esther continued.
“He was everything a woman would ever want. Sweet. Gentle, goofy.” She laughed in a hushed voice. “And genuine, and a gentleman, and everything I’m not. And in my inebriated state, I had the grand idea to kiss him.”
Scott’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“In the year I’ve spent with the Fourteenth, I have never been attracted to Jay. Now I can’t stop thinking about him. I was wearing his hat, Scott. I actually want a cowboy hat, now.” She pressed her hand to her forehead. “I sound ridiculous.”
All at once, Scott was understanding what she’d meant about following mistakes and being led to something better. He was the mistake. Was Jayden the something better? Esther and Jayden? Really? Scott was putting the cart way before the horse—he had no idea how Jayden felt about Esther—but the prospect was just too fascinating to not get excited about. “Esther, I have to ask,” he said, pointing to himself and her, “are we okay right now?”
Smiling and knowing what he was asking, she looked at him tiredly. “Scott, right now, I’m not attracted to you in the least. Don’t take it the wrong way.”
“I don’t.”
Esther leaned back and sighed. “It just happened so fast. Just out of the blue. And it’s not like I’m just lusting for him. I’m genuinely attracted to…him. The person he is. The comfort he radiates, the…” she motioned with her hands to find the right words. “He makes me want to be better.”
That, more than anything, hit home. Scott’s heart grew warm. “Ess, that’s exactly what Sveta does to me.”
The scout smiled sadly. “I never did that for you, did I?” Scott shook his head. “Ugh. Scott, I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s okay, don’t apologize. I want to apologize to you for how I treated you. Probably how I always have.”
Raising an impish brow, she asked, “Probably?”
He laughed goodheartedly. “Okay. How I always have.”
Esther sighed and resumed playing with her hands. “I just really want to approach him right. I want to be,” biting her lips, she huffed an ironic chuckle. The smirk she gave Scott was self-depreciatingly demure. “I want to be for him what Sveta is for you. And if you ever tell Sveta that, I will kill you.”
“I won’t tell her, I promise.”
“She is still the ultimate bore. She just happens to be a bore that’s good for you.”
He smiled coyly. “You ought to give her a little more credit than that. You know what she did the morning I left?”
“Packed you mustard, I’m sure.”
Hands on his hips, he confessed. “Okay, yeah. She did. By the way, I gave that mustard to Rockwell, and she loved it.”
“Oh God,” Esther said, “there are two of them. You gave Rockwell mustard?”
“Yeah, she gave me champagne, I had nothing else to give her, long story—but anyway. The day before we left, after I talked to you in the gym, me and Sveta kind of got into it. About you, and how the two of you always keep score about everything. Kills, pranks, pies—”
Esther’s lips curved. “I totally owe her a pie.”
“Actually,” Scott said as he raised a finger, “not anymore.” Esther lifted an eyebrow. “She showed up at my door Tuesday morning with a pie in her hand. She made me hit her with it, so that the two of you could be even in something.”
The scout’s jaw fell amusedly. “Sveta did that? Are you serious?” When Scott nodded, she leaned her head back and laughed. Snapping her finger and gritting her teeth, she said, “And I missed that? Bloody hell! I hope you got her good.”
“Oh yeah. I got her good.”
“That’s absolutely hysterical. I would have never dreamed she’d be capable of that. Good for her.” She winked. “And obviously, good for you.”
“Yeah, well, I’m probably gonna have to watch my back for the next decade.”
“Oh, yes,” said Esther determinedly. “I will coordinate with her to ensure that you get yours. You have dodged humiliation long enough.”
“Ha. Thanks for that.”
“My pleasure, commander.”
Crossing his feet as he stood, Scott hesitated before asking, “So…do you know if Jayden feels anything?”
The moment he asked it, Esther’s mocha skin tinged red. “I think we might be kind of dating.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I think we might be.”
Scott couldn’t believe it. “You kids work fast.”
“I know, I know.” She looked down. “It’s been crazy. But that’s how it is, right?”
“Absolutely. Nicole and I went from zero to sixty in the span of a soccer game. She was practicing on the field, and me and my football buddies were making fun of them. Then she kicked that ball smack dab in the middle of my face.” Esther cackled. “I chased her down, tackled her, and refused to let her up unless she promised to buy me dinner.”
Esther crossed her arms disapprovingly. “That may be the most chauvinistic, meat-headed thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I did pay for dinner, FYI. But yeah. That was our first date.”
“And to think, you grew up to become a violent, murdering felon.”
Zing. “Yeah, yeah.”
Silence fell between them. Staring across the room at Esther, Scott took her in. She looked so different now, not just physically, but in the aura she emanated. Her edge, and most certainly her sarcasm, weren’t gone—just the same, she had a glow about her. A glow the size of Texas. Warmly, Scott asked, “Can I tell you something?”
Very slowly, the corners of her lips lifted.
“You deserve him.”
The grin that escaped from Esther was as broad as her face. Every one of her teeth showed. It was as becoming as the girl it was attached to.
Bumping up from the wall, Scott motioned her to him. “C’mere.” Rising happily, Esther met him at the center of his room. Wrapping his arms around her, Scott held her head against his chest. “I’m so happy for you. You know I pull for you.”
“I know,” she whispered, squeezing her arms around his back. “Thank you for putting up with me.”
“You’re worth it.”
Closing her eyes for a moment, Esther let herself be held. Leaning her head back just enough to look him in the eyes, she smiled and said, “Now let’s go save a blonde.”
“Yes ma’am,” Scott said. “Let’s.”
Beep! Beep! Beep!
Scott flinched and leapt back. Esther did the same. The sound of their comms pierced through the room. “Wait,” the scout said, “that can’t be the…”
Grabbing his comm, Scott looked at the display. The moment he saw its origin, his stomach contorted in a knot. It was from Cairo Command.
It was a mission.
Eyes widening in horror, Scott threw his comm aside and scrambled for his closet. “Go to your room and get your uniform on!”
“We can’t have a mission! This must be a mistake!”
Auric’s voice emerged through Scott’s comm. “Commander, my comm is showing a mission callout! Is yours?”
“Yes, Auric!”
“That cannot be right—”
Before Scott could answer, Natalie’s voice cut through the Caracal’s channel. “Attention all Caracals, this is your captain! Report to the hangar at once.”
Grunting as he threw his uniform on, Scott dove forward to grab his comm. He queued up the captain. “Nat, this has got to be wrong!”
“It’s not wrong, commander. We have a mission.”
“Ma’am, we’re nowhere near mission shape!”
Her tone was stern. “This is our chance, Scott. I didn’t expect it this soon, either, but now it’s here.”
How could he explain it to her? How could he express how not missionready this unit was? They were sub-Academy! “Captain, I vehemently protest.”
“Scott.”
The tone of her voice told him everything. This mission was happening. Biting his lip, he replied. “Yes, ma’am.” Grabbing his assault rifle, he flung its strap over his shoulder. He slid his sidearm into its holster.
Esther’s comm crackled—Jayden. “Hey! Where are you?”
Answering quickly, she said, “I’m with Scott, I was giving him a report. Go ahead, I’ll catch up.”
Outside, footsteps could be heard taking to the halls. The rest of the Caracals were heading for the hangar. Scott looked at Esther. “Wait for the hallways to clear, then get to your room and transform.” The last thing anyone needed to see was a Calliope-clad Esther leaving his room in the middle of the night. Esther agreed.
He bolted for the door and then took to the halls.
It took all of two seconds for Scott to know they were in trouble—just enough time for him to look at the Caracals’ faces. They were panicked. As soon as they saw him, the collection of nameless Africans flocked to his side. They were like scared children clinging to a parent. He had never seen anything like it before.
As Scott moved down the hall, Auric, Jayden, and Boris took to his side, as well. His entire crew from Novosibirsk wore their weapons—a result of not even being officially assigned to specific transports yet. If there was a symbol for how unprepared they and the Caracals were, that fact alone was it. Logan Marshall, ahead of them, slowed for them to catch up. Logan said not a word—he seemed in total battle mode.
“Commander!” Natalie called from behind him. Waving the others onward, Scott slowed for the captain to catch up to him. Her emerald eyes were narrowed as her ponytail danced wildly behind her. “I must confess, I never pegged you for the ‘vehemently protesting’ type.”
Scott’s voice lowered warningly. “Captain, this squad is in zero shape to pull off a mission—look at them.”
“A Bakma Noboat just landed on the outskirts of Luxor. Command thinks this is a good opportunity for us. I happen to agree.” She was as irritable as he’d ever seen her. “It’s a single Noboat, Scott,” she snapped as she turned away from him.
He stared at her as she stormed on down the hall. “It’s never a single Noboat!”
The air outside was surprisingly chilly. Though it didn’t compare to the frigidity of Russia, it was nonetheless a stark contrast to the hot daylight hours. In the hangar, the Caracals’ two Vultures were prepping for flight.
He and his crew had to survive—and by crew, he meant Auric, Jayden, Boris, and Esther. Everyone else, even Natalie, was secondary. It was a heartless mindset, but one he had to assume. A single Noboat? Natalie had to know better than that. Switching to a private line, Scott addressed his covert comrades. “We’re not getting out of this one. Your only priority tonight is survival. Do what you can until you’re at risk. Then pull back. Do you understand?”
His cohorts affirmed.
“Everybody in!” Natalie was shouting above the frenzy. Making eye contact with Scott, she pointed to the second Vulture. His. Throwing up his hands, Scott waited for some kind of additional direction. He had no idea who to take. The Caracals were the Caracals—that was it. There were no designated squads or teams. They had no organizational structure. All Scott could do was address the soldiers nearest him. “Get on board! Come on, let’s go, let’s go!” Auric, Jayden, and Boris were in the forefront of those that went in his ship. Esther, who had been trailing up until that point, caught up and joined them. The now-ponytailed scout was back in EDEN attire.
It was the most disarraying launch Scott had ever partaken in. It was the starkest of contrasts to the machinelike execution of Novosibirsk. As soon as the Vulture began its liftoff, he rallied his troops.
“Listen up, people!” Scott said. “A Bakma Noboat has landed outside of Luxor. We’re going to be tested today—we will pass if we work together!” They were wideeyed and terrified. Were they even hearing him? “I’m going to break you up into two teams.” He didn’t even know their names. “This half of the room, with Lieutenant Broll. The rest of you, with me.”
Running her hand through her hair, Esther stared at Scott as if to emphasize the point of how bad this looked.
“Raise your hand if this is your first actual mission,” Scott said. Ninety percent of the cabin raised their hands. Scott almost fell back. “Oh, God.” The words just fell out. All he could do was blow a disquieted breath.
Minutes ticked like seconds as the Vultures rapidly approached Luxor. Between trying to determine who from his team was competent enough to partake in a mission and whether Natalie was actually stupid enough to believe a single Noboat was attacking a city, time ticked away with frightening velocity.
His private comm crackled as Natalie spoke to him. Her voice was forcefully collected. “I know you’re upset. And I respect that. You want to be prepared, as do I.”
Looking through the cockpit glass, Scott watched for any signs of Luxor in the distance.
“But Scott, sometimes you just have to act. As a leader, you’re going to learn that. This isn’t an ideal scenario, but we don’t live in an ideal world. You know this.”
He did.
“This is about trust. Trust in each other, trust in this unit. Trust that we can make a difference if we just work together.” She paused. “I need you, commander. I can’t do this without you, nor do I want to. But I need to know that I can trust you.”
Trust him. She had no idea.
“Are you in?”
Gritting his teeth, Scott answered, “I’m in.”
“That’s my Lion. Now here’s what I’m thinking…”
He dreaded even hearing it.
“Your scout, Brooking—can she swim?”
Scott was momentarily taken aback. “Can she swim?”
“Can who swim?” Esther asked suddenly. Jayden perked up beside her.
“That Noboat’s not far from Luxor Temple, on the east bank of the Nile. Brooking is going to set an explosive charge on the ship’s hull. Make an initial pass over the river and drop her in the water. Don’t let them see you do it.”
Scott raised an eyebrow.
“You and I are going to land in the residential zone just east of the temple. We’re going to cluster in the streets—make ourselves an appealing target. We’re going to give them every reason in the world to focus wholly on us.”
He was putting her thoughts together. It would make sense for the EDEN vessels to land between the Noboat and Luxor’s citizens. The Bakma would expect nothing else. With Esther working solo from the opposite direction, she could easily reach the Noboat from the river—and not a Bakma would expect it. Scott suddenly caught himself in the midst of a realization.
This was a plan.
Natalie went on. “The best way to make them miss that we’re flanking is to make them think that they’ve caught us flanking. So while the rest of us are clustering, you’re going to lead a small team behind the streets to the south. When you start to move up on them, make sure they see you.”
This was a plan of pure nerve. It sounded like a plan he’d have come up with.
“We’ll have them checkmated,” Natalie said. “If they uncover her and shift their focus, we’ll take that as an opportunity to press forward. It’s a lose-lose for them. All of this, of course, is contingent on my initial question. Can Brooking swim?”
Scott laughed aloud. He couldn’t help it. “Yes ma’am, she can swim.”
Eyes narrowing, Esther said, “I have an extremely bad feeling you’ve been talking about me.”
“I’m dropping Logan with her,” Natalie said. “If the Bakma do turn on her, I don’t want her alone.” Scott was fine with that. “Have your pilot follow me to make the drop. Tell Brooking your plan.”
“Aye aye, ma’am.” The comm channel closed; Scott turned to Esther.
She protested before he opened his mouth. “Now you wait one bloody minute.”
“We’re going to drop you in the river.”
“I said wait!” she said.
“You and Lieutenant Marshall are going to swim to the shore while we divert the Bakmas’ attention,” Scott said to her.
Jayden’s face fell.
“Of course,” she said sarcastically, “that makes perfect sense. It’s not as if our only priority tonight is survival, right?”
Work with me, Ess. “The brunt of the fighting force is going to cluster in the streets, draw their attention away from you. You’re going to sneak up on the ship and set an explosive charge on its hull.” He explained the rest of the plan’s specifics.
“Listen,” Esther argued discreetly. “Have you already forgotten why we’re here? Have you forgotten your very words when we boarded this transport?”
Looking at the pilot, Scott said, “Follow the other Vulture. Stay low over the river, lower the rear door.” His focus returned to Esther.
“If we die,” she said, “this whole operation will fail. Listen to me!” She grabbed his collar and lowered her tone. “Earth. Svetlana. Everything.
You’re going to risk all of that to satisfy a woman who’s not even one of us?”
He didn’t want to hear it. “We have a job to do.”
She shook him. “Stop thinking like a fulcrum! Scott, a stray plasma bolt, a pistol jam, a sodding Nile crocodile. Any one of those could get me killed. I do it with the Fourteenth because with them, I must. But this is not the Fourteenth.
“Understand what I’m telling you. We are too important to risk ourselves on this mission. No one else can talk to Giro Holmes. No one else can infiltrate Confinement. No one else can do what Boris does, or Jayden, or Auric.”
“Yes, but…” Scott’s words suddenly trailed away. Not because he’d lost his train of thought, but because he had no argument at all.
Veck. Esther is right.
The scout’s voice softened. Her urgency remained. “Scott, you need to hold back. You need to deny that instinct that tells you that you can do anything. There’s a time to be fearless, and there’s a time to be smart.”
Scott’s heart ached. Everything she was saying, everything she was asking him to do…he couldn’t counter any of it. But he couldn’t abandon this mission. He couldn’t. Natalie needed him. The Caracals needed him. Every citizen who was depending on EDEN for rescue on the streets of Luxor needed him. What Esther asked of him was impossible.
“Listen to me, please,” she said. “We have to turn around.”
Turning his head to the cockpit window, Scott watched as Natalie’s Vulture began its descent. The captain’s plan, her mentality, it was all perfect. It was right for this mission. Scott’s face reddened.
“She won’t understand,” Esther whispered. “I know that. But you have to do it.”
Covering his mouth, Scott slid his hand down his chin. This was wrong. This was anti-him. It was a sin.
“You have to do it.”
A sin.
Eyes focused on Natalie’s Vulture, Scott inhaled deeply. He knew what he needed to do. It was the only option he had. Lifting his comm to his lips, he queued up Natalie. “Captain, abort Marshall’s drop.”
Esther exhaled in relief.
“Come again, commander?” Natalie asked.
“I am requesting you abort Marshall’s drop.” There was only one way to ensure that Esther would survive—that she would have the opportunity to pursue Giro Holmes and locate H`laar. It was the only choice he could allow himself to make.
Natalie was bewildered. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“This is the right thing to do, Scott,” Esther said assuredly.
Jaw tightening, Scott answered Natalie. “Nothing’s wrong, captain. I’m dropping with her.”
Esther’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Lieutenant Broll will lead my diversion team instead. You wanted trust, ma’am. I’m asking you to trust me.”
Through the cockpit window, Scott watched as Natalie’s Vulture broke its course. Her voice emerged a moment later. “Bring ’em hell, commander.”
Scott addressed his pilot. “Maintain your course.” He looked at Auric. “Take the ship down by Captain Rockwell. Do your thing.”
“My pleasure, commander!” Auric answered.
“Scott!” said Esther. “Did you hear anything I said?”
“Our cover is as important as getting H`laar,” Scott said quietly to her, removing his helmet and latching it to his belt. “Now let’s go maintain it.”
Mouth falling, Esther watched as Scott marched to the rear of the ship. From the seat beside her, Auric smirked. “Oh, bloody save it,” she said to him, saddling her helmet and walking away.
Standing by the lowered door, Scott watched as the water beneath them zipped by. The Vulture had slowed, but it was by no means traveling slowly. This would be his first water drop since Philadelphia.
Esther bore daggers into Scott as she stood beside him. Anger emanated from her body.
“I don’t ask that you agree with me,” Scott said. “I ask that you respect me.”
“I respect you, Scott,” she said bitterly over the roar of the engines, “but you’re pushing your luck.” She looked away from him as another voice came through her comm. Her expression softened as she replied to it. “I’ll be safe. I promise.”
She was talking to Jayden. He probably didn’t understand Scott’s reasoning, either. But this was something they had to do. As soon as she was off her comm, he glanced at her sidelong. “Nile crocodiles. You were kidding about that, right?”
She cocked her eyebrows.
“Great.”
Auric’s voice emerged through the comm. “We are passing the Bakma ship. Drop when ready.”
Drawing a breath, Scott stood by the edge. This was nothing. This was going to be nothing. He crossed his arms. He stifled his breathing.
He stepped off.
Sploosh!
Cold. That was the immediate sensation he felt—even more so than wetness. The drop had been textbook, sinking him several feet before his momentum ran out. Legs kicking, he propelled himself to the surface. As soon as he emerged, he wiped his face and looked for Esther.
The scout’s head popped up several meters ahead. Whipping her hair out of her face, Esther felt the back of her neck. She began looking around the surface.
“What?” Scott asked. Far away, the transport lights of their Vulture veered toward Luxor Temple.
“My extension’s gone.”
A small lump formed in his gut. Casualty number one.
“Veck,” the scout said, looking around again.
“Does it float?” Scott asked.
“I don’t know, Scott,” she spat. “I forgot to ask the sales clerk about its buoyancy.” She dipped her head back to keep her hair away. “It’s too late now. Come on.” Propelling forward, she swam toward the shore.
As Scott swam behind her, he found his mind racing. Not about Noboats, or tactical strategy, or ponytail extensions. About something much more dire.
If a crocodile bites me, I’ve got to go for its eyes. That’s the only way to escape. They usually circle a few times before they strike. That can help me. No. Wait. That’s sharks.
“Hey,” he said to her, “if a crocodile bites, you still go for the eyes, right?”
“Just swim, Scott.”
There was nothing to be afraid of. It was nighttime, anyway. Didn’t crocodiles attack during the day? “They attack during the day, right?”
“Just swim, Scott.”
Right. His legs kicked faster.
The bank near Luxor Temple was made of elevated concrete. Barely a hundred meters away, the Noboat was perched on a stretch of pavement just north of the temple. As soon as Scott and Esther reached the bank, they drifted close together.
“We can’t move in until we have a diversion,” Esther said. “We need to wait until Rockwell and her team do their clustering.”
Scott looked around the water’s surface as they continued to stay afloat. “We should probably get on shore.”
“Listen, Scott.”
“I’m just saying.”
“After they’ve clustered, we’re going to begin a gradual approach. Hopefully we’ll have reached the ship by the time our phony flankers reveal themselves.”
Something touched Scott’s leg. He was sure of it. He thought he was sure of it. He spun around in the water.
Esther eyed him. “Have you been listening to any of this?”
“Yes. Yes, I’ve been listening. We should probably get on shore.”
“Scott, there’s nothing here.”
“I’m not saying there’s something here, I just think it’d be really smart to get on shore.”
She sighed. “If something wanted to eat us, it’d have done it a long time ago—” Her head suddenly jerked beneath the surface. Her hands flailed under the water.
Oh my God oh my God oh my God! Scott frantically tried to grab her.
Her head popped back up. She pushed her wet hair from her face. “I got you, didn’t I?”
He collapsed flat on his back in the water. It felt like cardiac arrest.
“You’re such a weenie.”
On the opposite side of the temple, the pair of Caracal Vultures descended. As their rear bay doors opened, the operatives inside joined the local EDEN resistance.
Scott and Esther were still bobbing when Natalie’s voice cracked over their radio. “All right, commander. We’re down.”
“Message received,” Scott said as Esther began to climb on shore. “We’re starting our move.”
Skidding around a dilapidated car, Natalie shouldered her assault rifle and fired a volley. A Bakma fell before she ducked back. Looking across the street, she found Logan and adjusted her comm to a direct connection. “I want you with Broll.”
“I’d rather stay with you, ma’am.”
“I’d rather you listen.”
The Australian grunted and moved toward Auric’s team.
Edging around the corner again, Natalie aimed quickly. A precision shot downed another alien. “Welcome to Earth,” she said as she ducked back again.
Detaching their helmets from their belt clips, Scott and Esther slipped them back over their heads. They activated their TCVs. Lowering to her stomach, Esther crawled toward the Noboat with Scott in tow.
“How’re we looking, Broll?” Natalie asked over the comm.
Auric and his troupe were making their way down a street to the south that emptied in the vicinity of the temple. Logan, Jayden, Boris, and a handful of others were with him. “Almost in position, ma’am.”
“Notify me when you get in position. Don’t flank until my signal.”
Head lowered, Scott crawled behind Esther as the two steadily made their way toward the Noboat, the sound of their rustling sleeves against concrete the only audible indication of their presence. The cool night air made Scott’s wet body frigid. He contemplated turning on his heaters. Through Scott’s TCVs, he could make out several Bakma gathered far ahead of them, near the area they were to make their approach.
Esther saw them, too, halting on the ground as she reached back for her pistol. Scott crawled beside her and did the same. Propping their elbows slightly, they simultaneously found the Bakma in their sights.
Neither could pull the trigger just yet. They needed to wait for Auric to make his flanking known first, then for Natalie’s crew to fortify their positions in the diversion.
There were four Bakma in total ahead of them. When the time came, they’d both have to shoot quickly to take them all out. “Do you understand why we’re doing this?” he whispered to Esther.
It took her several seconds to answer. “I understand that you’re you.”
“Because we’re good enough to.”
Exhaling resignedly, Esther kept her eyes on target. “And the Titanic was unsinkable.”
He glanced at her, but said nothing.
Auric’s voice came over the comm. “We’re in position.”
“All teams, get ready,” said Natalie. “Commander Remington, are you in position?”
“In position, ma’am.”
Esther shifted slightly.
Natalie went on. “Broll, move on my mark. Remington and Brooking, you two know what to do.” She paused. “Mark.”
Immediately, Scott saw Auric and his team emerge from the side streets south of the temple, the orange bursts of their assault rifles flashing in the streets. The four Bakma behind the ship looked in their direction.
“Fire,” whispered Scott, focusing on the leftmost Bakma. He and Esther pulled their triggers at the same time. Both their targets fell. Switching to the remaining Bakma, they downed them, too. Within seconds, all four Bakma had been eliminated.
Pushing up from the ground, Scott and Esther sprinted for the Noboat’s rear. The forces toward the front and side of the vessel were now solely focused on Auric’s diversion team, granting Scott and Esther free reign to the back of the ship. Skidding against it, Esther removed the small explosive from her side compartment while Scott covered her.
“How’s it looking, Auric?” asked Scott through his comm via private line.
Several seconds passed. “Good, captain.” The German was breathing heavily.
“They’re still staying fixed on you guys?”
“Yes.” He could be heard skidding and grunting through the mic. “We are closing in.”
Raising an eyebrow, Scott asked, “Closing in?”
“Yes. Jayden is on a rooftop covering. Me and Marshall are leading the forward strike. Marshall is…very good.”
Right then, the inclination struck Scott. They could take this ship without using explosives.
“She’s ready to burst,” Esther said. The explosive chirped from its perch on the side of the ship.
Scott held out his hand. “Hang on first.”
Esther stared at him. Then her eyes grew wide in alarm. “No, Scott. No!”
“Just listen,” he said.
“Scott, our mission’s accomplished! We can leave.”
She didn’t understand. “This ship is here for the taking. We can bring home the salvage.”
“For what?” her voice rose. “To impress Cairo? To boost the Caracals’ reputation? For the love of God, Scott, we’re here to be spies!”
He was already queuing up Natalie. “Captain, this is Remington.”
“Go ahead, commander.”
Clank!
Scott’s head was jolted, causing him to stumble against the ship’s hull. Brain buzzing, he watched the world spin on its axis. He shook his head, then focused on Esther. She was glaring beneath her sky-blue visor, handgun firm in her grasp just above his helmet.
She’d just pistol-whipped him.
“Listen, Scott Remington, and listen bloody good!” she growled. “We are not here for this. We’re not here for this unit, that woman, or the good of Cairo. We’re here to extract a Ceratopian prisoner and bring him back to The Machine. That is it.”
“You just pistol-whipped me!” He couldn’t believe it.
“I’m sorry,” she said sternly, “but you needed it.”
Natalie’s voice returned on the channel, asking for Scott to repeat his transmission. She hadn’t heard anything from him since he’d commed her.
Eyeing Esther for a moment, Scott returned to the comm. His voice was subdued. “Disregard that transmission, captain.” Esther was right. He was still trying to be a fulcrum. He needed to be an eidolon. “All right. Let’s blow this thing.”
Holstering her handgun, Esther nodded. Together they moved out of range.
The rest of the mission went like clockwork. It was downright boring. As soon as Scott and Esther were out of the detonation radius, the scout activated the explosive and sent the Noboat rocking upright, where it came to a rickety landing several meters from its original position. When the Bakma reacted to the blast, Natalie, Auric, the Caracals, and Luxor’s EDEN forces made their push. With a damaged Noboat and no means of escape, Grrashna came quickly.
The mission was a resounding success. It was also unlike any mission Scott had been a part of. It felt tame. There hadn’t even been a second Noboat, as he’d predicted prior to launch. Though numerous Caracal operatives had been injured in the operation, none had lost their lives.
The mission’s success hadn’t been due to brazen charging, or adrenaline bursts, or outright brutality, but to well thought-out planning. Natalie had used all of the tools at her disposal, namely Esther, to create a disadvantage for the Bakma—the detonating Noboat—while her crew played an incredibly safe game of bide time. There was perhaps no other way that the mission could have turned out so resoundingly well, considering the total inexperience of the crew involved. The mission’s success hadn’t been luck. It had been doing things the way they’d needed to be done. Solid leadership.
Natalie’s words to Scott upon meeting in the streets of Luxor were simple: “Excellent work, commander. Brooking.” But the twinkle in her eye—and the wink she gave him after—was indicative of her true mood. She was holding everything in in front of her inexperienced unit, reserving her praise to generic statements about teamwork and belief in each other. In reality, she had confetti in her bloodstream.
During the flight back to Cairo, the members of Scott’s covert crew said little, swapping only occasional ‘that was close’ expressions—not at the outcome of the mission, but that their cover through the mission had remained intact. Scott had even learned something about himself during the ordeal: he couldn’t be heartless. He couldn’t relegate Natalie’s success to a bonus category. Doing well for her was as much of a priority to him as it was to their true task.
For as much as he had in common with Esther, there was a major difference between them: she could turn off her compassion. She could choose not to be good. He hoped Jayden was ready to deal with that.
As for Scott, he was tired of slinking around in the shadows trying to conform to a mission that was as far removed from his style as any mission could possibly be. This was who he was—an aggressor. Someone so confident in his crew’s ability, failure wasn’t even a blip on his radar. Like the captain of the Titanic, with no icebergs in sight.
The co-conspirators reentered the Anthill and went to their rooms, Scott and Esther to rinse the filth of the industrial Nile from their bodies, and Auric, Jayden, and Boris to prepare for slumber ahead of them.
By 0200, they finally found sleep.
29
FRIDAY, MARCH 16TH, 0012 NE
0958 HOURS
THE CORRIDOR BURST with the sound of ten thousand rushing winds. Metal twisted and groaned. The world spun. Esther flailed in desperation—there was nothing to grab onto. She screamed.
Golathochs surrounded her. Klaxons wailed in every direction. Shouts of agony and death permeated the air as purple-skinned warriors boarded their vessel. Their plasma guns erupted bright white.
Flash!
They were standing before her now—the Bakma. They were dragging her by her hands, their frenzied words barking back and forth. They were taking her.
Flash!
She was bound by metal clasps. Mists blasted her face. The world was dark, ultraviolet. All around her were mechanical things, robotic things. Things she’d never seen. Her heart leapt to escape from her chest. Thrust forward, she nearly collided against something. But it grabbed her.
It was faceless—black like tar. Bulges were where eyes should have been. There was no nose, no mouth, nothing. When it spoke, her head screamed in whispers.
Flash!
The thing was gone. She was with the Bakma.
She was part of their crew.
Throwing herself out of bed, Esther shrieked and propelled herself across the floor in frantic pushes. Jayden and Boris jolted upright beneath their respective covers. “Esther?” the Texan asked.
Esther was slapping herself all over, fighting away sensations that weren’t there. Then everything came up. Buckling forward, vomit was spewed onto the floor—a natural response to an Ithini’s mental presence.
“Esther!” Jayden leapt from his bed, quickly looking at the clock. It was ten o’clock in the morning. Their comms were silent.
Tears streamed down Esther’s face. “Oh my God!” She pushed back her hair and repeated the words.
“What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”
Moaning horrifyingly, she spit on the floor then covered her eyes. Her skin was almost pale.
“I’m commin’ the medical staff,” Jayden said, reaching for his comm.
“No!” she screamed, shaking her head defiantly.
He knelt by her side, hands supporting her. “What is it? You gotta tell me what’s wrong!”
“I saw it,” she said through tears of sickness. “I saw it!”
“Saw what?”
She covered her mouth in terror. “It grabbed me. It was alive. I could taste it. I could smell it!”
Jayden stared in a stupor. “I don’t get what you’re talkin’ about.”
Balling her fists, she keeled forward. Through clenched teeth she tried to speak coherently. “I saw what happened. I saw why they think she’s an IB.” When it was obvious he didn’t understand, she went on. “It was like a vision, it was like…like it was real.” She barely collected her words. “Ju`bajai, she’s an Ithini in Confinement. I was her.”
“Wait…what?”
“I need to talk to Scott.”
Jayden eyed her with conern.
She frowned. “Just trust me, Jay.” Sparing a glance between him and Boris, she walked into the bathroom. “I’ll be back in a minute. Comm Scott and tell him to come over.”
It took Scott all of five minutes to make it to their quarters after the comm to him, where he found Jayden and Boris dutifully cleaning Esther’s upchuck from the floor. After recanting to him what Esther had told them, the three men waited for her to finish freshening up.
Laying back on her bed, hands covering her face as if to block out light that wasn’t there, Esther breathed in slow, concentrated breaths. As Scott sat down next to her, she angled her head slightly to face him.
“I’ve been putting it together in my mind,” she said, her voice gravelly. “It’s all coming together so clearly now. Ju`bajai, the Ithini I told you about, she must’ve put something in me. A mental implant, something.”
“You mean she was connected to you?” Scott asked. “While you were sleeping?”
“No, it wasn’t like a connection. There was no other presence there. This was like a recording—something set to play in my mind. Maybe sleep triggered it.” Shifting a bit, she went on. “The last thing I’d said to Ju`bajai before leaving Confinement was that I knew she was lying. I didn’t even clarify what I knew she was lying about. And I most certainly didn’t feel a connection when I’d left.” She huffed pathetically. “I don’t know how that little shrew got me.”
Concern stayed on Scott’s face. “And you’re sure it was her?”
“Yes. In the dream, I was her.” She pressed her palms against her eye sockets. “She was captured by the Bakma. Her ship—a Ceratopian ship—it was ambushed. They were boarded quickly, they weren’t prepared. The next thing I recall was being taken prisoner. The Bakma, they were dragging me. I must’ve gone on their ship. From there, I…I don’t know where I went.”
Scott folded his arms, listening intently.
“I remember a face that had no face. Whatever it was, it grabbed me. I remember machines. In every direction, machines, but this thing, this thing that grabbed me, it was real.”
“It wasn’t a machine?”
She shook her head. “No. It was flesh and blood. It had no eyes, no anything. The world around me was dark, like black lighting. The being was black.”
He eyed her. “Black like…?”
“So black it was almost blue,” she answered. “I didn’t see a mouth, but it spoke to me. In this awful, awful voice. I think it was instructing me.”
“Instructing you?”
“Something like that, yes. I just know that the next thing I remember, I was part of a Bakma crew.”
Scott grew quiet in contemplation. “A Bakma crew that we captured here on Earth.”
Jayden and Boris eyed each other.
“Yes. I must’ve…I mean she must’ve left out the fact that she was already a captive when EDEN captured her. She must have felt that it worked to her advantage, somehow.” She looked away. “Scott, the ICs are so much more powerful. I don’t care what any xenobiologist says. I could sense it, for fleeting moments at the very end. It was like my mind was…” Esther made a face. She couldn’t find the right word. “Like my mind was so free. Unrestrained. I sensed that that made me different, to the Bakma. They’d never been around anything like me before, even though I was an Ithini.” Wincing, she rubbed her forehead. “God, my head is pounding.”
Placing his hand on her leg, he squeezed. “It’s okay. You did good.”
Esther swallowed deeply. “I need to go to Confinement. I need to see Ju`bajai, find out why she did this.”
“I think she might have just offered you an olive branch.”
“Wonderful,” she muttered. “Just what I always wanted, an alien companion. I need to change into Calliope. What time is it, Jay?”
The Texan looked at the clock. “Almost ten thirty.”
Running her hand through her hair, Esther looked at Scott. “That thing I saw, that black thing without the face. I think it was a Khuladi.”
A Khuladi. The masters behind the war. This was more than an olive branch—this was a full-fledged invitation. “All right, Calliope Lee. Get your glasses on and get to work.”
“Yes, sir.”
Over the next twenty minutes, Esther transformed. Styling her hair, applying her makeup, and donning her proper attire, she was soon ready to walk out the door. As the three men bid her good luck, she left their room for Xenobiology.
Esther’s second journey to Heaven—Cairo’s Confinement—was considerably less dramatic than her first. She only needed to show her civilian I.D. to the guards at post to be granted full access to their secure facilities. It almost felt too easy.
So did finding Ju`bajai. Esther spotted the Ithini at her post as soon as she arrived in Heaven. The alien’s opaque eyes focused on her the moment she saw her. The mental prick came without Esther having to ask for it. They were connected, as Ju`bajai’s communication process began. It became apparent immediately that the Ithini had been busy in Esther’s absence. Not only did Ju`bajai know who she was and why she was there, but she had taken Esther’s H`laar-seeking mission a step further. Within seconds of stepping into Heaven, Esther received the unspoken message: Ju`bajai had located her Ceratopian.
Dark eyes narrowing, Esther nonchalantly walked past the Ithini as information continued to transmit. She was receiving directions.
Forward.
High heels clicking rhythmically, Esther strode through the central labs toward the Ceratopian wing. She nodded cordially to several of the scientists she’d seen the day before. No one seemed to mind that she was there.
Forward.
Stepping into the oversized corridor that led to the Ceratopian cells, Esther’s eyes darted in every direction. Everything seemed business as usual. Scientists were walking to and fro, chatting amongst themselves and carrying clipboards of information. Farther down the hall, a guard and his necrilid were on patrol. She continued to walk.
Left.
Pivoting smoothly, Esther lowered her chin with purpose. She walked past open tables of alien weapons, armor, and technology, focused straight ahead as if her destination was known. Casting glances to her sides, she observed the cells of Ceratopians. Tan ones. Black ones. Green ones. They almost all ignored her. Humans were normal here.
Left.
Turning at the next intersection, she kept on. She was on a smaller branch of the Ceratopian wing. A dead end was visible far ahead.
Stop.
She slowed her pace naturally, as if her stopping was completely expected. Hands clasping casually in front of her, the inclination came to her to look to her left. She obeyed the urge. Her brown eyes focused on the cell before her. Sitting on a massive wall bench was a black Ceratopian. Esther approached the glass partition, glancing to her left and right. The dead-end hallway was vacant. Her gaze returned to the alien.
It was huge, even for a Ceratopian. Its black skin was marked with vibrant green patterns. Its scales shone beneath the light of the cell. Then slowly—ever so slowly—it turned its horned head to face her. They locked eyes.
“H`laar was suppose to be tan, Ju`bajai,” Esther whispered under her breath. She placed her palm on the glass. The Ceratopian’s golf-ball-sized pupils stayed fixated on her.
Click.
The new pricking came suddenly. The Ceratopian cocked its head. It had felt the pricking, too. Ju`bajai had connected them.
Esther leaned closer to the glass. H`laar was the whole reason they had come to Cairo, the catalyst for the conspiracy theory. How could as clever an IC as Ju`bajai have made such a blatant error? Eyes locked on the Ceratopian, Esther’s mind transferred the only thing that came to it: I’m sorry, I was looking for someone else. The Ceratopian’s eyes grew large. Its gigantic muscles tensed.
The hair on the back of Esther’s neck suddenly stood; goose bumps erupted down her arms. The next realization that came to her was not one she’d expected. She drew a breath and stepped back.
This alien knew who H`laar was.
The presence of the Ceratopian in her mind was stronger now. It was searching—using the connection that Ju`bajai had established. It was finding out who Esther was. What if Esther could do the same? Focusing her thoughts, she zeroed her eyes in on the alien. She consumed her mind with a single purpose. Dig.
Esther’s vision flashed. She flinched as the flood of images came.
“The Hive can defeat the Khuladi. To the Earthae, this must be made known. You must safeguard Ambassador H`laar.”
Centu`vach-Shon grunted in compliance.
Flash!
Centu`vach-Shon toppled as the militant Golathoch struck him. He raised his horned head and roared; Golathochs surrounded he and H`laar from every side. They were captured.
Flash!
“He is an Earthae of high rank!” the battered H`laar whispered emphatically. “He will take the message to the Warrior.”
Grunting lowly, Centu`vach-Shon stared at the black and gold Earthae.
H`laar turned the Earthae’s way, motioning to himself. “H`laar.”
Flash!
Centu`vach-Shon watched as the armorless Earthae discharged its weapon. He growled as H`laar was killed, the ambassador’s body collapsing in the sand.
The memories pulled back; Esther’s vision returned. Centu`vach-Shon—the bodyguard of the fallen Ambassador H`laar—towered over her on the other side of the glass. His teeth were bared, his fingers spread openly. He growled gutturally.
Warrior. Awareness?
The Ceratopian’s words came to Esther’s mind via telepathy. Looking quickly in both directions, she eyed the horned alien. Is the Warrior Klaus Faerber?
It tilted its head. Nameless. Message. Receipt?
What? Are you asking me to receive the message?
Insufficient.
Esther shook her head desperately. I don’t understand you. If you have a message, I can take it. Is that what you want?
Centu`vach-Shon growled. Insufficient.
“Veck,” she said aloud. Let’s start over. My name is Esther. Is yours Centu…umm…vishan? She broke her personal fourth wall. “God, you things have the craziest names.”
Likewise.
“You sarcastic lizard.” She focused her thoughts again. What do I call you?
Centu`vach-Shon.
“Right, because that rolls off the human tongue.” It’s just a few syllables different than Centurion. Can I call you that instead?
Acceptable.
All right. Progress. The black and gold, erm, Earthae. Do you remember him?
Centurion grunted.
Inherently, she leaned closer to the glass. He’s here with me. We came to help H`laar escape, so we could deliver his message.
Suddenly, the Ceratopian roared. Rearing its head back, it bashed its head against the glass. Break!
“No, no, no, no!” Esther whispered vehemently, brown eyes widening as she held out her hands. She checked quickly for guards, then looked back at Centurion. No! No break! You have to be quiet! She watched as the Ceratopian took hulking steps back. Are you retarded?
She felt her thoughts as they were intercepted. Ju`bajai’s presence swelled, and a wash of understanding came over her. Centurion was a bodyguard alone. His sole function was to protect, not to communicate. To form complex phrases and sentences would be opening a door for advanced conceptualization, at least in Golathochian theory. For a bodyguard, that could be a distraction. He wasn’t a simpleton. He just wasn’t allowed to use more than one word, or more accurately, concept, at a time. It was like an occupational vow.
Centurion snorted like a rhinoceros.
She stared at him calmly. Listen, Centurion. H`laar is dead, I understand that now. But you still possess his message, even if you can’t convey it. The memories of everything you and H`laar were supposed to do are still in your head. We need to keep you alive.
Growling lowly, Centurion stomped one of his massive feet. It was like he wanted to charge.
You need to understand me, Centurion. I know you want to break out. But to do that, you must be still. I need you to listen to me, to trust me. A new thought suddenly emerged. You can still help H`laar accomplish his mission. To do that, you need to obey me. I can help you fulfill your goal.
The Ceratopian tilted its head. Warrior?
I will help you relay H`laar’s message to the Warrior. But to do that, you must, must, must listen to me. Do you understand?
Acceptable.
Esther exhaled in relief.
“Everything okay, ma’am?”
Gasping, Esther spun to the direction of the voice, her hand shooting to her heart. It was a scientist. Closing her eyes, she sighed slowly. “You scared the bloody hell out of me.”
The man smiled. “Sorry.” He eyed Centurion. “Everything all right, here?”
Glancing at the alien briefly, Esther laughed. “Yes, quite all right. I was walking past and I caught him staring at me. I was a bit captivated.” The connection she’d shared with Centurion and Ju`bajai was gone. It’d been severed the moment she’d heard the scientist speak.
“Yeah, he’s a strange one. We don’t often get Golathochs that…well, dumb. It’s kind of a fluke he’s here at all.”
“A fluke?” she asked. “What do you mean?” As they conversed, Centurion stood motionless in his cell, his large eyes firmly attached to Esther.
The scientist folded his arms. “Typically we don’t keep specimens unless they have something to offer. This guy’s barely even comprehendible. He just calls himself Warrior all day. Like he’s obsessed with it.”
Obsessed with it. Esther stared curiously at the scientist as she put it together. That was how Centurion had gone unnoticed as a key figure there. The alien’s sole focus, his sole purpose for existing, was to help H`laar contact the “Warrior.” He was trying to tell everyone that. He was obsessed with it—with continuing his mission. And they thought he was talking about himself. It was both tragic and fortuitous.
“Well,” she said, smiling, “I’m sure they’ll fish something useful out of him eventually.”
The scientist’s smile widened. “I’m sure.” He extended his hand. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
She gracefully shook it. “I’m Esther.” Panic struck her the moment her name came out. He stared confusedly at her civilian I.D., plainly identifying her as Calliope Lee. Quickly, she laughed to play it off. “Esther’s my middle name. I rarely go by Calliope.”
“Ah.”
“Actually,” she said, glancing at her wristwatch, “I need to be leaving. I was on my way out when this brute caught my eye. Not quite accustomed to being this close to aliens.”
Smiling, the scientist nodded. “No problem, ma’am. You have a good day.”
“I’ll try. Thank you so much.” Stepping past him, she strode casually back up the hall. Centurion’s gaze stayed on her the whole time.
Nobody noticed or questioned Esther’s presence as she made her way back to Heaven’s entrance. No one except Ju`bajai. The alien and Esther shared a brief exchange of eye contact as she walked past the Ithini female toward the exit, her high heels tapping all the while. Ju`bajai’s gaze lingered on her only briefly, before her focus shifted away. That was fine with Esther.
Stepping past and away, the scout-turned-contractor made her way out of Confinement.
 *
SCOTT WAS LEANING back in his chair when Boris’s knock came to his door. He had instructed the technician prior to leaving their quad to get dressed and deliver an update to his own quarters—something tangible to indicate Boris’s progress. With things getting as unstable and dangerous as they were, Scott was past the point of simply trusting Boris to get things done. He needed to see results. With every hour that passed, Scott’s brain reaffirmed the notion that this mission needed to end as quickly as possible. Tugging on a white t-shirt, Scott opened his door to find Boris on the other side. Motioning for the technician to step in, Scott closed and locked the door behind them.
“Ready for my update, commander!”
“Voice down,” Scott hushed.
Nodding enthusiastically, Boris began setting up his kit. “So some of this, I have already explained to you. I will try to be simple and brief. If one wanted to tap into The Machine, one would need to break through numerous levels of encryption from several different private vendors, all with their own guardians and convertors. In addition, one’s skill must be incredibly advanced. And if you are caught,” he made a face, “you know Novosibirsk.”
“Cut to the chase.”
Boris said nothing. He only grinned and tapped away at his portable terminal. After several seconds, he struck one final key.
The lights shut off. Even beneath the door, in the outside hall. Scott’s heart leapt as the emergency lights kicked in. Then, barely a half-second later, the lights returned to normal. Wideeyed, Scott stared at Boris. The technician was still grinning.
“What in the hell was that?” Scott asked lividly.
Boris leaned toward him. “With this kit from Antipov, I can do anything here. Everything is set up. I am in their network, past their guardian, beyond their interceding—”
“That’s great, but holy scat, Boris!” whispered Scott. “They’re going to trace that blink to you!”
Raising a finger, Boris said, “Wrong, wrong! I broke through the firewall of their administration system, found the name of their power supplier, then used it to notify them in advance of an impending power blink due to a substation transfer.”
“What?”
“I pretended to be their power company. I told them to prepare for a momentary blink as routine work happened, explaining it would not even be long enough to make their generators kick in. Pretty good, right?” the technician asked merrily.
Scott slapped his forehead. “Boris! And what happens when they get in touch with said power company? What happens if they ask how the transfer went, or when the next one’s going to happen, or who they can speak to about more advanced notification?”
The smile on Boris’s face fell. “Oh. They will probably not do that. I think.”
“You think? We can’t risk ‘you think!’ I’ve already got scouts losing their ponytails, B, I don’t need someone screwing with the utilities!”
“Hmm.” Folding his arms, Boris stroked his beard. “We are not very good spies.”
Tap-tap-t-tap-tap. Tap! Tap!
Boris’s eyes widened wildly as he whipped to the door. “They are onto me!”
“No, you idiot,” Scott said. “That’s a Natalie knock.”
“Oh.” The technician went into primp mode.
Scott hit him. “You’re not staying. You and I were doing a one-on-one post-mission review.”
The Russian looked bewildered. “We were? But I came here to show you about hacking—”
“No! I mean—that’s our cover. It’s our cover, Boris.”
“Oh!” Boris nodded. “Right, I understand.”
Walking to the door, Scott rehearsed his words. A short, formal explanation would give Boris a proper reason for being there, and a prompt exit. He would greet Natalie with completely normal professionalism. Nothing would be conspicuous at all.
He opened the door.
Scott barely had time to register the wine glasses in Natalie’s hand, or the massive smile plastered across her face, before she literally pranced into his room. “We did—” The word it never had a chance to come out. Eyes locking onto Boris, Natalie snapped upright in an awkward, abrupt attention, nearly stumbling over in the process. Clearing her throat, her voice cracked. “Trooper Evteev.” She darted the wine glasses behind her back. Her cheeks turned bright red. “You guys see that power dip?”
Boris stared in an enamored stupor.
“Mister Evteev and I were just finishing a one-on-one mission review,” said Scott. “It’s our traditional way of closing out missions.”
“Oh.” Natalie said, trying her utmost to save her dignity. “That’s very good. Very effective.”
Scott eyed Boris. “But we were just wrapping up.”
“Yes.” Boris said, mesmerized. “We were just wrapping up.” The technician stood motionless.
Scott’s brow furrowed purposefully. “…and now you can go.”
Boris nodded. “Yes. Now you can go.”
“You can go, Evteev.”
Snapping from his fantasies, Boris nodded hastily. “Yes! Yes, captain, and commander. I will go. Thank you for reviewing with me.” Gathering up his things, the Russian made for the door. Only when Boris had completely left the room did Scott lower his guard.
No one needed to prompt Natalie to lower hers. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back and groaned. “That was the most embarrassing thing that has happened to me in my entire life.”
Laughing, Scott went into immediate friend mode. “If that’s true, you’ve had a good life.”
“It never even crossed my mind that someone else might be in here.” Tossing the wine glasses on his bed, she covered her face.
“Hey—it’s all right. No harm done.” Her face remained flushed as she offered him a sheepish smile. Laughing softly, Scott motioned her to him. “All right, come here. Get it out your system.”
She beamed and offered him a high-five that felt strikingly like it would have been a hug, had her entrance not been interrupted. “We did it. That’s all I wanted to tell you, that we did it. That’s harmless, right?” She made a loud ugh sound. “He saw me carrying wine glasses.” Leaning back, she tucked her hair behind her ears. “I’m still red, huh?”
Scott smirked. “Yeah, you’re pretty red.”
“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, either.” She tucked her hair a second time. “I just have to celebrate! I couldn’t with Logan, that’d be too…weird. I thought, you know, me, you, a little champagne to set the mood. Of celebration!” she quickly corrected. “The mood of celebration.”
He angled his head just slightly.
Blowing up the hair on her forehead, she said, “I should probably…” She pointed briefly to the door. “I feel like maybe, this is giving off a signal. I don’t mean to you! I mean, in general, to…the unit.” She glanced at the door again. “I should go.”
Being honest with himself, Scott had to admit that seeing her flustered and lost for words was, well, cute. This was a side of her no one else in the Caracals was allowed to see, maybe not even Logan. She’s so much like Nicole. He had thought that about her since their date at Sabola. The way she talked, the way she carried herself, her personality. It was…
…attractive.
Wandering to his bed, she collected the wine glasses. “Okay. So, we’re clear, right?” She pointed back and forth from his eyes to hers. “We should celebrate with the rest of the unit. Take them out to…eat. Or work out. Eat, then work out. Except, the other way.” She looked away and blew out again. “I will exit now.” She saluted. “As you were.”
Laughing on the inside, he returned the salute.
A track star couldn’t have made it to the door as quickly as Natalie did. She was practically bolting. Backing out the open doorway, she waved. “I’ll see you later, Scott—Commander Scott. Remington.” She began to close the door quickly, disappearing from view.
“Do you want to go out tonight?” Scott asked. He hadn’t even thought about it—the question just blurted out.
She swung the door back open. “If you want to.”
“Eight o’clock. Outside, by the garage.” A stroll in the Egyptian moonlight. That’d be nice to see.
“Great.” Her smile stretched from ear-to-ear. “I’ll see you then!” She shut the door again.
Scott stood by his bedside for several seconds after she’d left, his mind awash with thoughts. I just asked Natalie out. It had been an impulse—something completely unrelated to their mission. Something he’d just wanted to do. Because she was so much like Nicole. Slowly facing his nightstand, he stared at Nicole’s photo. She was smiling at him. Like she always did.
I’m not here to be with the Caracals. I’m not here to help Natalie grow. I’m here to find the truth and to save Svetlana. But even here, so far away from everything I know…I can’t get away from you.
Her blue eyes sparkled within the boundaries of her frame, her forever epitaph—I love you!—staring him down.
I can’t get away from you.
A relationship with Natalie Rockwell was everything wrong. Impractical to their mission. Impossible in reality. Irresponsible as his cohorts’ tactical leader. Yet he was asking her out—asking her to walk with him under the Egyptian moonlight. Beneath the stars. And it had nothing to do with Natalie at all. He was chasing a ghost.
Faith had brought him to EDEN. EDEN had brought him to Novosibirsk. What was driving him in Cairo? Walking to his nightstand, he picked up the photograph and held it face-up. Emotions always swelled when he did that. It was the closest he’d ever come to holding her again. To ever hearing her voice. To never letting go. Longingly, he closed his eyes.
“Scott.”
It wasn’t a real voice. But he heard it just the same. He had heard that voice say that name countless times, and for years. It was forever ingrained. Chill bumps broke as he felt her touch against his back. Her arms wrapping around him. Her warmth.
She’d loved him. More than any woman ever had. Losing her had devastated him on every level. It had turned him into someone else.
Her head was against his shoulder from behind, her chin resting right beside his ear. She held him so closely. As if she was there.
As if she was really there.
Scott’s mouth opened, a shuddering exhale that cut through his core. Tears brimmed beneath his lids. There was no Nicole Dupree. There would never be a Nicole Remington. Those things—those hopes—were in the past, just like the voice and touch he was imagining now weren’t really there.
Scott’s mind turned to Novosibirsk. To the smiling blonde who’d forsaken her future for him. Who’d returned there, for him. Who did everything for his betterment, with the promise of nothing in return. Who loved him now. Those ocean blue eyes. The bluest he’d ever seen. Svetlana knew Scott in a way that not even Nicole had. Nicole had never seen the dark side of him. There was no way to imagine how she would have reacted to it. But Svetlana knew. She knew his anger, his violence. His lack of faith. His total lack of a commitment to her. Yet she still loved him.
There’d been no opportunity for Scott to go to Nicole’s funeral. The closest chance he’d had to lay her at rest had been in the hangar of Novosibirsk, watching as a box with her body inside was loaded onto a plane. There’d been no sermon, no lowering of a casket. No closure.
Everything came out. The sobs, the heaves. The future he’d clung to for so long that could never be. The ghost he continued to chase, whether her name was Nicole or Natalie. The destiny that never happened. That was maybe never meant to.
Offering Nicole a final look—just long enough to allow his teardrops to find her—he carried her across the room to his closet. Kneeling down, he pulled out his duffle bag.
He laid her to rest.
The mission was important. Potentially game-changing. It had to be accomplished. But if Scott was honest with himself, he’d spent more time trying to figure out his own emotional state than he had focusing on the rescue of their target. Did that make him a bad leader? No. That made him human. But things were about to change.
No more leading Natalie on. No more “it’s for the good of mission” phony justification for chasing the image of a girl who’d passed away. No more clinging to the past. He would deal with the captain of the Caracals in the same way he’d felt led to on their night out at Sabola. He was going to tell her the truth. About H`laar. About Novosibirsk. About everything.
Tonight.
For the rest of that morning and afternoon, the five transplants from Novosibirsk, for the most part, kept to themselves. Esther did provide a briefing to Scott and the others about her discovery of Centurion. Though Scott was initially discouraged about the loss of H`laar, the fact that they had located H`laar’s bodyguard—and that said bodyguard had information to help their cause—was enough to lift the spirits of the group. It was counted as an alternate victory, but a victory nonetheless. The next step was formulating a plan to extract him to Novosibirsk.
Boris took his technician’s kit to the various consoles of Cairo, poking and prodding at their firewalls and network security, finalizing his efforts. Auric explored the halls of the Anthill alone—an attempt, albeit small, to be tactically useful.
As for Esther and Jayden together, they made their way through the labyrinths of Cairo until they found its crowded, near spa-caliber pool. Most of Esther’s time there consisted of laying her head poolside atop her folded arms, staring absently as Jayden stayed beside her, his arm draped over her shoulder as she fell away in thought. Her date with Giro Holmes, an unsettling yet necessary affair, was later that night. She had much to mentally prepare for.
Only Scott approached the evening with any sense of serenity. Enveloped in an aura of newly-defined purpose, the Golden Fulcrum prepared for his date with Natalie. His aggression had directed him since the day he’d murdered Sergei Steklov. It was about to direct him again—in a way that was good. He would be aggressive in telling Natalie the truth. Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead. In a matter of hours, everything would take place.
Their purpose would become clear.
Motion.
It is the bearer of humanity’s most fundamental scientific laws. From motion, the rules of existence are established.
An object at rest will remain at rest unless acted upon by an outside force. It takes but the slightest provocation, the slightest indication that its master might be in harm’s way, to prompt ferocious loyalty from even the most feral of companions. They will abandon their dens to rush to their master’s aid, to rescue the ones they love. Or to die trying.
An object’s force is equal to its mass times acceleration. To its skill times determination. Force can come quietly, masked behind the tapping of high heels and the pretense of a late-night date, or beneath good intentions and a full desert moon. It can build slowly behind glass partitions and dark purple eyes, biding its time until the right moment comes for its reckoning—its force—to be unleashed.
For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. For every push. For every defiance. For every bluster. For every arrogance. For every darkness. For every atrocity. For every murder.
For every terror.
For those whom destiny beckons, motion is inevitable—be it from provocation, purpose, or reaction. Be it for sacrifice, freedom, or infamy.
Motion will occur.
ESTHER WAS HALFWAY to the cafeteria to meet Giro Holmes for their date when the sound of her comm halted her in her tracks. Raising a carefully defined brow, she read the message on its display.
Exciting news, meet me in my office – G.H.
On Friday, August 5th, 0011, an event triggered a course of history. A woman was murdered. Six days later, a lion fell.
HANDS RUBBING TOGETHER apprehensively in the elevator, Scott exhaled a nervous breath. He was late. Natalie was probably already waiting for him on the surface. Closing his eyes, he whispered a prayer.
In that same month, a new face emerged at the center of the world. Champagne-blond hair, amber eyes, and a prince’s smile. Perfect sincerity.
STANDING IN THE War Room with the rest of the Council, Benjamin Archer watched and listened as the word was given—the final order of EDEN’s first president. Very subtly, he locked eyes across the room with Kang Gao Jing.
In war, humility must sometimes supersede dedication. Compromise must sometimes come before loyalty. Existence can be so complex.
CRICKING HIS NECK, Tauthin laid back on his metal cot. The lights in Confinement dimmed as the night shift came on. Farther inside Novosibirsk, in Room 14, those operatives who chose to retire for the night nestled into their bunks. Deep within the Citadel, Ignatius van Thoor joined the night’s call to slumber.
The Machine was falling asleep.
As night fell on Friday, March 16th, 0012, the gears of motion began to turn, their groans setting into play that which had become inevitable—bringing nonparallel lines to their point of intersection.
Motion. It is the bearer of humanity’s most fundamental laws. From it, the rules of existence are established.
And it sleeps for no one.
30
FRIDAY, MARCH 16TH, 0012 NE
THAT NIGHT
CAIRO
NATALIE WAS WAITING for Scott outside the garage. As soon as she saw him, her face lit up.
THE TRAMLINE screeched as it slowed, hissing to a halt at Hell’s hub. Esther had received no further messages from Giro since the scientist’s request for her to go to his office. Though she’d replied with an affirmation, she’d received nothing back.
SCOTT WAS WEARING his standard-issue uniform. Despite the date-like nature of his and Natalie’s meeting, this was a totally different situation than Sabola. Hair combed haphazardly and clean-shaven, he looked as disarming as he could. He needed disarming tonight.
Natalie’s hair was tied back in a damp ponytail, indicative of a recent shower. She too was dressed appropriately for an on-base meet-up, wearing simply a dark gray long-sleeved shirt and her EDEN fatigues.
ADJUSTING HER PEARL earrings and necklace, Esther stepped off the tramline. Fingers tracing the pleats of her black maxi dress, Esther continued down the hall. It was an alternative outfit, one she’d brought for a reason. Its plunging neckline revealed just enough to tantalize without crossing any lines. Her hair was perfectly done, her inverted bob styled so that a layer dipped over her left eye. She’d already planned to make a trip to the city of Cairo tomorrow to buy a new ponytail. But that wasn’t a priority tonight.
“HEY!” NATALIE’S VOICE shivered. Her mouth remained open in a broad, hopeful smile. Thin vapors escaped her lips. “Can I say something?” she asked rhetorically, laughing. “I am freezing!”
He’d almost mistook the shiver in her voice for nerves, though the chill of the desert air was undeniable. “I’d offer you my coat if I had one.”
“It’s okay,” she blew out a breath, “just colder than I expected!”
APPROACHING THE security checkpoint, Esther waited for the two door guards to grant her entrance. Both guards were avoiding looking at her. Like it was a conscious effort. Offering them the best smile she could manage, she passed through the door into the administration wing.
The wing was dimly lit, as if the whole area had settled down for the night. Stopping in the lobby, she waited to see if anyone would come to escort her. No one did. Easing her head just slightly, she peered down the hallway to Giro’s office. Everything was vacant. Silent. Subtly, something began to tingle. That small shiver down her spine—that unsettling intuition she knew and trusted.
Something was off.
 *
NOVOSIBIRSK
THE SMELL OF coffee wafted throughNovCom tower. Overlooking the grounds of The Machine, the night crew leaned back in their chairs, feet propped against various consoles in the window-surrounded room. All was still.
BENEATH THE PARIAH’S stripped-down control panel, with an assortment of tools spread out beside him, Travis was hard at work. In the copilot’s seat, Tiffany leaned her head back and lounged lethargically. Her left wrist swayed with every move Travis’s cuffed right hand made.
Laying in the middle of the troop bay, Flopper was sound asleep.
NOVCOM’S RADAR operator jolted upright. He looked wideeyed at his screen.
SVETLANA WAS IN the infirmary, working tediously on her medical reports beneath the glow of a desk lamp. Several feet away, Max dozed with his feet propped on a chair.
“THAT CANNOT BE right!” the radar operator said.
Several seats down, a communications operator screamed emphatically into his mic. “NovCom to inbound aircraft, I ask again, please respond!”
Voices erupted everywhere.
“Now reading fifty contacts!”
“Should we go to red alert?”
“Sixty!”
 *
CAIRO
“SO,” NATALIE SAID, holding up a finger, “I want one rule tonight. No talking about work. We can talk about this morning’s mission, but only about how awesome it was. No talking points, no agendas, no actual work. Sounds good?”
Scott laughed softly. “Sounds good.” If she only knew what they were about to talk about.
“By the way,” she said, eyeing him coyly, “are we walking anywhere in particular?”
“Eh.” He scanned their surroundings. He needed to take her somewhere away from everything else. Where he could disclose the truth in private. “I just thought we’d wander around a bit. It’s kind of nice out here.”
“Yeah, it is.” Looking against the night breeze, Natalie stared at the sky. It was clear as glass. Though far from being totally dark, the outer grounds of Cairo caused far less light pollution than Novosibirsk. The stars actually shone. “So, to where shall we wander?” she asked.
As hard as he fought to maintain an outer display of pleasantness, his heart ached harder. Nothing about this was going to be easy. Scanning the area, he nodded at some shallow hills in the distance. “You ever been over there?”
“Those hills? Can’t say that I have.”
“Let’s head that way.”
 *
NOVOSIBIRSK
“NOVCOM TO GENERAL Thoor,” screamed the operator, “we need you immediately!”
“They are coming from every direction—everywhere!”
Thoor grunted gravelly over the channel. “This is Thoor. What is it?”
“General, we have…”
“Ninety-five!”
“…ninety-five aircraft inbound to Novosibirsk!”
“What?” Thoor asked. “Who?”
The radar operator was sweating. “There are so many signatures, I cannot even pinpoint! Richmond, Atlanta, Nagoya, Berlin!” He looked atNovCom’s supervising officer. “It looks like everyone!”
 *
CAIRO
MAKING HER WAY down the hall, Esther stopped in front of Giro’s office. There was no one else anywhere. The tingle worsened. Lifting her fist hesitantly, she rapped her knuckles on the door.
“Calliope?” Giro called from inside.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Good! Please, come in!”
Turning the knob, Esther eased the door open and walked inside. She froze after only her second step.
SCOTT GLANCED BEHIND him. “I don’t have to worry about Lieutenant Marshall stalking us, do I?”
Chuckling softly, Natalie shook her head. “What I do with my personal time is my business. He doesn’t even know we’re out here.”
GIRO HOLMES WAS standing behind his desk, arms folded sternly. The spectacled eyes that met Esther weren’t pleased or excited. And he wasn’t alone. Standing uncomfortably several feet away was Janice. Then Esther saw the guards. There was a pair of them, each at the front corners of the room. The moment Esther had stepped inside, she’d placed herself between them.
Inhaling deeply, Giro lifted his chin. “I hire good people, Miss Lee. Dedicated people who take pride in their work.”
The color drained from Esther’s face.
 *
NOVOSIBIRSK
ALERT SIRENS WAILED across Novosibirsk. The sleeping occupants of Room 14 leapt up in their beds.
“What the?” asked a groggy David.
A frantic Russian voice emerged over the base-wide comm. He spoke in Russian, then English. “This is not a drill! This is not a drill! Novosibirsk is under attack!”
Becan stared wideeyed. “Oh, bollocks!”
SLIDING OUT FROM the Pariah’s control panel, Travis shot a look at Tiffany. The blonde was kicking to her feet. “Did you just hear that?” he asked.
Neck lifted and ears perked, Flopper began to howl.
SVETLANA SWIVELED around in her infirmary chair. Max was already lurching upright.
IN NOVCOM TOWER, the radar operator screamed. “Missiles incoming!” The tower occupants bolted for the stairwell. The missiles struck.
Outside, the first wave of Vulture transports descended on the airstrip. The foremost transport—a Mark-2 with a brazen letter V ordaining its nose—kicked in its braking thrusters. Under the cover of Superwolves, the ship touched down.
It was purple and white.
 *
CAIRO
GIRO CONTINUNED. “So when Janice was led to believe that she’d forgotten about your appointment,” Giro said, “she sought an explanation. Had another call distracted her from writing it down? Had she been called away from her desk? Why didn’t she remember speaking to you?”
Behind Esther in the hallway, two more guards stopped by the door. The pair from the hub entrance. The scout’s gaze refocused on Giro and Janice.
“Being the diligent worker that Janice is, she took it upon herself to go back and listen to her calls. First she went back two months. Then three. Then four, each time listening to the first few seconds of each conversation, waiting to hear your voice. But she never did.” He leaned forward. “On a hunch, she decided to call Sydney. She spoke to Amisha herself. Their Confinement is not expanding, and Amisha has never heard of you.”
The first traces of sweat dripped from Esther’s scalp. The inner guards slid their hands over their holsters.
“So I will ask you only once, Miss Lee,” Giro said. “Who are you really, and why are you here?”
 *
NOVOSIBIRSK
A FIERY PLUME reached for the heavens whenNovCom tower fell; the earth rumbled. As squadrons of Superwolves concentrated their fire on Novosibirsk’s turrets, EDEN’s ground forces touched down.
 *
CAIRO
“A PENNY FOR your thoughts,” Natalie said.
They were at the edge of Cairo’s outer grounds; the hills still loomed ahead. It wasn’t quite time. “Let’s just walk for a bit,” Scott said.
The depth of his tone seemed to catch her off guard. She offered an anxious expression, only to drift away into a stare of self-contemplation. Nodding, she followed.
Scott stared at the night sky. The ancient explorers, the ocean-faring mariners, they’d all looked upon those same stars, with no knowledge as to what they really were. With no idea that around one of those stars, an alien species known as the Khuladi was enslaving those unfortunate enough to fall in their sights. That in the cosmic equivalent of a blink, that same species would be setting their sights on Earth. Interstellar Midway.
This mission was important. If Earth was in jeopardy, nothing else mattered. Not Cairo, not the reputation of EDEN, not the threat on Svetlana’s life or his feelings for her. If there truly was a conspiracy, if Benjamin Archer truly was working with the enemy, it had to be revealed. Beginning with Natalie Rockwell.
 *
NOVOSIBIRSK
THE MACHINE WAS awash with the flashes of muzzle fire and streaking ammunition. EDEN squadrons buzzed Novosibirsk’s airspace. The Machine’s fighters never got off the ground—they were covered in every direction. Like ants from a ruptured mound, Nightmen poured from Novosibirsk’s main facilities.
Travis and the Pariah were in the middle of it. As the Nightmen defenses mustered around the airstrip, he, Tiffany, and Flopper found themselves in the middle of the crossfire. Bullets zinged off the Pariah’s hull as EDEN and the Nightmen met head on. With Flopper cowering at his feet, Travis situated himself in the pilot’s seat and commed the rest of the unit. “This whole place is under attack! We’re stuck in the Pariah!”
THE BARRACKS WERE as chaotic as the surface. The Nightmen were in a frenzy as whole units scrambled to throw on their armor. The building shook with vibrations of explosions.
Dostoevsky burst into Room 14 just as Travis’s message came through. Everyone was already gearing up—instinct.
“Yuri, what the hell’s going on?” David asked.
The fulcrum captain had everyone’s attention. “EDEN is attacking Novosibirsk!”
“EDEN?” asked Becan shockingly.
Dostoevsky switched to Max’s frequency. “Max, can you hear me?”
ON THE OTHER end of the line, Max and Svetlana bolted for the infirmary exit. With every earth-shaking boom, the pair struggled to maintain their footing. “We’re here!” Max answered. “We’re on our way to you!”
“I do not understand,” Svetlana said. “Why would EDEN do this?”
“I’ll give you three guesses,” answered Max, “and they’re all Strom Faerber!” Shoving the exit doors open, Max took two steps before skidding and turning around. He pushed Svetlana back inside. “Go back! Go back!” Seconds later, one of Novosibirsk’s guard towers toppled in front of the exit.
 *
CAIRO
SWEAT POURED FROM Esther’s body. The room suddenly felt suffocating.
Giro watched her in silence, waiting for her to speak. When she failed to, he motioned to the guards. “Take Miss Lee into custody.”
“Okay, wait,” Esther said, reaching out with her hand. The guards drew their handguns; she raised her hands in the air. “I’ll talk, I’ll talk! My name is Calliope Lee, but I’m not from Sydney.”
“You expect me to believe that you infiltrated an EDEN base under your real name?” Giro asked.
“It’s the truth,” she said, “I was sent here by EDEN Command. I’m a security specialist. There have been concerns about the soundness of Confinement facilities in major EDEN bases. I’m an audit, Holmes. I’m a test.”
SCOTT SLOWED, staring at the hills in the distance. Beneath the light of the full moon, the desert’s surface looked blue. It looked magical.
There was nothing else to think about, nothing else to consider. Do it. She was standing two feet behind him, silent and still. Waiting for him. Do it, Scott. Before his brain could wrap itself around the magnitude of what he was about to say, he began. “Natalie, I need to tell you something.” He was trembling. Even his words shook. Natalie remained silent. “If I sound nervous, you have to forgive me.”
“It’s okay,” she said, her own voice quivering. She took a step closer. “I’m listening…”
“I’VE ALREADY BEEN to Berlin and Dublin,” Esther said. “I was able to infiltrate both facilities, just like I was able to infiltrate yours. That you’re the first to actually uncover me speaks volumes.”
Canting his head, Giro asked, “So you’re a security specialist sent by EDEN Command?”
Esther sighed in defeat. “Yes. That’s who I am.”
“What judge sent you?”
Freezing, Esther stared across the room. Her mouth hung. It took her several seconds to reply—with the only name of a judge that she knew. “Benjamin Archer.”
Giro looked at the guards immediately. “Put a call through to EDEN Command, to Judge Archer. I want this verified right now.”
The guard nodded. He reached for his comm.
In that moment, every ounce of hope inside of Esther evaporated. The call would go through, her identity would be refuted, and she would be apprehended. Her true identity—Esther Brooking—would be discovered. She’d be traced to Novosibirsk, to the Fourteenth. To Scott, to Auric, to Boris, to Jayden. Everything was about to explode. There was nothing she could do.
Except for one thing.
SCOTT’S BACK WAS still to Natalie. “If something was right, and you knew it was right, would you do it even if the rest of the world disagreed?” Scott asked.
Natalie’s breathing grew heavier. “Yes. Yes, I would. In a second.”
It was time. “Nat.” Turning around, his lips parted to confess. But they didn’t have a chance. Scott’s eyes widened as she came against him, body to body, mouth to mouth. She was kissing him.
“No!” He mumbled, grabbing her arms and pushing her away. “Natalie, no! That’s not what this is about!”
ESTHER DASHED AT the rightmost guard. He flinched and drew his sidearm—the other guards jumped. Sliding and thrusting her foot forward, she dislocated his knee. As he screamed and fell, she wrenched the pistol from his hand.
Shocked, the other guards tried to train their weapons. The scout was too fast. She fired; the other inner guard’s faceplate burst open. Diving to the open door, she rolled to the ground right between the outer guards just as they fired. Flinging her leg over her head and into one of the guard’s faces, her high heel crushed his visor. He stumbled back as Esther focused on his partner, whose handgun was already trained. She dropped into a split as he shot; his bullet struck his disoriented partner. Esther whipped up her pistol and fired; the fourth guard fell. Leaping to her feet, she trained her weapon on Giro. His hand was frantically searching his desk for his panic button.
“Don’t!” she screamed.
It was too late. The scientist’s palm slapped upward. The overhead lights dimmed as red emergency lights flashed down the hall. A ring filled the air.
Esther marched gun-first toward him. “Get back! Back against the wall!” The terrified Giro and Janice complied. “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”
“Let her go,” cried Giro, pointing to Janice. “I know you came for me.”
Water brimmed in Esther’s eyes. “We never came for you!” She motioned to his office closet. “Both of you, inside!” They crammed obediently into the closet’s small space. Breaking off the knob, she slammed the door shut.
Toward the front of the room, the fallen guard whose knee Esther had dislocated crawled painfully toward one of the pistols on the floor. A final shot from Esther ended his quest. Janice screamed in the closet.
Ditching her high heels, Esther dipped down and swapped her pistol with one that had full ammo. A black maxi dress wasn’t the best option for moving quickly, but at least it wasn’t a cashmere suit. Weapon in one hand and comm in the other, she bolted out of the office.
SCOTT GAPED AT Natalie. She looked confused, panicked. Her face was flushed red. “I thought you were…” Her words trailed off confusedly.
Scott opened his mouth to speak, but his comm cut him off.
“Commander, it’s Brooking!”
The voice was Esther’s. Why was she comming him?
“Commander!” she screamed again.
Growling irritably, Scott jerked up his comm. “Not a good time, Ess.”
“I’m locked out of my room!”
Scott’s eyes widened. Time slowed down. That was their code—their code for total mission failure. For immediate recall. In the background from Esther’s end, he could hear the ring of alarms. Urgent alarms, as if alerting of something serious. Like a security breach. Scott’s throat tightened.
Natalie was still flummoxed. “Scott, what…?”
How could this be happening? Total mission failure. It had to be a mistake!
“Commander, please tell me you copy this!” Esther yelled.
Like the flipping of a switch, Scott’s entire countenance changed. “I copy, Brooking. Sit tight!”
“Locked out of her room?” asked Natalie. She was beet red. She had no idea what was going on. She was still flustered from the kiss. And probably eager to disappear. He would give her her wish.
“You don’t happen to have your officers’ keycard on you, huh?”
Avoiding eye contact, she nodded. “Yeah, it should be in my pocket.” Her voice was subdued—spinning. After a moment of digging, she felt them in her fatigues. “Who’s locked out? Brooking?”
“Yes. Yes, that was Brooking.”
“Do you want me to—”
He nodded quickly. “Yeah, if you don’t mind.”
“Okay. It’s okay.” She looked away from him. “I’ll open her room.”
He’d affected her. The worst part was that he didn’t have time to care. “Nat…”
She waved his words off. “Scott—I’m so sorry. I’m…” She looked on the verge of tears. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Turning away with her face down, she walked hurriedly away.
I’m the one who’s sorry, Nat. I hope one day you forgive me. As soon as she was away from him, Scott whipped up his comm and queued in the others. “Auric, Jay, Boris, get on private channel.” Seconds later, the three signed on. “Where are you guys?”
“Boris and I are in our room,” Jayden said.
“I’m in mine, too,” said Auric.
Scott’s voice was shaking. “Esther’s locked out of her room.”
There was a distinct pause, until Jayden said alarmingly, “Holy veck, are you serious?”
“Esther, where are you?” Scott asked, queuing her in.
The scout’s voice was panicked. “I’m in Confinement!”
“Auric, gear up and go after her.”
“On my way.”
“I need a sodding plan!” Esther screamed. Gunfire erupted over her comm.
Scott growled. “Boris, you’ve got network access. Help her out!”
“Da, captain!”
Everything was happening too fast. He needed to focus. The slayers Antipov sent to Cairo to help us evacuate. I need to contact them. Antipov wrote their frequency on…
…on a piece of paper. On top of his dresser. Back in his room. Scott stuck his fingers through his hair. “Boris,” he said through his comm, “can you unlock my room with your stuff?”
“Yes!”
“Good. Do that, then start heading to me. I’m en route to one of our ships to start getting it prepped. Jay, I want you to go to my room and look on top of my dresser for a little slip of paper with a frequency on it. Call that frequency and tell them we need immediate evac—tell them who you are and that you’re with me.” He didn’t want Jayden to relay the frequency to him over the comm in the outside chance that someone was listening. Their current chatter didn’t matter—it was the frequency itself Scott wanted to protect. He had no choice but to trust Jayden to come through.
“Yes, sir!” the Texan answered.
“Everyone still has their weapons, right?” They affirmed. “Don’t leave them behind! Forget your armor unless you’re geared up already—we don’t have the time.” Raising his comm to his lips, Scott queued up The Machine; he needed to get them scrambling to Cairo. “Remington to Nov-Com.” Nothing. “Remington toNovCom.” Where were they? “Remington to Thoor!” Still, no response came. Grinding his teeth, Scott adjusted his comm. “Travis! Veck, someone come in!”
The comm crackled. Travis’s voice emerged amid the sound of chaos. “—attack, man!”
Attack? What? “I did not receive, come again!”
There was a burst of reception. “I said we’re under attack!”
“Under attack? What’s under attack?”
“The base! The base!”
He didn’t have time for them to be under attack! He needed someone en route to Cairo! “Novosibirsk can handle Noboats, Trav! We need someone here now!”
“It’s EDEN, Scott! We’re under attack by EDEN!”
Slowly, Scott’s stomach fell.
 *
NOVOSIBIRSK
BACK IN ROOM 14, Dostoevsky rallied the Fourteenth. “Everyone here and on channel, listen! The four main turret towers have been destroyed, as hasNovCom. Multiple units have confirmed the presence of Captain Faerber and Vector Squad on the surface, and emergency stations have verified radio traffic from Jon Mariner and his squadron, the Flying Apparatus.”
“Why the hell would EDEN attack its own people?” asked Becan frantically.
Max answered over the roar of explosions near the infirmary. “This is retaliation, Becan. Why do you think Faerber’s here? You and I are collateral damage.”
Before anything else could be said, Travis chimed in. “Guys, I just got a comm from Scott in Cairo asking for immediate evac!”
Svetlana answered from the infirmary. “Evac? Why?”
“I don’t know—I didn’t have a chance to ask!”
Raising his hand for silence, Dostoevsky adjusted his comm for Scott’s channel. He placed the call on speaker. “Scott, this is Yuri. Come in!”
 *
CAIRO
SCOTT WAS RUNNING full speed toward Cairo’s hangar when Dostoevsky came through. “Scott here! Talk to me, Yuri!”
“All of Novosibirsk is under attack. Faerber is here with Vector Squad. This must have something to do with his son.”
Scott restrained the urge to slam his comm to the ground. “We’re in serious trouble here! Esther just got found out—she’s somewhere in Confinement. We need to get out of here ASAP!”
Over Dostoevsky’s speaker, Becan shouted, “Wait—come again?”
“She got caught,” Scott said again. “I don’t know how, and I don’t know the details, but all hell’s about to break loose.”
 *
NOVOSIBIRSK
“I HEAR YOU,” said Dostoevsky. “Get Esther out—we will organize a pickup.”
“Will do,” Scott answered.
Without hesitation, Dostoevsky addressed Travis. “Can the Pariah fly in its current condition?”
“That’s about all it can do,” answered the pilot over the frenzied sound of the hangar. “This ship has nothing. No on-board nav systems, no chaffs, no satellite link.”
Max cleared his throat loudly over the channel. “No trackability.”
There was a moment of dawning comprehension before Travis spoke again. “You’re right! Without all those systems, it’s just a hunk of flying metal. It’s completely detached from EDEN’s satellite network.”
“I’m getting a comm from Tanneken,” Max said. “I’ll be back online soon.” The technician disconnected from the conversation.
Dostoevsky addressed his crew while Max was off-comm. “We have two priorities: surviving and getting to Scott. If we can get to the Pariah, we can accomplish both. Travis, are you sure the ship can fly?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Everyone, get ready to move to the hangar!”
Max reentered the group talk. “Yuri, Tanneken is gathering everyone from the Thirty-ninth—they’re parked on the other side of the base, away from the main hangar. She thinks this place is a sinking ship—they’re buggin’ out. Sveta and I can’t get to you, but we can get to them.”
“Go,” said Dostoevsky. “Evacuate with the Thirty-ninth. We will meet up afterward.”
“Roger that, sir.”
Shouldering his assault rifle, Dostoevsky motioned to the door. “Everyone, move! Time is critical, for us and for Scott.” The group affirmed.
Together and amid the rumble of explosions, they abandoned Room 14.
 *
CAIRO
MEANWHILE, DEEP in Confinement’s hub, Esther was entrenched in a firefight with a team of guards. She’d managed to make it out of Hell, but only just in time to discover that Cairo’s plan to deal with her hadn’t been limited to only four men. Guards were swarming to her; ammunition was already running low.
She’d succeeded thus far in keeping most of the guards at bay in their tram, her gunfire suppressing them from actually stepping into the hub. However, it was a limited solution to a terrible reality. They were between her and where she needed to go.
All of a sudden, just as her magazine was nearing empty, Boris’s voice emerged over her comm. “Esther! Are you there?”
“Not for long, Boris!”
THE RUSSIAN TECHNICIAN was running down the hallway, his technician’s kit propped opened awkwardly against his arm. Having unlocked Scott’s door remotely, Boris’s focus was now solely on Esther. “Auric is on his way!” he yelled into his comm without abandon, prompting odd looks from several passersby. “What do you need me to do?”
“You bloody tell me!” she answered.
Tapping buttons frantically, Boris keyed up Cairo’s administration console. “I have blocked out command from their guardian. For the moment, I have full control!”
“I don’t give a crap about guardians, just get me out of here!”
Boris was breathing frenetically. “Okay, okay! Umm. Okay!” Though Cairo was unaccustomed to needing genuine security on their admin system—at least against other humans—it was inevitable that they’d regain control at some point. The time Boris had in their system would be directly related to his ability to keep hiding his gateway signature. “They have ordered guards to your position through the tram system!”
“Oh sodding really?”
Mumbling to himself, Boris said, “Okay, this you already know.” His fingers tapped the keypad relentlessly. “All right, I am going to try something. Here we go!” He pressed the input button.
THERE WAS A whir above Esther’s head. Flinching, she pulled out of the firefight and stared up in bewilderment. A small black device lowered from the ceiling. They were lowering everywhere. “Umm, Boris?” The devices hissed in unison. Esther gasped as water rained down.
BORIS SKIDDED TO a stop. He stared up as water pelted his face. “Okay,” Boris said, “that is not what I was trying to do.”
NATALIE HAD BARELY made it out of the Anthill elevator when the sprinklers kicked in above her. Tensing her shoulders, she cringed as her gray shirt darkened. Closing her eyes and looking up at the spray, the quickly-saturated captain exhaled in disgusted defeat.
“WHAT THE HELL, Boris!” Esther screamed, shaking dripping hair from her face as she resumed firing at the guards in the tram. “Did you just set off the sprinklers?”
“I made a mistake! Just wait!”
“I don’t have time to wait!”
The door to the Hell-bound tram whizzed shut, locking the EDEN guards inside. Across the hub, the door to Heaven’s tram slid open.
“Please tell me that was you,” Esther said.
Boris answered immediately, “Yes, get in the tram!”
“That leads to actual Confinement, Boris.”
“Yes, I know. But it is like, the only choice you have. You need to buy me some time.”
Dashing from the safety of her cover, Esther splashed across the hub into the Heaven-bound tram. On the other side of the hub, the main tram slowly began to back away.
“I am sending them back home,” Boris said. “There is a network of tracks throughout this place. You can take another one once you get into Heaven. We will have to play the cat and mouse game.”
“Well in the meantime, can you turn off the bloody sprinklers?”
“I am uhh, still working on that one.”
She snarled, “Wonderful.” Shivering, she grabbed one of the tram’s inner railings. “I’m inside, get me moving.” Slowly, her tram began to leave the station.
CAIRO’S SPRINKLER systems were going off on every wing of the base—Auric’s was no exception. The soaked German was galloping through the halls of the Anthill toward Esther’s comm signal.
The German’s comm display flickered. Sliding to a halt on the slippery floor, he watched as a photograph cycled across the screen. It was the Calliope Lee version of Esther. At the bottom of the images, the words Armed and Dangerous scrolled. It identified her location as Confinement.
Scott shouted through the comm, “Are the rest of you guys seeing this?”
“Yes,” answered Auric. “Esther, can you leave Confinement?”
“Leave Confinement?” Esther asked. “Boris has me going deeper in!”
“Veck!” Scott shouted. “Is anything not dismally failing? Jay!” The Texan acknowledged. “Please tell me you found that paper.”
There was a pause before Jayden gravely answered. “Man…I dunno how to tell you this, but, the ink on the paper’s soaked. I can’t read nothin’.”
ON THE SURFACE by the hangar, Scott lowered his head in defeat. Without that frequency, they had no way to contact the Nightmen reinforcements—or the pilot—in Cairo. Their help wasn’t coming. They were sitting ducks.
BY THE TIME Natalie reached Esther’s room, she was drenched. Digging furiously in her fatigue pockets, she pulled out her officers’ keycard. She reached out with it to unlock the room, only to discover that as soon as she applied the slightest amount of pressure to the door, it moved. It wasn’t even latched shut.
“What the hell, Brooking?” Pushing Esther’s door open, she marched inside. “Brooking!” No answer came. “Esther Brooking! Damnit!” Whipping up her comm, she queued up Esther. “Brooking, where the veck… are…” Natalie’s words trailed off as she saw the image on her comm display—the image of a young black woman with a bob haircut and glasses, and a face that looked strikingly like the scout she was there to assist. She took her finger off the talk button and stared at the display in a stunned stupor. “No way…” Her mouth fell; she stood still for several moments before shifting the frequency to someone else. “Logan, come in.”
“Here,” the lieutenant said grittily. “What the hell’s goin’ on, Nat? My whole bloody room’s soaked.”
“Join the club. Did you see that photo on your comm?”
Logan answered, “Lookin’ at it now.”
“Now imagine her with a ponytail and no glasses.”
There was a distinct pause before Logan replied. “Oh, hell.”
Grinding her teeth, Natalie flicked her wet ponytail back angrily. “Go find Confinement. You’ll find her.”
“Will do, Nat. Am I waitin’ for you?”
“Negative.” She glared. “I have someone else to talk to.” As soon as the connection was closed, Natalie queued up Scott.
“Scott here.”
She gathered her composure. “It’s Natalie. I unlocked Brooking’s door—she should be fine whenever she gets here.”
“Great, great,” he said distractedly. “That’s good.”
“I’m sorry about tonight.”
His tone was unfazed. “Hey, hey, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, yeah. Absolutely.”
Natalie’s eyes narrowed despite her inflection. “You still outside?”
He could be heard rummaging around. “Yeah, still out here by the hill. Just…taking it all in.”
She faked an audible smile. “All right, Scott. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow sounds good.”
“Good bye.” A second later, she closed the channel. Glare still fixed, she radioed Cairo Command. “This is Captain Natalie Rockwell of the Caracals. I need the location of Commander Scott Remington’s last comm.”
SCOTT STARED AT his comm for several seconds after Natalie broke the connection, only half done with his prep of the Caracals’ transport. Something about her call unsettled him. Esther’s alter-ego had just flashed across the base-wide comm network. Could Natalie have recognized her? There was no way for him to know, and nothing he could do about it anyway. Returning his focus to the ship, he continued its prep.
 *
NOVOSIBIRSK
BACK AT NOVOSIBIRSK, deep within the Citadel of The Machine, Thoor and his counsel spoke amid the vibrations of EDEN’s surface attacks. Garbed in his visor cap, uniform, and flowing cloak, the Terror stood with his hands propped over the war table.
“Preliminary reports from the surface have casualties at fifty percent,” said Marusich hurriedly. “Our outer defenses are gone. We are struggling to keep the hangar area, but soon even the inner facilities will be breached.”
Thoor listened silently.
“Even if we call reinforcements from Krasnoyarsk, they will never make it in time. We were completely unprepared for this attack.”
“This is not an attack,” Antipov said lowly. “This is an eradication.”
“The eidola,” Thoor said, looking at him. “How strong are they at Leningrad?”
“Not strong enough to provide adequate support, general. And just like Krasnoyarsk, they are too far away to make a difference now.” The building rumbled again. “We have but one option. We must evacuate Novosibirsk.”
Thoor snarled defiantly.
“We must leave—we must take the Noboat we have captured and go to Chernobyl. EDEN does not know of our presence there. Saretok has already established minor base functionality. Flee to Chernobyl and regroup, general. Leave the eidola in place here. We will monitor EDEN from within, infiltrate their ranks as we have been doing for years. When the time is right, we will take Novosibirsk again.”
Turning to Oleg, Thoor asked, “Do you agree with Antipov’s assessment, Strakhov?”
The fulcrum set his jaw. “There is nothing we could have done to combat this. The most watchful fox cannot repel a stampede of elephants. If we leave, we will show weakness to the world. If we stay, we will all die. Which fate is worse?”
“How many Nightmen are at Chernobyl?”
“Barely four hundred,” answered Antipov. “But there is room for a thousand more. They need only know where to go.” He looked Thoor in the eyes. “Take the Noboat and leave Novosibirsk, general. Claim Chernobyl as your new throne. To remain here is to die foolishly. Then what will our legacy be?” He leaned toward Thoor. “The look on their faces when we take Novosibirsk back will be worth any amount of shame we are dealt today.”
Thoor’s eyes pored over the map of The Machine on the table before him. Inhaling deeply, he spoke. “Alert the eidola of your plan, Antipov, then inform Saretok of my impending arrival.” He looked at Marusich. “Send a message to all Nightmen on the surface. Instruct them to fight to the death—to bludgeon EDEN for their treachery. Their losses will buy us the time we need to reach the Noboat and Chernobyl.”
Cocking his head, Oleg asked, “And what of me, general?”
The Terror looked at him squarely. “Locate the woman—Voronova. We have an active operation in Cairo. I am not prepared to lose my leverage. Bring her to the Noboat.”
“Yes, general.”
Puffing out his chest, Thoor’s eyes narrowed murderously. “Tomorrow, the world will say that the Nightmen have lost The Machine. But I say now that our presence will never leave. Keep the eidola in place,” he said to Antipov. “Prepare them for the instruction that is to come. EDEN has struck us from the shadows of night. But our night will come soon. Go!”
Affirming the general’s orders, Antipov and Oleg departed.
NOVOSIBIRSK’S CONFINEMENT was chaos. Amid the scrambling of scientists and staffers was the constant pounding of alien fists against their respective cell doors. The Research Center was already on the verge of being breached by EDEN personnel—only a single sentry remained to assist in Confinement, the others having been called to the defense effort. It was total pandemonium.
Tauthin was banging against his cell like his alien brethren, his deep purple eyes searching the scientists for anyone willing to look at him. But they were too busy grabbing clipboards and discs. It was a full-fledged exodus.
Bursting into the room, Petrov immediately began barking orders to the scientists. “The interrogations from last week, grab them! Who has the DNA samples?” He was running from station to station.
Pounding harder, Tauthin shouted at the top of his lungs.
“What are those papers! Take them. Wait, what are they? No, no, leave them behind! Do we have the system log?”
Tauthin screamed on.
“I want everything on necrilids—everything. They will need that information at Chernobyl. Who has contact with the Citadel?”
Finally, Tauthin threw his body against the glass, rattling it loudly enough to make Petrov turn its way. “Caam! Caam!” said Tauthin frantically, waving and pointing at himself. “Taak mae!”
The scientists nodded. Running over to Tauthin’s cell, he looked back at his scientists. “Bring me some cuffs! We will take some of the captives.” Fingers tapping blindly on the security pad by Tauthin’s door, he inputted the command for the door to open. As soon as it did, he turned to look at Tauthin.
Tauthin struck Petrov’s throat immediately, his gnarled fingers rigid like a knife. The scientist’s trachea crushed upon impact. Eyes widened in horror, Petrov gripped his neck and stumbled backward. His efforts to scream resulted only in wheezes.
Throwing Petrov aside, Tauthin dashed to the room’s center console—to the controls he’d watched his captors use a thousand times. The other scientists barely had time to notice the purple-skinned trespasser among them. By the time Tauthin was spotted, the cell doors were already opening. Wuteel, the engineer. Nagogg, the lipless rider. Gabralthaar, the giant. The soldiers, Ka`vesh and Uguul. Nik-nish, the footless pilot. The blinded elite, Kraash-nagun. Ei`dorinthal, the Ithini. Those who could charge did. Those who couldn’t tried anyway. As the jailbreak exploded, Tauthin’s purple glare sought the lone sentry at the door. No sooner had the sentry turned to discover the chaos, Tauthin was already upon him, charging him at full speed and slamming his back against the wall. Within seconds, the titanic Gabralthaar was there to assist. Grabbing the sentry’s helmet and twisting, Tauthin wrenched it from the Nightman’s head then slammed it into his face. Blood erupted; the sentry collapsed.
With no armed guard to protect them, the scientists and staffers fell quickly, their heads slammed into consoles and their knees taken out from beneath them by the Bakma, who were mugger-like in their savagery. As the bloodbath carried on, the captive Ceratopians banged on the glass of their cells, begging for release. The Bakma ignored them.
Petrov was still propped against the wall, wheezing in vain attempts to scream, when Nagogg walked past him. The lipless alien stared at him with his skeleton’s grin before walking to the control console. Several button presses later, the glass partition of the canrassi cell slid open. Inside, the brown-furred beast roared.
Grabbing Petrov by the collar, Nagogg dragged him to the beast’s cell. Nagogg looked at Tauthin briefly, and upon receiving a nod of approval, he flung the panicked scientist in with the beast.
“Sho-kai-chaw!” Nagogg rasped in his scarred voice. Roaring obediently, the canrassi turned its gaping jaws on the scientist. Unable to scream, Petrov flailed his arms uncontrollably as the beast devoured him.
As the last of the humans in Confinement were killed, the Bakma gazed upon one another. Hollering in unison, they lifted their fists into the air.
“Nu`kachaa,” said Tauthin, raising his hand to signal their silence. The escapees settled down and regarded him. Lifting the dead sentry’s helmet, Tauthin stared into its featureless faceplate. The Bakma leader fell quiet.
 *
CAIRO
BORIS WAS SPRINTING toward the hangar beneath the constant spray of the Anthill’s sprinkler system, his curly wet mop of hair sliding constantly over his eyes, forcing him to whip his head spastically to clear his vision.
“Boris,” said Jayden over the comm, “what are you gonna do when you get to the hangar? None of us can fly!”
Boris sputtered, “I know how to work an autopilot. Maybe I can fly it that way?”
“They’ll blow us out the sky!”
The technician swallowed.
Esther emerged moments after. “All right, Boris, I’m coming up on Confinement! What’s the next phase of your master plan?”
Overwhelmed, Boris cried aloud, “This is too much thinking! I need time to think!”
“Bloody hell, Boris!”
AS ESTHER’S TRAM approached the gates of Heaven, she checked her ammo count. She had three shots left, and she was seconds away from being inundated with guards again. Pushing her hair back, she talked to Boris again. “Okay, listen. You can figure this out. Take a second, gather your wits, and fix the problem. That’s what you do! Whether you’re…oiling a door, or…you know, those other things you do, we’ve always counted on you and you’ve always come through!”
“You don’t even know what I do!”
She raised her hands as if to strangle something. “That’s because I’m in the field, I’m not sitting back in the transport!” She waved her hands frustratingly. “That’s not the point! The point is, you do things. No one notices them because they always get done. I need you to do those things now!”
“But what?”
“I don’t know!”
He moaned over the comm. “I am going to throw up.”
Esther screamed at the top of her lungs. “Boris, for the love of all things good and holy, I will fall prostrate before you if you do something to save my life!” She looked out the tram window as it stopped in Heaven. Guards were already waiting for her. “I need something now!”
Boris’s intensified breaths were accompanied by the constant tapping of fingers and uttering of, “I have to do it, I have to do it, I have to do it.”
“Do what?” Esther shouted. The tram door light began to blink; the guards raised their weapons. “Boris!”
The technician’s breathing stopped. Then he exhaled. “I did it.”
The tram door opened. Esther ducked behind cover as guards ran toward her. She fired two of her three remaining shots. “You did what?”
“…I released all the necrilids.”
Esther’s brown eyes opened widely. Her shoulders went limp. “Oh… my God.”
From far behind the guards, human screams emerged over the distant gunfire. Sliding to a stop on the slippery floor, the guards aboutfaced as black figures bounded across the massive main laboratory. Panicked and wet scientists ran in every direction.
The guards shouted to each other. Their attention completely shifted away from Esther.
“Boris!” she screamed. “What the hell were you thinking?” She was armorless and almost ammo-less. She watched in horror as necrilids leapt from person to person, their gaping fangs sending blood flying across the laboratory floor.
All at once, the whole of Heaven fled toward the tram system. The guards were in the middle of the stampede. She could escape with them. But even that was a means to no end. She was dressed like anything but a scientist; she’d never hide in a crowd. As soon as she’d get to the other hubs, the EDEN guards there would find and capture her. She wasn’t going to escape with stealth. This extraction operation had just turned into suicide.
Esther blinked. In the midst of the chaos, her gaze fell deep with realization. “This is an extraction,” she whispered to herself. “An extraction.” Still in the tram, she watched as the necrilids spread their horror.
Drawing a breath of preparation, Esther dashed from the safety of the tram into Heaven’s hub. Slipping upstream through the scientists, she weaved her way toward the guard nearest her. The guard’s gun was holstered, as he appeared more focused on evacuating the scientists than engaging the enemy. “Boris, can you open any door?”
“Yes!”
Esther wrenched the guard’s handgun from his holster, shooting out his knee as soon as he turned to her. The other guards were too preoccupied to even notice. Leaning against the wall, she peered around the corner.
The laboratory was pure carnage. The few EDEN guards that remained were now a focal point of the necrilids, who darted from wall to wall in frenzied patterns. It was like being in the middle of a flesh-eating swarm. Behind Esther, scientists were cramming into the still-unmoving tram. “Boris,” she said, her voice lowering as she neared the necrilids, “send the tram back.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Those people need to leave.” Moments after she spoke, the tram door slid shut and began to pull away. Slicking her hair back slowly, she peered around the corner again. The gunfire had stopped. The guards were dead. In the center of the room, a pack of roughly a dozen necrilids gathered under the sprinklers, communicating through their shrilly barks and howls. “Listen, Boris. If we leave Cairo without a Ceratopian, Sveta’s going to be killed. Thoor won’t care that we got found out and were in full retreat. I have to break Centurion out.” Solemnly, Boris affirmed. “I want you to release some of the Bakma. About a dozen or so cells, far way from me. Can you do that?”
“Opening them now,” the technician said.
Closing her eyes, Esther waited. Above her and everywhere, the emergency lights were still flashing, their bright pulses reflecting off the sheen of her wet skin. Even as dripping strands of hair slipped down around her eyes, she stood statuesque.
The necrilids went silent. “Come on,” Esther whispered to herself. “Go after them.” A clamor emerged from further in the structure. The newly-released Bakma were mustering. For them, it was a jailbreak. For the necrilids, it was about to become a feast. Easing her head around the corner, she watched the necrilids bound away like a pack of reptilian wolves.
Release me.
Esther’s eyes widened. Ju`bajai. The female Ithini had found Esther’s mind.
Release me.
I never came here for you, Esther transmitted back to her.
Ju`bajai must have been imprisoned after Esther had been revealed as a double agent. It made sense. Ju`bajai had lied to Giro Holmes about Esther’s innocent intentions. The Ithini had been relegated back to prisoner status. Moving around the corner, Esther dashed across the laboratory while the necrilids were away, her gun lowered stealthily. A single gunshot would beckon every necrilid back to her position—having to fire her weapon because she’d blown her cover would doom her. Gaze returning forward, she stalked toward the Golathochian wing.
“BORIS, WHAT’S THE word?” Scott asked.
The technician answered, “I am on my way to the hangar!”
“Good, but we have a problem. I don’t have a pilot coming. I’ve got no one to fly this thing.”
“I am already working on it!” Boris said. “Trust me, captain.”
RUNNING THROUGH the hallways, water pouring off the brim of his cowboy hat—the lone personal item he’d taken—Jayden queued up Esther on his comm. “Esther, are you still in Confinement?”
“Yes, Jay,” she whispered.
Slipping between operatives in the hall, he said, “I’m comin’ after ya.”
“No! Jay, don’t.”
“Ain’t no way I’m leavin’ you back there.”
She argued quietly yet emphatically. “Auric is already heading to me. Go to the hangar and wait with Scott.”
“No way.”
“Jayden, you have to trust me. Relationships are about trust. Go back to the ship and wait for me, please. I’m going to be fine.”
Shouldering his sniper rifle, Jayden paused in the hall.
Esther’s voice quieted. “I’m going to close our channel, Jay. I can’t risk being heard. Please go back. I’ll be on the surface soon. I promise.”
Before the Texan could say a word, the channel went dark. She’d blocked him. Hands on his hips under the spray of the sprinklers, Jayden hesitated before finally turning around. Taking the nearest hallway that led to the elevators, he headed for the surface.
RELEASE ME!
With every few steps Esther took, Ju`bajai’s messages grew more coercive. The Ithini was agitated, but Esther couldn’t care. Running down the Golathochian wing, she drew to a halt as she reached Centurion’s cell. Yanking up her comm, she queued up Boris. “Open cell C-129! Hurry!” she whispered. Within seconds, the door slid open.
Rising to its feet, the black and green behemoth gazed at Esther anxiously.
“Remember that break thing you wanted to do?” she asked. “Now would be a good time!”
The Ceratopian said nothing—it only stared at her in silence. It didn’t understand.
“Bloody hell,” Esther said. Ju`bajai, I need a connection!
The Ithini didn’t reply.
Fine, you sodding extortionist, I’ll release you, too. There was a click; the connection was made, and Esther focused on Centurion. We have to leave, and we have to leave now. I have someone helping us from afar—he’s going to guide us out! Centurion’s posture grew poised. He was ready to run. Follow me, quickly. We need to leave Confinement.
As Esther bolted back down the hall, the Ceratopian stormed behind her, his titanic gait four times longer than hers. Then, abruptly and unknowingly to Esther, he stopped in one of the connecting lab hubs. His widened eyes were fixated on a pile of equipment laying haphazardly atop one of the lab tables. At the last thing any Ceratopian would have expected to find out in the open.
Esther’s focus was solely ahead. With the constant whizz of the sprinklers and the blaring klaxons across Confinement, she never even noticed Centurion’s detour behind her. It wasn’t until she’d reached the central laboratory that she drew to a sudden, horrified halt. EDEN guards were pouring into Heaven—they’d already gunned down the escaping necrilids. Now they were looking at her.
“Boris!” she screamed over the comm. “Did they take back the trams?”
There was a pause before the technician answered. “Yes! I am sorry, I have been programming transports. I have lost all the trams!”
In the same moment that the guards opened fire, something equally horrible caught the scout’s eyes. Necrilids. Not wild, escaped necrilids. Necrilids amid the humans. The patrol units. It didn’t matter that she’d met the one called Tiburon. As soon as the guards pointed to her, the pack of four creatures bounded ferociously in her direction.
Gasping, Esther turned and bolted back down the hall, noticing for the first time that Centurion was gone as she rounded a corner to return to his cell. Her breathing grew tight. The necrilids’ clawing grew closer. Whipping around desperately, Esther tried to get a bead on one with her pistol. But the monsters were too fast. They leapt from wall-to-wall with insatiable ferocity. Losing her footing on the slippery surface, Esther fell flat on her rear. She was facing the necrilids dead on. They were meters away.
She was about to be ripped apart.
Suddenly and all at once, the patrol units dug in their heels. Their claws skidded frenetically; they reared their heads away. It wasn’t an attack—it was an emergency deviation. They were slamming on the brakes. Esther’s head turned to look behind her, to see what the predators were reacting to.
It was ten feet of metallic, full-body armor—a colossal, five-horned machine, lumbering around the corner with earth-shaking mass. And it was holding a neutron rifle. As the necrilids wavered back and forth diffidently, Centurion leaned forward, spread his arms out, and roared. The Ceratopian bodyguard was fully geared.
Had Esther allowed a second for recollection, she might have remembered the laboratory tables with alien armor and weapons scattered throughout Confinement. But she didn’t have a second. Gripping her pistol, she launched herself from the floor toward Centurion, sliding feet-first behind him.
Hissing hesitantly, one of the necrilids arched its back and sprung toward Centurion, jaws opened. Centurion’s free hand lashed out, his fingers wrapping tightly around the necrilid’s neck in mid-jump. Rasping desperately, the beast scratched at Centurion’s face, its claws clanging and deflecting off the Ceratopian’s armored helmet. Growling lowly as the other necrilids watched, Centurion leaned in to look the monster in the face, tilting its head in dominating boldness. Then, with a single violent flick of his forearm, Centurion snapped the necrilid’s neck. The patrol unit was tossed to the ground next to Esther, its nerves twitching before its body went limp.
Centurion aimed his neutron rifle just as the EDEN guards rounded the corner. Zaps of red neon burst forth; humans and necrilids scattered in all directions, some avoiding the blasts, the others careening off the walls as if struck by a train. Within moments, they were in full-fledged retreat.
Wiping hair from her face, Esther leapt on Centurion’s back, scaling the titan until she was looking over his shoulder, one hand clinging to the alien’s armor, the other aiming her pistol. “All right, you beast,” she sputtered. “Full speed ahead.”
Bellowing loudly, the Ceratopian surged forward.
 *
NOVOSIBIRSK
ON THE SURFACE of Novosibirsk, the Nightmen were being decimated. The global forces of EDEN, led by Vector Squad, were pushing steadily through the defenses of The Machine. Plumes of fire erupted in every direction; orange bullet trails zinged back and forth. All across the grounds of Novosibirsk, the dark warriors of General Thoor—slayers, fulcrums, and sentries—lay strewn across the concrete. It was turning into a massacre.
Running full-speed for the hangar were Dostoevsky and the Fourteenth. With every whizz that flew past their ears, they ducked lower and lower to the ground. Far ahead, beside the fiery wreck of Novosibirsk’s massive hangar, sat the Pariah.
“Travis, status?” asked Dostoevsky. The fulcrum dropped to a knee behind some cover, motioning for the operatives behind him to hurry. Next to him, David and Egor joined in the fight. EDEN was shooting anything and everything that moved out of Novosibirsk, Nightman or not.
Derrick stutter-stepped, his chest bursting with red liquid. The southerner toppled to the ground.
“Derrick!” William skidded and turned around.
“Will, come on!” shouted David, tugging at the demolitionist’s shoulder. “Get to cover!” William wasn’t budging. Looking around desperately, David found Varvara. “Get over here!” The all-but-forgotten medic hurried Derrick’s way.
Inside the Pariah, Travis and Tiffany were prepping the engines for liftoff. Hopping into the seat beside him, Tiffany assumed the role of copilot without having to be asked.
“Come on, baby, fire up!” Travis said. After a moment of mechanical clunking, the feral dog roared to life. Travis got on the comm. “She’s alive, get in!”
In the midst of a barrage of enemy gunfire, David and Varvara finally managed to pull William from Derrick’s body. There was nothing any of them could do for the fallen southerner—he was dead and too far in the open to risk dragging along. As soon as William was in the Pariah, he curled into a ball on the floor.
“Everyone, get on board!” Dostoevsky shouted, waving the others on.
“Do we even have anny equipment in here?” asked Becan. Travis answered in the negative. “Well tha’s jus’ bleedin’ grand!”
IT HAD TAKEN Max and Svetlana several minutes to escape from the barracks. Despite its protection behind the superstructure that was Novosibirsk’s main building, it had still become an indirect target of the Superwolves’ attacks. Every piece of the main building that flew through the air, every guard tower that collapsed, and every stray missile strike or volley of gunfire that peppered the earth placed the infirmary in peril.
Bursting from its easternmost exit, the pair finally found a path of safety back to the barracks. According to Tanneken, the Thirty-ninth’s Vulture was perched on the southern end of the base where the unit had been working some training exercises the previous day, just south of the officers’ wing. Avoiding the chaos of the outside grounds, Max and Svetlana once again dashed for a pair of double doors—this time on a course that would take them through the inside of the barracks. The lieutenant was gripping Svetlana’s hand firmly in an effort both to speed her along and help her maintain footing whenever the grounds of Novosibirsk shook.
They were halfway through the second set of barracks when the hallway far ahead of them erupted in an explosion of fire and rubble. Sliding to a stop, the pair watched in horror as the hallway burst into flames.
“Doggonit!” Turning Svetlana around, Max bolted for one of the side doors. He got back on the comm. “Ann, we just lost half of B-3—we’re gonna have to hit the outside!”
Tanneken’s voice crackled through the comm. “Are you still in B-3?”
“What’s left of it.”
“We are almost ready to lift off. Stand-by, I am coming to you.”
With Sveta at his side, Max sprinted for a pair of doubledoors. Hands outstretched, he jostled the doors open. He didn’t even make it through. His body collided against someone else’s the moment he burst through the doorway. Against someone wearing solid black metal.
Oleg.
Before Max could react, Oleg’s palms were thrust square into his chest. The lieutenant’s feet left the ground as he flew flat on his back. Svetlana gasped as the fulcrum turned to her.
Oleg grabbed her before she could run, slamming the medic headfirst into the wall with unforgiving force. Blood burst from her face as she careened off the concrete and onto the floor. Her head rolled limply.
Max heaved to catch his breath even as he staggered to his feet. Reaching wildly for his belt, he yanked out his handgun.
Oleg ducked just as Max’s shot zinged past him. In a single fluid motion, the fulcrum grabbed his own pistol, raised it up, and fired. Max never had a chance to re-aim. The technician’s eyes bulged as a bullet passed through his neck; he clutched the wound and tumbled to the floor. Within seconds, blood was pooling around his head.
Hoisting Svetlana over his armored shoulder, Oleg turned and carried her down the hall. Max wasn’t even given a final glance. The technician was left to bleed out.
IN THE THIRTY-NINTH’S lead Vulture, Tanneken Brunner was barking out commands to her squad. Gripping the hand railing, the petite, pigtailed brunette ordered her transports to get airborne. Slinging her comm to her lips, she turned and looked out the open bay door. “We’re on our way, Max. Where are you?”
Silence.
Turning to her pilot, Tanneken screamed, “Why are we not off the ground yet? Move!” Her focus returned to the comm. “Max, did you copy? We are on our way, we need your position.” The Vulture’s engines flared up; it ascended from the ground amid gunfire and explosions. The Dutch captain switched frequencies. “Voronova! Where are you?” Again, she got no reply. Very subtly, Tanneken’s eyes winced. She spun around again. “Get to B-3, you damn fool!” Snatching her E-35 from the bench, she slammed in a fresh magazine and looked at her lieutenant. “Sokolov, get ready to come with me. Commander Shavrin has control until my return.”
“Your return, captain?” asked Shavrin.
“Did I stutter?” Tanneken asked scathingly, white-knuckling the rail as the Vulture lowered again near barracks number three. Lieutenant Sokolov took to her side as the ship touched down. “If I am not back in five minutes, leave.” Affirmation came, and the captain dashed from the ship.
Half of B-3 was in ruin, a long trail of black smoke pouring into the erupting night sky. Tips of her pigtails dangling behind her helmet, Tanneken jerked open the nearest traversable set of doors—the ones Max would have naturally taken to meet her outside. She needed only two steps in to find him.
Max was laying on his back, a pool of blood soaking the back of his head, his body shivering as he clutched his neck unremittingly.
Tanneken’s feet locked up; the Dutch woman gasped. “Max!” She threw her helmet off and slid to Max’s side. Her breathing increased as panicked Dutch flew from her mouth. “Oh my God, Max, oh my God! What happened?” Max’s gaze found her, but only distantly. He was in shock. Her hands moving around him frantically, Tanneken looked lost. “I need a medic,” she said to Sokolov, whipping around to face him. “Comm Pedersen! Hurry!” Complying, Sokolov lifted his comm.
Then they appeared, rounding the corner just as Sokolov pressed the queue button and prompting him to release his comm and reach for his weapon. They never gave him the chance. A single gunshot erupted, and Sokolov’s assault rifle was shot clean out of his hands. Tanneken looked up as Sokolov flinched back.
Vector Squad.
It was a small team—a strike team. As the Vector at point aimed his smoking X-111 chaos rifle, a single word spewed from his mouth in Russian, then German, then English. “Freeze!”
Tanneken was on the verge of tears. All regard for Vector’s status or the fact that they were the assailant went out the window. She pled immediately. “Please. He needs medical attention—he will die.”
Shouldering his chaos rifle, the Vector at point hesitated. Behind his clear visor, dubious gray eyes scrutinized her.
The Vector behind him spoke. “We ain’t got time for ‘dis, chief. We gotta move.”
The man at point said nothing—he simply stared at Tanneken.
“Please,” Tanneken whispered, eyes glistening as her bloodied hands held Max.
The forward Vector hesitated, glanced back, then nodded. Motioning for his troops to secure the hallway around him, he knelt beside Max and removed his helmet. Parted jet-black hair fell around his face—his nametag read Hill. He pushed Tanneken aside.
Still trembling, the Dutch captain spoke fervently. “He needs a medic. Please, if you have one—”
Hill looked at her pointedly, motioning toward his belt where an assortment of handguns, grenades, and knives was visible. And in the middle of it all was a medical kit.
“Minh, it’s Vince,” Hill said into his comm as he removed his kit. He was deep-voiced, British. “Bring the Relentless to the barracks. I have a medical evac.” He looked at Tanneken. “You can go.”
Turning to Sokolov, Tanneken said, “Go back to the ship. Tell Shavrin I said to leave. Do it now.” Acknowledging, Sokolov turned and left. Tanneken pointed to Max and said to Hill, “Where he goes, I go.” She eyed his insignia briefly. “And I outrank you.”
A glint of surprise struck Hill’s face. Then, very faintly, the Vector medic smirked. “Yes, ma’am.”
Tanneken nodded approvingly as Hill went to work.
“TRAVIS, GET US airborne!” Dostoevsky shouted. The remnants of the Fourteenth grabbed onto the support rails of the Pariah. “Max, have you reached Brunner’s unit?”
Tanneken answered. “This is Brunner. Max has been shot.”
Silence struck the Pariah’s crew. “What do you mean?” Dostoevsky asked. “How was Max shot?”
“I do not know. I found him in the hall—Vector Squad has a medic working on him.”
“Vector Squad?” the fulcrum asked. The others listened anxiously. “Where is Svetlana?”
Tanneken answered, “I don’t know. When I found him, she was gone.”
Immediately, David and Becan rose up. “We’re not leavin’ her,” the Irishman said.
Dostoevsky held out his hand. “No.”
“What do yeh mean no?”
Readying his assault rifle, Dostoevsky said, “Goronok, come with me. We will find Sveta. The rest of you need to rescue Scott and the others.” Egor acknowledged and trotted down the ramp.
The Pariah’s hull was bring rocked by gunfire. Travis shot a look back. “We don’t have a lot of time!”
Dostoevsky and Egor were already off the ship. David and Becan remained in the open bay door. “Get to Scott,” Dostoevsky said. “Save the others. Go.”
Behind David and Becan, another voice emerged. “Wait!” It was Varvara. The young blonde rushed to the bay door and stopped, settling her eyes on Dostoevsky.
“We do not have time for this, Varya,” the fulcrum said.
The medic touched her medical kit. “Sveta may be hurt.”
Several moments passed without answer. Then Dostoevsky nodded. “Come.” It took no second command. Varvara abandoned the Pariah for Dostoevsky’s side. “Jurgen, I leave command to you. Now go.”
“Yes sir,” David answered. Turning, he called out to Travis. “Get us off the ground!”
Travis closed the door and put his hand on the stick. “Gladly.”
The transport’s thrusters kicked in; the feral dog rose.
DEEP IN THE underground hangar, the Nightman technicians were prepping the captured Noboat for flight. The word had come from General Thoor: the Nightman command staff was evacuating. The Terror was en route.
MARCHING SIDE-BY-SIDE through the corridors of Novosibirsk, yet another group was making their way to the hangar. Hands clasped behind their backs subserviently, six Bakma, a blinder-clad canrassi, and an Ithini shuffled down the halls before the might of an armed Nightman sentry.
Other Nightmen bustled past them down the hallway in what seemed to be a standard prisoner evacuation. The passing Nightmen never even gave them a second glance. But if they had, they might have noticed that none of the Bakma’s cuffs were actually latched—or that the sentry’s suit didn’t quite seem to fit. Beneath his black, armored guise, Tauthin led his comrades forward, his connection to Ed relaying directions to the Bakma at the front of the line. He had no reason to pay attention to any of the other Nightmen bustling past him in the hall. His focus was steadfast. Escape, in the form of a Noboat, would soon be theirs.
Then he saw Svetlana.
The fulcrum carrying her overtook Tauthin from behind, his pace quicker and more urgent than the disguised Bakma. Svetlana was slung over the fulcrum’s back, her face bloodied and eyes swollen—her hair a tussled mess. She’d been beaten. A moment of realization came over Tauthin, before the Bakma’s own pace quickened. He caught up with the fulcrum from behind, leaving his fellow aliens staring at him bewilderedly. Reaching his hand out, Tauthin touched the fulcrum on the shoulder. The fulcrum stopped, turning abruptly. “What—”
Clang!
Tauthin head-butted Oleg in the face. The fulcrum stumbled backward; the woman fell from his shoulders. Clasping his armored fists together, Tauthin slammed them straight down atop Oleg’s head, then straight up, then across. Oleg spun, hit the wall, then slid to the floor. Tauthin looked at the unconscious blonde. “Setana…”
Nagogg, the lipless rider, rasped from the line of prisoners. “We have no use for a female!”
Growling silently, his alien vocal chords mechanized by his sentry helmet, Tauthin looked down and away. After a moment of silence, he looked at Svetlana again. Bending down, he scooped her in his arms.
“For what purpose are we taking her?” Nagogg asked. “Leave her here to die!”
“I will not leave her in the arms of one who wishes her ill,” Tauthin answered. “The female comes.” Silently from the line, Wuteel indicated agreement. “Onward!” Tauthin barked. With Svetlana in his arms, he motioned the captives forward.
31
FRIDAY, MARCH 16TH, 0012 NE
CAIRO
WAR WAS ERUPTING in Heaven. With Esther clinging to his back, Centurion—clad from head to toe in Ceratopian heavy armor—burst through EDEN’s defensive like a battering ram. With every zap of neon red, another human was flung against the wall with tornadic velocity. And with every human that was lost, EDEN was pushed farther and farther back.
Release me, human!
Ju`bajai’s words battered Esther’s mind. She dropped from Centurion’s back briefly, just long enough to grab a fresh pistol from a dead guard on the ground. She leapt back to the Ceratopian’s cover.
Release me!
“I heard you the first time!” She jumped on the comm. “Scott, listen to me. Even if we get out of Confinement, once we hit the halls of Cairo, we’re not going to stand a chance. Security will be converging on us from every corner.”
“I’m listening,” Scott answered.
The scout gunned down a guard. “Desperate times call for desperate measures. You’d agree, right?”
“I’m still listening.”
“We need to give Cairo something else to deal with—something bigger than a few spies from Novosibirsk. Something that can’t be cleaned up with just a few well-placed bullets.” She hesitated. “I want Boris to release all the prisoners.”
Scott’s reaction was telling. “Whoa.”
“Release them all, and force Cairo to deal with something bigger than us. Make them muster here, not on the airstrip. Scott, it’s our only chance.”
“Boris, can you do that?” Scott asked.
BORIS HAD JUST reached the surface when Scott’s question crackled through. The sopping technician was inputting commands on the run. “Yes, captain.” His fingers were tapping furiously as he ran to the hangar. “This will be stuff of legend!”
“Do it,” Scott said without hesitation. “Esther, that jailbreak’s about to be yours. Use it.”
BULLETS RICOCHETED off Centurion’s armor. The massive warrior roared and returned fire. Then, it happened. All around them, in every hall in every corner of Confinement, the doors to the prisoners’ cells slid open. Above the pulses of projectile and neutron came a sound unlike anything else in Heaven. It was a sound that resonated from the halls—a murmur that quickly grew into loud chatter, then into blatant shouting. The prisoners were realizing they were freed. The next thing Esther, Centurion, and the EDEN guards saw were extraterrestrials of every make and model bolting from their cells.
As the guards’ focus shifted, Esther pointed over Centurion’s shoulder toward the tram. “That way!” She returned to her comm. “All right, Boris, now get the tram ready. It’s about to have some customers.”
SCOTT WAS PREPPING the ship when Boris made his entry. Scooting past Scott, Boris dashed for the pilot’s seat. “What’s the plan, Boris?” Scott asked.
Boris’s hands flew around the cockpit as systems came on. “Orders, orders, everywhere. I need a clone of myself!”
“What’s the vecking plan?”
“Autopilot!” answered Boris desperately. “I am programming the autopilot to fly us away.”
As long as it worked. “Where the hell’s Jayden?”
At that moment, the wail of Cairo’s base-wide sirens reverberated across the airstrip. Staring at Boris from behind, Scott readied a weapon and aimed out the rear door.
WITH EDEN’S GUARDS distracted by the sudden release of Heaven’s captives, Esther and Centurion made their break for the tram station, the massive Ceratopian incapacitating the few guards who tried to flee with them. Readying her pistol, Esther waited for the tram to arrive. She turned back to the central laboratory. “Boris, ETA.” He didn’t answer. “Veck!”
In the midst of the chaos of the lab, Ju`bajai emerged. The gaunt female alien was running straight for Esther and Centurion. “Glad you could make it,” said Esther dryly. As tram lights appeared from the long tunnel behind her, Esther motioned for her cohorts to move away. The tram hissed to a stop. As soon as they boarded, she was on the comm again. “Auric, where are you?”
“I AM COMING!” the German answered. Assault rifle at the ready, the slayer in EDEN clothing ran full speed for Esther’s comm signal. “How do I get to you?”
“Head to Junction Hall B!”
Sliding to a stop on the wet floor, Auric dashed down a side hallway. “On my way.”
BORIS WAS WORKING furiously on the controls of the transport, programming its autopilot as Scott held defensive position at the rear bay door, despite the fact that no one was moving in on them yet.
The transport’s thrusters rumbled to life. Its main systems began their warm-up procedures as the familiar whine of V1 engines grew in intensity.
“All right,” the Russian technician said, searching the control panel for something to press. “Stop their takeoffs. I must stop their takeoffs.”
Right then, a voice cut in through the transport’s comm system. “Vulture 21-79 Alpha, we have detected a system power-up. What is your reason for this, over?”
Boris went rigid. He stared in horror at the ship’s comm. Hands trembling, he clicked the channel open. “Hello.”
“Vulture 21-79 Alpha, I repeat, we have detected a system power-up. What is your reason for this, over?”
Fumbling awkwardly, he clicked the transmit button again. “Doing routine engine maintenance. Please ignore.”
“Routine maintenance? We have a tech staff for that.”
“Okay, good bye,” said Boris into the ship’s comm. Closing the comm channel, he propped his technician’s kit up on the copilot’s chair and hacked back into Cairo. His kit’s display was a constant assault of system screens and override functions. With each tap of his finger, new command windows opened and closed from one end of the screen to the next. “Hey,” he said surprisingly, “I found the sprinklers again!” He pressed the command. “And, off.”
From inside the rear bay door, Scott looked up as the hangar’s massive soaker system kicked on. A cascade of fat water drops bombarded the concrete. He looked back at Boris.
“Okay,” Boris said frustratingly, “I do not like these sprinklers.”
AS THE TRAM roared toward the central hub, Esther reloaded her pistol and turned to Centurion. “Are you okay?” Grunting boldly, the Ceratopian aimed his neutron rifle at the tram door. Esther went to her comm. “Boris, I don’t care how you do it, but I need you to route this tram away from the EDEN rally points. If we have to fight, we’re going to lose.” No answer. “Boris, are you bloody listening to me?”
“I am listening, I am listening!” The technician sounded panicked. “There is too much to do!”
“Too much for most people, but not for you. Now route us out of here.” Her black maxi dress saturated, she waited for his reply. The scout swallowed anxiously.
“Okay,” said Boris. “I think I have a route.”
She lifted her chin, closed her eyes, and sighed in total relief. “Boris Evteev, you are my hero.” The tram rolled past the EDEN hub full of guards. It continued on down the line. “Auric, where are you?”
“I AM ALMOST—” The German’s words were cut off as he slid to a halt in the middle of the corridor. Bursting into the intersection ahead of him, and looking directly his way, was Logan. “Marshall is here,” he uttered to Esther.
Logan cracked his neck to the side preparedly, then marched in Auric’s way. Raising his handgun, the lieutenant fired without asking questions. Auric ducked behind a corner as the bullets whizzed past him, one grazing his right arm. Growling, the German readied his handgun.
“Where’re you goin’, mate?” asked Logan from further around the corner. “Looking for Brooking?”
Auric was positioned just close enough to the corner to make out Logan’s position by easing his head around it. Very slowly, the Australian lieutenant stalked toward him. “Do not make a mistake, Marshall.”
Drawing a breath, Logan said, “I won’t.” Both men rounded the corners at the same time, weapons drawing and firing as they simultaneously dove to avoid the volleys. Charging headlong at Auric, Logan crashed into his chest, sending the German sliding backward across the wet floor before Auric writhed and pushed Logan off him.
Logan was the first to reaffirm his footing, and consequently, the first to go on the offensive. Fists raised like a boxer, Logan hammered Auric in the face and chest with a blazing series of jabs, followed by a haymaker that spun Auric completely around before toppling him backward.
Rolling over, Auric groaned against the wet floor. He’d only managed to push up halfway before he felt the cold barrel of a pistol against the back of his neck. The German froze.
“Call Brooking,” Logan said. Water from the sprinklers tattered the Australian’s armor. He stood statuesque nonetheless. “Call. Brooking.” Growling lowly, Auric tensed his shoulders. He said nothing. Logan pressed the pistol harder. “Call her, or I will.”
Eyes steeling downward, Auric bit his lip hard. Shaking the water drops gently from his brow, he eased his chin down. “I need to use my comm.”
Logan’s pistol never moved. “Use it, slowly.”
Hesitating, the German slayer slid his hand cautiously down to his belt, where he unlatched his comm. He moved it up to his lips, then pressed the button. “Captain, I am captured,” he spouted out quickly.
That was all he had time to say. Cocking his hand up, Logan smashed the butt of his pistol against the back of Auric’s head. The German collapsed, limp. “Bloody hell,” the Australian seethed. Looking at Auric’s comm display, he growled then queued up Natalie. “Broll’s in custody. He just commed Remington; he addressed him as captain.”
“Copy that, Lo,” Natalie answered. “I’m heading to Remington now. Secure Broll then go get Brooking.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
THE MOMENT SCOTT heard Auric’s transmission, the pit of his stomach turned. Auric was captured. That meant Esther was alone.
As if on cue, Esther’s panicked voice crackled through. “Boris, the tram just stopped! It’s reversing!”
In the pilot’s seat of the transport, hands flying between the Vulture and his kit, Boris cursed. “I have lost control!”
“Lost control of the tram?”
Abandoning the Vulture controls, Boris stuttered through sweat drops. “Lost control of everything!”
GRABBING HOLD OF the support rail, Esther watched as the tram sped backward down the track, back in the direction of the guard-filled hub. Her brown eyes widened with terror. “Veck! Get control back, Boris!”
“Esther, Auric’s gone,” Scott cut in. “He’s been captured.”
The scout’s voice was shaking. “Scott, I’m not getting out of this one. I’m sorry.”
“Can you stop the tram yourself?”
“I—I…” Pushing her hair back, the scout’s eyes brimmed with horror.
Roaring mightily, Centurion threw his neutron rifle down and strode toward the “new” front of the tram. Lunging forward with his gargantuan claws, he crashed his fists through the forward glass. Behind him, Esther and Ju`bajai shielded their eyes as glass shards and wind whipped through the transport. Very slightly, the tram’s velocity slowed.
Hair whipping around furiously, Esther watched as the giant Ceratopian reclaimed his neutron rifle. He aimed it through the now-open forward window. Looking back at Esther, Centurion transmitted the word, Cover.
“Like hell, beast!” she screamed. Readying her pistol, she rushed to his side against the flurry of air. Eyes squinting, she watched as the tram neared its final turn before the hub. She looked back at Ju`bajai. “Are you in any way useful?”
The Ithini closed her eyes.
Esther looked back ahead. “So sodding typical.”
SCOTT WAS IN a panic. He had no armor. No backup. No anything. Looking outside, he saw Jayden running full sprint toward the transport. “About vecking time, Jay!”
“I heard Auric say he’s captured!” The Texan yelled. “Where’s Esther?”
“You didn’t hear her?”
Alarmed, Jayden bolted up the ramp. “She cut me off her channel!”
“Boris lost the trams. She’s stuck in Confinement.”
The Texan’s jaw dropped. “What? We gotta go get ’er!”
“Yeah, Jay, I know.” Scott spun back to Boris. “Any luck with the trams?”
The technician shook his head, hands working frantically. “It is gone, captain. All control is gone.”
“Well get it back, Trooper.” Turning back to Jayden, Scott shouldered his assault rifle. “How many shots you got in that rifle?”
“Man,” said Jayden, voice trembling but sniper rifle ready, “how are we gonna do this?”
Scott could only shake his head. “I don’t know.”
“I shouldn’t’a listened to her, man. I shouldn’t’a came back.”
Rushing down the ramp, Scott said, “We’re gonna get her, man. Let’s go.”
A woman’s voice cut him off. “Not so fast.”
Halting abruptly at the bottom of the ramp, Scott looked toward the voice. As soon as he saw who it belonged to, the last ounce of hope he was clinging to vanished. It was Natalie. The sopping wet Caracals captain was flanked by a half-dozen guards—and all of their weapons were raised.
“Hands on your head, Captain Remington,” she seethed through the dripping lashes of a glare.
Scott and Jayden complied, both men stepping back to maintain distance. “Natalie, listen—”
“Oh, I’m listening,” she said.
“We gotta get Esther, man,” Jayden whispered frantically to Scott.
Natalie and the guards steadily drew closer. “Listen, I need you to trust me,” Scott said, “this was never supposed to happen.”
“Trust you?” she asked murderously. “How dare you ask me to trust you. Take them in, guards.”
“No!” Scott held his hands out. “Please, you have to listen.”
The conversation was halted by the screeching of tires. The whole party—Scott and Natalie included—flinched back and turned their heads. Skidding around the corner, pieces of a barbed-wire perimeter fence stuck to its bumper, was a full-sized black van. The moment it beaded their way, a figure leaned out of the passenger window and opened fire at the EDEN-clad guards.
“Drop down! Drop down!” Scott hollered, tugging Jayden with him as they took to the concrete. Natalie, clad only in her long-sleeved shirt and fatigues, followed suit. As the EDEN guards returned fire, the van skidded sideways next to Scott. The van’s covered side door opened, as four slayers leapt out.
One of them—a fulcrum—removed his helmet and addressed Scott. “This way, captain!”
This was their backup. The Nightmen in Cairo they were supposed to call in for the extraction. How did they know to come now? Who had commed them? It didn’t matter. Scrambling to his feet, Scott bolted for the cover of the van. Jayden followed behind. In the open space of the hangar, the EDEN guards dashed for cover. Natalie was still pinned on the ground.
The moment Scott was behind the van, the dark-complexioned fulcrum spoke over the gunfire of his slayers. “I am Rashid Faraj, captain.” His Turkish accent was thick; he seemed older than most Nightmen. “We have been dispatched for your extraction. Do you need your armor?”
“My armor?” Scott followed Rashid’s gesture toward the van. Inside, sitting in a pile by the sliding door, was Scott’s black and gold fulcrum armor. “Yes!” It was both affirmation and exclamation. Bolting for the van, Scott began throwing on his suit. “How did you know to come for us?”
Rashid shouted over the tatter of assault rifles. “We received an alert from Antipov ordering your immediate extraction.”
Antipov? How in the world did he even know? The slip of paper with the slayers’ frequency was ruined by the sprinklers.
“I present to you five slayers and a pilot, all veterans from The Machine. I was instructed to—”
Scott cut him off. Pointing to one of the nameless slayers, he shouted, “The woman lying in the hangar. Get her over here!” Natalie was pinned and unprotected in the middle of a crossfire. Someone needed to bring her to cover, even if it was a Nightman. This wasn’t her fault. “Take a bullet if you have to.”
As one of the slayers did as ordered, Rashid continued. “I was instructed to lord over these slayers until their delivery to you. I transfer that authority to you now. We are under your command.”
Now that’s what I’m talking about! Clamping on his chest plate, Scott strapped on his arm guards. “The Ceratopian target is inside with one of my operatives.” Technically with two, but Auric was secondary to the mission objective—Auric would agree. “I want three men in that transport and four with me.”
Rashid nodded. “If it suits you, I will remain to oversee the safety of the transport.”
“It suits me.” Scott slammed on his fulcrum helmet. The world reassumed its familiar battle hue. Adrenaline pulsed in his veins.
As Rashid addressed the slayers, Scott watched as Natalie was pushed behind cover by one of them. Soaked and shocked, she whipped her head from Nightman to Nightman.
Jetting past his shoulders in menacing spikes, Scott’s golden collar gleamed against the black of his fulcrum’s armor. He motioned to the slayer who’d escorted Natalie. “Don’t let her run off.” He wasn’t about to let her get shot over this. She needed to stay behind cover until it was time for them to leave.
At the recognition of Scott’s voice through its mechanizations, Natalie faced him. When she saw his golden horns, her mouth fell in distress.
Rashid addressed him again. “Captain, the four slayers are ready to assist you.”
Names were useless. Scrutinizing the four slayers that had withdrawn, Scott pointed to identify each. “One, Two, Three, Four. Remember that.” They acknowledged. “The rest of you, cover us. We’re heading into Cairo!”
“I’m comin’!” Jayden said.
Scott shook his head. “No, Jay. I need you here.”
The Texan’s gaze was determined. “That’s my girlfriend, man.”
For a moment, Scott fell quiet. Esther. It doesn’t matter that she’s new for you, does it? You already think of her as yours. How could he, of all people, deny Jayden that? “Don’t get shot, Jay. We have armor and you don’t.”
“I won’t, man. Let’s go.”
Nodding, Scott adjusted his comm. “Esther, the cavalry’s here. We’re coming to get you.”
“NICE TO HEAR,” the scout answered. With her sidearm aimed out of the front of the ever-slowing tram, Esther prepared to meet the EDEN stronghold. Hulking beside her and taking up most of the tram space, Centurion crouched with his neutron rifle ready.
Suddenly, Esther’s vision flashed as if there was lightning in her eyelids. The scout’s brown eyes widened as her entire field of perception changed. She was in the middle of a cluster of EDEN guards in the tram hub. The one directly in front of her held up his hand and looked back at her.
“Stay spread out!” he shouted. “Avoid the Ceratopian’s neutron fire. Aim for his neckline!”
“Yes sir!”
Behind Esther, another man spoke. She found herself turning to look at him. “Strike Team Zeta has isolated Heaven Hub One, commander. Command is lowering the blast shields in the species wings.”
Esther’s gaze swung forward to the commander. “Let the Ceratopian fire first,” he said. “Then counter with the heavy weapons. Once he’s down, converge on the human target.”
Another flash occurred—Esther’s gaze returned to her own. There was a momentary swell of nausea, but it quickly subsided. Blinking, she looked back at Ju`bajai. The Ithini’s eyes were focused.
Realization striking, Esther spun to address Centurion. “Lower your chin! Protect your neck. Fall back as soon as you fire.” Grunting, Centurion nodded once. Pistol aimed forward, Esther spoke to Ju`bajai. “Nice work, girl. There’s hope for you yet.”
MEANWHILE, SCOTT, Jayden, and the numerically-defined slayers—One, Two, Three, and Four—were making a gun-blazing charge into the garage, where the elevators awaited to take them into the Anthill. Behind his faceless helmet, Scott scrutinized the battlefield with a vigor he hadn’t felt since Chernobyl. Like their charge of a necrilid nest, Esther’s rescue was storming a lion’s den. But there was a distinct and terrible difference between then and now: this enemy wasn’t a nest of necrilids.
With every shot Scott and his cohorts were about to fire, other human beings would be in the crosshairs. These weren’t nameless Bakmas or soulless canrassis. They were David Jurgens. Becan McCraes. Svetlana Voronovas. They were his own. Sliding into the garage elevator, Scott punched the down button as soon as the last slayer was inside.
How can I do this? In the momentary lull of the descent, the thoughts surged through Scott’s head. How can I kill men and women who are doing their jobs? These aren’t enemies in my sights. The enemy is us.
In the flurry of weapon reloading and armor-checking, there was no time to try and fill the shoes of God. Scott had never asked to be placed in this predicament. All he could do was react—and in the seconds before the elevator hit bottom, pray.
Guide my weapon. Direct my senses. Forgive me if I kill any of Yours.
On numerous levels, it was the worst prayer he’d ever prayed. But just like that, the elevator door opened. “Three, Four, cover the rear. One, Two, shadow and suppress. Jayden, linger behind and crack shot.” Jayden and the slayers affirmed. Rifles raised, they charged from the elevator. Saturated scientists, staffers, and various civilian contractors screamed and dove for cover. Then came the guards. As the bystanders ducked, EDEN’s defense forces met Scott and the Nightmen. Bullets ricocheted off Scott’s armor as he slid behind a post. Keeping formation was impossible, as the “Numbers,” as Scott had dubbed the slayers, split apart behind him. It was a frenzy; instinct kicked in. He fired. A guard fell. He ducked and fired again. Another guard down. The Numbers were equally superior. Cairo’s security forces were dropping like flies.
“Boris, status report!” he yelled over the gunfire. All around, wet chips of ivory and plaster peppered the columns. The sprinklers were still in full-blast above them. Everything was soaked.
The technician crackled through. “Still working, captain!”
“Work faster! Esther, come in.”
THE TRAM’S BRAKES kicked in; the hub came into view. As Esther’s sights came upon the dozen or so EDEN guards, she pulled the trigger, pegging the first guard she saw square in his visor. Blood erupted as he toppled backward. In the next instant, Centurion fired.
Esther didn’t even wait to see if his shot connected. “Back, back, back!” the scout yelled, diving away from the tram’s front. Centurion followed, his lumbering gait taking him across the tram in three steps. Behind them, the heavy weapons hit. The front of the tram was torn apart in a fiery array of .50 caliber machinegun ammo and explosive weaponry.
Lowering his shoulder, Centurion maintained his momentum, ramming headfirst into the back of the tram. Esther and Ju`bajai watched as the whole foundation of the tram trembled. The Ceratopian’s mind surged with a command.
Distance!
No second word from Centurion was necessary. The two females dashed for side cover in the tram as Centurion stepped back, aimed his neutron rifle, and fired a series of neon rays into the rear of the tram. The vessel was rocked, lurching clean off its track. Then, in the final blast, the entire rear wall burst. Clearing the debris with solid charge, Centurion emerged outside of the tram, on the track itself.
Esther and Ju`bajai were already behind him. Scrambling out of the tram, they emerged in the Ceratopian’s wake. EDEN guards were still firing at their rear, but with an inflamed tram sitting dislodged between them and their targets, no straight shots were visible, let alone clean. Anyone who followed them would have to climb through the rubble.
His back to Esther and Ju`bajai, Centurion dropped to a knee. Mount, he transmitted. The two females grabbed hold of his back armor, scaling quickly to his shoulder—Esther considerably more nimbly. As soon as both were secure, Centurion rose to his feet, a stomach-swelling act in and of itself considering the titan’s height. In the next second, his treetrunk-sized legs churned forward. The beast was in motion.
As Esther held on for her life, wide eyed with wind whipping past her, she spared a quick look to Ju`bajai. The Ithini’s oval lenses were as wide as Esther had ever seen an alien’s. Leaning her head closer, Esther yelled, “Are you all right?”
Looking at Esther, Ju`bajai stared with a look of complete captivation. The phrase was then transmitted: My bowels require alleviation.
Smirking, Esther looked back ahead. “Welcome to the Fourteenth.”
Scott’s voice emerged through her comm. “Esther, come in!”
She quickly answered, “Here, Scott. We’re on our way somewhere. Veck, Boris, where the hell were you sending us?”
“I was sending you to one of the junction hubs,” the technician answered, “but that is too far now! You should just go to the nearest hub in the direction you were heading, if you can reach it; that is the main hub to the Anthill.”
ESTHER’S VOICE crackled over Scott’s comm. “You hearing that, Scott?
Scott and the Numbers were entrenched in a firefight barely fifty meters from where they’d reentered the Anthill’s underground. They were being hit by sheer masses. Even with Cairo’s primary focus being on Confinement, there were more than enough bodies to completely outnumber Scott’s crew. More and more standard EDEN operatives began to appear in the mix, a clear sign that Cairo Command had called in reinforcements in the form of unit operatives. With every EDEN operative Scott felled, the wrench in his gut worsened.
“I heard it,” Scott answered Esther. “Where do we need to go?”
“Can you track my comm?”
Ducking back again, Scott narrowly avoided a bullet to the faceplate. He leaned around a corner and fired. “You make it sound so simple.”
“Follow my signal. We’ll soon be leaving Xenobiology. We’ll rendezvous in the halls.”
Leaving Xenobiology? How did they get that far out? “You have enough manpower for that?”
The scout cackled a single time. “You have no idea.” After a moment’s pause, her voice grew solemn. “Scott, what about Auric?”
Scott didn’t know how to answer her. He was born and bred a “no man left behind” person. Auric was one of his own. Yet there he was, in no position to go after his comrade without jeopardizing everything. At what point did honor need to take a backseat to the big picture?
At this one.
“We can’t get him, Ess,” Scott said. “We’ve got to extract the target.” This was a mission to uncover a conspiracy in EDEN Command—the global organization sworn to protect Earth from extraterrestrials. Auric hadn’t commed Scott for the purpose of having Scott rescue him. He commed Scott to tell him to go on without him. That was what Scott had to do. On top of that, Auric’s comm signal had completely disappeared. That meant someone had deactivated it. Someone had him in custody. There was no getting the German back.
Briefly, Jayden made eye contact with Scott. The Texan said nothing, though he offered a grim look of understanding. Scott could only shake his head. Switching to his comm, he queued up Rashid. “What’s it looking like on the surface?”
Rashid answered quickly. “We have defended the vessel and await your arrival. No additional forces have met us on the surface.”
That’s because they’re all focused down here. “Sit tight. We’ll be up there in a few.”
“We still have the woman, captain. If need be, she can serve as leverage.”
Great. “Copy that,” said Scott, cutting off the channel. A second later, Boris’s voice emerged.
“I have taken back control, captain! Reopening the blast shields in Confinement.”
“Atta boy, Boris. Hold onto it this time.”
IT TOOK MORE than a few minutes of Centurion’s striding, but he, Esther, and Ju`bajai indeed came upon the hub leading out of Xenobiology. Just like the hubs behind it, it was crawling with guards. As soon as the three came into view, fire was opened on them.
Edging against the wall and lowering, Centurion allowed Esther and Ju`bajai to dismount. As soon as they were off him, he raised his neutron rifle to fire at EDEN. As his shots impacted, operatives flew in every direction.
Esther spun to Ju`bajai. “Do one of those tricks again! Give me something to work with.” The Ithini said nothing—she only pointed past Esther back at Centurion. Turning back to the Ceratopian bodyguard, Esther’s eyes widened.
He was charging the hub.
“No!” Esther shouted, sprinting behind him. “You’re not going to—”
She never had a chance to say make it, but not for the reason she’d suspected. As she caught up with Centurion and the hub came into view, she witnessed what could only have been perceived as total annihilation—the definition of a one-“man” army. As Centurion drew closer, his shots grew more devastating. As EDEN guards panicked, they fell back and lost accuracy. Before ten seconds worth of time, Centurion was leaping straight up from the tram track into their midst.
Bodies flew everywhere, some swatted, some hurled. When spread out, Centurion’s arms covered a fourth of the hub. Between his constantlyswinging free hand and the hand firing neutron rays, there was nowhere for EDEN to go. Some took to the tram track for cover; Esther gunned them down with what little ammo she had left. Sprinting for the hub, she climbed quickly off the track to witness the scene.
It was carnage. Broken bodies were strewn everywhere. Nothing moved, besides the beast in the center of the room. Centurion was covered in blood, and by the looks of it, had endured more than a few shots to the exposed parts of his armor. The Ceratopian’s chin was dipped down, shielding his neckline completely.
Stepping under the sprinklers again, Esther wiped back her hair and beheld Centurion with awestruck eyes. Grunting painfully, Centurion limped Esther’s way. She quickly rushed to him. “You’re hurt! That was stupid, Centurion, stupid!” Wiping the water from her eyes, she inspected the wounds. They were numerous. Genuine concern struck Esther’s face. “Why did you do that? You could have been killed.”
Growling determinedly, Centurion pointed at her. Safe.
Esther slicked back her hair with both hands, resting them at the back of her neck. “Centurion, don’t worry about me. Worry about you. You’re the one who’s important. If I die, I die.”
Unacceptable.
Approaching from behind, water streaming down her pale oval head, Ju`bajai watched the scene.
“Can you walk?” Esther asked. “God, you’re riddled with bullets.” She watched as Centurion grunted and strode for the door. He was moving, albeit much more slowly. “All right, beast. Let’s keep moving, but no more charging. That’s an order.” Bending down, she claimed a guard’s handgun with a full magazine. “Now let’s—”
Her words were cut off as her vision flashed again. Ju`bajai. In the next instant, Esther was taken outside in the hallway, once again looking through the eyes of someone there. But this time, the someone was alone. The connection was brief; Esther could sense strength in the target’s mind. Ju`bajai was forced out only seconds after going in. Esther’s eyes were once again her own.
Motioning quickly, she beckoned Centurion away from the exit door. “Get to the side!” The alien complied. Dashing to the door herself, Esther readied her weapon and eased her head around the corner, staring intensely through water drops. She didn’t know if it was due to Ju`bajai or her own intuition, but she already knew who was waiting for her ahead. Logan Marshall.
The path out of Xenobiology was clear. The Anthill was ahead. But Logan was hiding. Flicking her head to sling her hair from her face, Esther shouted, “What’d you do with Auric?”
Sure enough, Logan answered. “You’re about to find out, miss.”
“Don’t make a mistake!”
“You guys always say that.” Moving from around the corner, Logan stepped into the open, assault rifle ready.
Esther realized in that instant that she couldn’t step out to match him. Logan was fully armed with unobstructed vision. Esther was in a maxi dress, battling sprinklers on her face. If she stepped out to fire, she’d be done for.
Logan wasn’t moving closer. He was standing stationary in the hall—forcing her hand. The Australian was well aware of his advantageous situation. “Come out and we’ll talk.”
“Sure,” she said back. “You have my wholehearted trust!”
“Trust obviously means a lot to you.”
She scowled. “Touché.” Getting on her comm quickly, she whispered, “I’m boxed in, Scott. It’s Marshall. He’s got position on me.”
ON THE OTHER side of the channel, Scott held his progress. He, Jayden, and the Numbers were closer to Esther’s position, but not close enough to help right at that moment. Logan was smart and skilled. He’d captured Auric. Esther had good reason to be concerned.
But there was one card Scott had—one he hated the thought of playing. One that Logan would never see coming. Adjusting his comm to include Logan, he said, “Marshall, this is Remington.”
AROUND THE CORNER where she was pinned, Esther saw Logan subtly move to open his comm. All the while, his assault rifle never wavered. “Good timing, mate. I’m about to be two-for-two.”
“We have Natalie,” Scott said.
Logan tensed. Even from her limited viewpoint, Esther could see it.
Scott’s voice came again. “Let Brooking and her company go.”
Taking advantage of the moment, Esther whirled around the corner, raising her handgun to aim straight at Logan. Logan’s assault rifle found her. But neither fired—a standoff occurred.
“You don’t have Natalie,” Logan said, his voice less than confident.
“Faraj,” Scott said, “put her on.”
Several seconds later, Natalie’s voice came over the comm. She was breathing exhaustedly. “I’m here, Lo.”
The moment her voice came through, Logan’s shoulders sunk. His dauntless posture was gone.
That was all they heard of Natalie. The next one to speak again was Scott. “Let Brooking go, Marshall.”
Logan was breathing intensely, water pouring down the face of his visor. For several seconds, he did nothing, his stalemate with Esther ongoing. Then slowly, defeatedly, he lowered his weapon.
“Drop it,” Esther said, motioning to the ground. Logan did as told. “Kick it to me.” The Australian complied. Bending down, Esther claimed his assault rifle.
As if preempting an inevitable request, Logan dropped to his knees. “If your boy so much as touches her—”
“Where’s Auric?” she asked. When Logan bit his lip, she took a step closer. “Where is Auric?”
Logan looked away disgustedly. “He’s in a maintenance closet. Tied to a pipe. Fourth hallway from here on your way out.”
Nodding, Esther said, “Good boy.” Stepping to him, she motioned for Centurion and Ju`bajai to follow her. As soon as Logan saw them, he laughed pathetically. Eyeing him, Esther said, “One day you’ll understand. It just won’t be today.”
“Let Natalie go.” He looked her straight in the eyes.
Esther looked nervously from Logan to the two extraterrestrials. She then settled on him again. “We’ll do what we can.”
Quietly, Logan’s jaw set. Esther, Centurion, and Ju`bajai disappeared down the halls.
MOVING STEADILY forward, Scott, Jayden, and the Numbers were leaving a trail of bodies behind them. Scott had given up counting how many EDEN operatives he’d gunned down once he’d reached sixteen. Between he and his cohorts, they’d felled at least fifty. Their strike team wasn’t without casualty, as Three had been struck fatally several halls back. Slayer “Two” had fallen back to his position, leaving Scott and One leading the charge as Jayden covered them from a distance.
Still, Scott tracked forward, pushing sopping scientists and workers out of his way as he weaved toward Esther’s comm signal. All of a sudden, far ahead of them, a succession of guards flew out of a side hallway amid the familiar neon flash of neutron fire. A cluster of frantic EDEN operatives backtracked behind them—neutron followed.
Dropping to a knee, Scott raised his E-35. The remaining Numbers followed suit, and between them and the neutron rays, the guards and operatives were taken down quickly. Rising, Scott moved in on the intersection. “Esther, is your Ceratopian armed?” he asked over the channel.
“Yes.”
“Then we’re right around the corner. Hold your fire.” An armed Ceratopian. How did you pull that off? Turning the corner of the intersection, Scott found himself drawing to a wideeyed halt. Hands falling, he and the Numbers stared in awe.
Centurion was huge. Lumbering into the intersection, the massive armored lizard turned his horned head Scott’s way. Even at a distance, Scott could see the alien’s eyes widen as they caught sight of Scott. It recognized him.
Bullets tattered Centurion’s armor from behind. Turning around and propping his neutron rifle on his left forearm, the Ceratopian sent several zaps soaring down the hall. The EDEN fire stopped.
Esther emerged moments later. Drenched from head to toe, she bolted for Scott the moment she saw him, crashing into him with an embrace that lasted all of one second before wiping her hair back and looking at him. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” Eyes focusing past Scott, she blinked when she saw Jayden. “Jay! What are you doing here?” The Texan was already running to her. “I told you to go back!”
“He listened,” Scott said. “Then he came back in with me.”
Her expression endearing, Esther looked Jayden’s way. Then her brow arched. “Wait!” Backing up, she faced the way she and her aliens had come. “One, two, three…” She stopped at a closet several meters away. “This is four!”
“Four?” asked Scott. “Four what?”
Bolting for the closet, Esther whipped it open while Centurion and the Numbers held off the few EDEN guards that dared show themselves. As soon as Scott saw who was inside, he hurried to the closet. Auric! The groggy slayer’s hands were tied behind his back, wrapped around a coolant pipe that ran from the floor to the ceiling.
Agitated, Esther fought with the knot Logan had tied. “What the hell kind of knot is this?” Pulling out her pistol, she placed the barrel between Auric’s hands. A single shot later and the rope was broken. Auric wrenched his hands free.
“Are you okay? Can you walk?” Scott asked. The German shook his head dizzily, then nodded. “Get up. We’ve got to go.” Pulling Auric to his feet, the team of escapees fled down the hall.
The trek back to the surface was anything but clean. Even with Cairo’s primary focus back on Confinement, a solid concentration of their defense force was trailing Scott and his escapees. Scott had been blocking out the fact that he was killing human beings for the sake of the task at hand, but his stomach was gradually reminding him of the fact.
Perhaps it was fatigue, or perhaps Cairo was regaining its footing, but the crop of guards and operatives that were converging on them were getting decidedly more apt. Skidding around corners and firing behind them over their shoulders, every member of the escape team sans Ju`bajai was firing relentlessly. Not even that was enough to save them all. Another one of the Numbers—Two—had taken a clean shot to the neck from either a sniper or an extremely lucky operative. The slayer was killed instantly, leaving Scott with only One and Four remaining of his backup. Others, while not shot fatally, had taken more than their fair share of close calls, grazes, or non-fatal wounds. Even Scott had been clipped, his armor being pierced several times along his thigh and shoulder. No pain was associated with any of the injuries—adrenaline was in full swing. Auric, One, Four, and Centurion had taken the brunt of the beating, being positioned between the pursuers and the unarmored Esther, Jayden, and Ju`bajai. Bloodied and battered, they still moved.
Then the shot Scott had been dreading took place. He didn’t see where it had come from or who had released it. He only saw Centurion stutter-step awkwardly, a mist of red puffing from the side of the Ceratopian’s neck. In the next second, the colossal alien lost his footing and toppled backward.
Scott slid to a halt. “Cover him! Cover him!” This was the crux of their operation—the whole reason they were there. Attempting to stagger to his feet, the fallen bodyguard was suddenly the focus of all EDEN firepower. “Veck, cover him now!”
Leaping in front of Centurion, Scott raised his assault rifle and opened fire. Auric, One, and Four joined him on the front line while Jayden and Esther fired from behind them. Moments later, Four threw down his assault rifle and pulled out his sidearm. He was out of E-35 ammo. The rest of them weren’t far behind.
Scott’s mind raced. We’re one turn from the elevator. Just one turn! Going to his comm, he queued up Rashid. “We need immediate assistance! The package is down, I repeat, the package is down!”
“On our way!” the fulcrum answered.
A shot struck Esther in the shoulder. The scout cried and fell back. Jayden pulled her behind cover.
This was it. This was their mission. Sparing Centurion a glance, Scott watched as the alien struggled to scramble away. Every motion Centurion made was strained. Scott fired on.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
Rat-tat-tat-click-click-click-click-click!
He was out of ammunition. “Sidearm, sidearm!” Jayden tossed Scott Esther’s handgun. Scott snatched it and fired. “Boris, do something. Do anything!”
The technician was frantic. “What can I do?”
“I don’t care what you do, just do it now!” It was a panicked response. There were no blast doors anywhere. Scott knew there was nothing Boris could accomplish to help them. “Faraj, hurry it up!”
“On our way, captain!”
Surging to his feet, Centurion staggered in adrenaline-filled lunges. The discombobulated alien beaded for the corner. Then, in a fall as long and thundering as a toppling oak, the Ceratopian collapsed forward. The ivory floor shook beneath their feet.
Veck! Veck! Veck! Veck! “Pull him to cover!” Scott fired on as One and Four withdrew. Grabbing the massive alien, they strained to pull him to the corner. He barely budged.
A new awareness struck Scott—a connection. It was Ju`bajai. The next statement his mind registered made his face pale.
The Ceratopian is dying.
“No,” Scott said, his voice breaking. “No!” This was their everything—their evidence, their purpose, the thing they’d gone to Cairo for, that they’d killed for. This was Svetlana’s life. One turn away—they were one turn away!
Behind them, Rashid and the lone slayer who’d stayed with him on the surface emerged. Both men joined the defense.
On comm, Esther addressed Scott. Her voice was cracking. “Scott, Centurion’s not moving.”
“I know, Ess!”
A shot struck the slayer with Rashid. He stumbled backward then fell. A kill-shot. Moments later, Auric’s knee was taken out. The German screamed and collapsed.
Gunfire was peppering them. One by one, they were falling. And Scott had nothing. “God, save us.” It was all he could pray. “God, please save us.”
Centurion’s hand lurched upward—the giant’s palm pressed against the floor. Releasing a low, rumbling growl, he slowly pushed up.
Eyes widening, Scott said, “Get up. Get up, you tank, get up!”
As One returned to Scott’s side to fight, Four remained behind to aid the Ceratopian. Blood spurted from Centurion’s mouth in sporadic coughs. But the alien rose.
Scott got on the comm. “Pilot, fire up that transport and back it up to the elevator, fast!”
Centurion hobbled forward with Four’s assistance. Esther, out of the fight but not wholly incapacitated, propped Auric on her good shoulder. The rest of them—Scott, Rashid, Jayden, and One—were rapidly emptying their ammunition. Slowly, the group backed to the last turn.
The pilot didn’t affirm. Why didn’t he affirm? Scott queued him up again. “Pilot! Are you getting this?” Nothing. “Boris?”
Finally, there was a crackle of reception. When Boris spoke, his voice was stoic and low. “Our pilot is dead.”
Scott and Rashid looked at each other. “Why is our pilot dead, Boris?”
The reply Scott received was through Boris’s signal—but the voice wasn’t Boris’s. It was Natalie’s. “Because I took his gun, and I killed him.”
“Are you kidding me?” Scott asked off-comm, shooting a glare to Rashid. “Who was watching her?”
The Turkish fulcrum cursed over the gunfire. “That would be the pilot.”
“How did a single woman disarm a Nightman pilot?”
“Because he’s a pilot,” snarled Rashid.
Moving back around the corner, Scott checked the progress of Centurion and the injured. The Ceratopian was limping into the elevator. Auric was being helped right behind him. Everyone else was ready to go. “Natalie,” Scott said as he engaged the elevator upward, “we’re on our way to you. Don’t shoot us.” He got no response. “Are you copying this?” Still nothing. “Veck,” he said under his breath. As much as Scott was frustrated at Rashid for leaving a pilot in charge, he knew the fulcrum wasn’t solely to blame. Scott had ordered immediate backup for Centurion’s extraction. The pilot and Boris were the only two left to watch Natalie while they were gone. That she’d disarmed a Nightman, pilot or not, was a testament to the level at which they’d underestimated her.
“How’s he holding up?” Scott asked, looking at Centurion. The Ceratopian was wheezing painfully. By the look of it, the shot to his neck had been solid. That Centurion was still kicking was a testament to the strength of both the species and the specimen. He had bullet wounds at virtually every unarmored point.
No one answered Scott’s question. No one knew.
The moment the elevator door opened, Four assisted Centurion outside. Far ahead, their Vulture transport awaited. Boris was clearly visible standing atop its open ramp—the form of Natalie was right behind him. She had a gun to his neck.
I thought a critically-injured Ceratopian was worst-case scenario. I was wrong.
Behind him, whispering in his comm from a hidden corner of the elevator, Jayden asked, “Sir, do you want me to hang back?”
Hang back? Why would I want you to…
…hang back…
Scott’s realization of what Jayden was asking was both sudden and awful. Jayden was offering to hang back to take a shot. Nothing about the way the Texan had asked the question was eager. It was asked out of necessity. If the situation became critical, was killing Natalie Rockwell actually on the table?
“Hang back, Jay, but not in the elevator. I don’t want it going down on you.”
Yes. On the table, it was.
Slinking to a dark corner to the side of the elevator, Jayden crouched and raised his rifle.
“Please stand down, Nat,” Scott whispered to himself. “Please.”
As they approached the Vulture, Natalie pressed her sidearm to Boris’s head. “No closer,” she said over the comm.
Lifting his hand, Scott signaled his team to stop. Natalie had already killed the pilot. He knew she wasn’t bluffing. “Let’s talk, Nat.” Even at their moderate distance, Scott could see her glare of revulsion.
“Who are you and why are you here?” she asked pointedly.
“I don’t have time to explain everything,” he said, holding a palm out. “But I can tell you this: we came to extract this Ceratopian with the purpose of uncovering a conspiracy in EDEN Command. My team was sent here to locate and take back the target.” Not two minutes ago, EDEN guards had been trailing them close from behind. At any second, that elevator would go back down.
As if on cue, the elevator doors closed.
Scat. I should have broken the panel.
Natalie was unwavering. “You’re a Nightman.” Scott wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. “Did Thoor send you here?”
“Yes. Yes, he did.” Forget minutes. Their time left could be measured in seconds. “Natalie, we need to get on that transport.”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Quietly through the comm, Jayden said, “Sir, she’s completely behind Boris. All I’ve got is her head.”
Inside his fulcrum’s helmet, Scott was sweating. Reaching up, he unclamped it and took it off. He wanted Natalie to see his face. “Please. I am begging you. We need to get on that transport.” Don’t make me kill her. Please, God, don’t make me kill her.
Jayden’s voice was shaking. “I don’t want to take it, but I can take it.”
Scott’s eyes were brimming. “Natalie, please, for God’s sake, please move.” The elevator would be down by now. And loading with operatives to come up.
“Come in, Lo,” Natalie said in her comm. The Australian affirmed.
God, forgive me. Please, God, forgive me. “Take the shot, Jay,” Scott whispered. “Take it, now.” Closing his eyes, Scott braced. He couldn’t watch this.
Jayden’s breathing grew extreme.
Through streaming tears, Scott said, “Take it, take it, take it, take it.”
“I’m takin’ it.”
Scott looked down. “Oh my God.”
Suddenly, Natalie gagged. But no shot accompanied it. Eyes flying open, Scott looked up at the transport.
Natalie dropped her weapon—not to her side, but to the ground. Mouth open in agony, she buckled over and grabbed her head. Shrieks burst forth.
What in the world? As Scott and the escapees froze, an urge struck him in his mind. He sensed that he needed to run to the ship. Now.
Ju`bajai.
“Stand down, Jay!” he hollered. The Texan already had; he was running full-speed to Scott. “Everyone, go, go, go!” Scott and the escapees, Jayden included, bolted for the transport. “Boris, what’s your plan?” He was the closest thing they had to a pilot. Leaping over the dead body of said pilot, Boris dove into the cockpit.
Scott’s gaze swiveled until he saw Natalie. She was right there in the middle of them, still clutching her head. “Let her go!” Scott instructed the Ithini. “Whatever you were doing, stop! Someone get her off the—” His request was interrupted as bullets ricocheted around the rear door. EDEN had caught up with them. Scott, Rashid, One, and Four dove to block Centurion from the volleys. Behind them, the gargantuan Ceratopian crouched as best he could; his frame blocked almost the whole bay. Natalie was pinned inside. “Wait—stop!” he yelled in a last-ditch effort to maneuver her out. But it was too late. Rashid’s palm slammed against the bay door button. As bullets dinged all around them, the door slowly rose.
Esther spun to Natalie, who was being pushed aside frantically by the close-quarters chaos. “Scott, she can’t come with us!”
“You think I don’t know that?” The Vulture’s hull popped with bullet fire. “Lower the…” The door? What kind of order would that be? Put themselves in the line of fire again? They’d just made it to the Vulture. Sticking with his original plan, Boris was engaging the autopilot. They were escaping.
In the midst of the calamity, Scott looked at Natalie. Her hair was mussed in every direction. Panic was flashing in her eyes. She looked totally lost. Yet even seeing that, Scott knew what would happen if they threw her from the ship. Not only would they be exposing themselves to more casualty or death, but EDEN would likely gun her down from afar. In the heat of a firefight, how were they to know she wasn’t one of them? And just like that, his decision was made. “Up! Up! Let’s go!” They’d just taken a hostage.
The Vulture’s engines kicked in—it lifted from the ground, its navigational computer piloting with perfect precision. Scott didn’t even know where they were going. “I hope to hell you have a plan, Boris!”
The technician’s hands were fast on his kit. “You cannot pursue when you cannot see.” A button was pressed, and the entire outer grounds of Cairo were plunged into blackness. The hangar, the airstrip, everything. Cairo went dark.
Cairo Command was screaming. “21-79 Alpha, cease takeoff immediately!”
“Checkmate, good bye,” Boris replied through the comm. He clicked the channel closed.
From her cramped side of the troop bay, Natalie lifted her comm. “Logan!”
The Australian’s voice crackled through. “Natty! Where you are?”
“I’m on board their—”
Esther snatched the comm from Natalie’s grasp with her good arm. She slammed it to the floor and aimed her pistol at Natalie’s head. “Bad Venus.”
“Restrain her,” Scott said, pointing at Natalie before looking back at Boris. “You mean to tell me if they don’t have lights, they can’t take off?”
“Of course they can,” Boris answered. “But it will give us a little bit of lead time. But probably, they will just call other bases to come after us.”
Scott was floored. “That’s our whole plan of escape?”
Throwing up his hands, Boris answered, “Get the tram, turn off the sprinklers, fly the ship! I do what I can!”
“Where is this thing taking us?”
“East. I do not even know.”
Scott’s mind raced. They couldn’t stay in the air for too long or they’d get blown out of the sky. But if they landed, they’d get assaulted on the ground. Hiding in a city wasn’t an option—they had a Ceratopian. If only they could get out of the ship without EDEN realizing it. At that instant, the idea came. “What’s the closest body of water to where we are?”
Boris looked at his map. “The Suez Canal.”
“Set the autopilot to take us right over it. Go low and set it to slow down and make a directional turn following the water. Program a lot of turns.”
“Umm, okay. Why?”
“Because we’re about to pull another Luxor.”
BACK ON THE ground, Logan Marshall was running full-speed into the blacked-out hangar. He snagged the first EDEN guard he saw. “The ship that just took off from here, where’s it going?”
“What? Who are you? We are busy here!”
“Lieutenant Logan Marshall of the Caracals. We need to go after it!”
“We have ten thousand things we need to do right now!”
Grabbing the guard by the collar, Logan slammed him against a forklift. “Listen to me! Captain Natalie Rockwell is on board that ship, she’s been taken as a hostage. Now shut up and get me in the vecking air!”
ADJUSTING HIS COMM, Scott ran into the troop bay and queued up the Fourteenth. “Scott to Travis.”
Seconds later, the pilot replied. “Travis here, sir. We’re leaving Novosibirsk airspace now.”
“Listen, here’s what we’re going to do. Boris is going to take us low and slow over the Suez Canal, then program the transport to fly eastward. He’s inputting course corrections and zigzags so that it looks like a human’s behind the controls.” Technically, a human wasn’t even behind the controls now. “All of us, Boris included, are going to ditch by the shore.” They couldn’t ditch too deeply; Scott didn’t know if Ceratopians could swim. On top of that, Centurion was severely injured. “We’re going to swim to shore and find a place to hide.”
“We’ll just come get you.”
“No, that would be bad! If you come anywhere near here, EDEN will track you. Stay away until we figure something out.”
Travis interrupted. “No one can track the Pariah now, sir. She’s just metal with an engine.”
“Travis, I—wait, did you say the Pariah?”
“Long story, sir! I’ll be happy to tell you about it later.”
And Scott was eager to hear. “You know what you’re doing, Trav. Did everyone make it out okay over there?”
There was a hesitation. “Not everyone, sir. No.”
As Travis’s paused came, Scott locked eyes with the rest of his crew. Esther’s mocha skin paled.
“Derrick is dead,” the pilot said.
The moment Scott heard Derrick’s name, a part of him deflated. Derrick… William had now lost two of his closest friends in him and Joe Janson. The demolitionist would be crushed.
Travis spoke again. “He’s not the only one, sir.”
Becan took over the channel from the Pariah’s end. “Max is messed up, Remmy. He couldn’t make it to the ship. Tanneken stayed back with him. Tha’s all we know.”
“He’s alive?”
“He was last we heard, but…it didn’t sound good.”
Worse and worse. Max was one of his closest friends. He suddenly felt sick. “Did everyone else make it?”
The Irishman sighed. “There’s no way to say it, so I’m jus’ goin’ to say it. We lost Sveta.”
Scott’s sickness was gone. It was replaced by pure shock. “What?”
“We don’t know where she is. She was with Max, they were goin’ to leave with Tanneken’s unit. Tanneken found Max injured, but Sveta was gone.”
Esther covered her mouth with a fist. Her brown eyes settled uncomfortably on Scott.
Scott’s face turned crimson. “Turn around, get back to The Machine, and go find her.”
“Remmy, it’s not tha’ easy.”
Nothing was ever easy. They’d just broken a Ceratopian out of Cairo. “Listen carefully, McCrae. Turn that ship around, go back to Novosibirsk, and locate Svetlana.”
“Scott,” said David, jumping on the channel, “Yuri, Egor, and Varvara stayed behind to find Sveta. If the rest of us hadn’t left, none of us would be leaving.”
Inside, Scott was fuming. But he was as guilty as any of the Novosibirsk crew. He’d been willing to leave Auric behind for the sake of the mission. Now the shoe was on someone else’s foot. Grinding his teeth, Scott slammed his boot against the cabin wall with all of his might. Svetlana. He’d gone on this mission to save her. Because he loved her. And now she was gone.
“He’s gonna find her, Scott,” David said. “You know that.”
Jaw set, Scott said, “No, he won’t. I will.” With that, he closed the channel from his end. There was no doubt in his mind who had taken Svetlana. General Thoor. She’d been Thoor’s leverage against Scott from the onset of the Cairo operation—and Thoor wasn’t about to let that leverage slip away. If Scott had been Thoor, that’s what he’d have done, too.
Very gently, Esther touched his arm.
“Captain!” said Boris. “I have multiple ships leaving from Cairo! Fighters and transports!”
“Time to the Suez?” Scott’s voice wasn’t raised or emotional. It was low. Controlled.
Boris checked the nav computer. “Three minutes.”
“Cut it to two.”
Blowing out a breath, Boris went back to work.
 *
NOVOSIBIRSK
NOVOSIBIRSK WAS GETTING pummeled. EDEN now had full control of the outer grounds and main building. The push for control of the entire facility was in full swing, as the bodies of Nightmen who’d been overwhelmed were strewn across the airstrip. With The Machine’s defenses failing, EDEN’s forces set their sights on the Citadel.
In the midst of the pandemonium were Dostoevsky, Egor, and Varvara. Having escaped the flood of EDEN soldiers on the grounds, they were now sprinting full speed toward the Citadel themselves.
Dostoevsky knew that if Svetlana had been captured, the Nightmen were behind it. The dungeon of Fort Zhukov was the only natural place for them to have taken her. With EDEN soldiers—Vector Squad included—roaming the surface level and facility buildings, searching those areas for Svetlana wasn’t an option. He would have been gunned down on sight like all the other Nightmen. That would do Svetlana no good at all.
“Yuri!”
Stopping mid-stride, Dostoevsky looked toward the sound of his name. It was Antipov. The leader of the eidola was trotting his direction, assault rifle at the ready. “Iosif,” Dostoevsky addressed him, “I am looking for Voronova. Do you know where she is?”
Nodding briefly in acknowledgment of Egor’s presence, the gritty Antipov turned to Dostoevsky. “The general sent Strakhov to get her. She is being taken to Chernobyl.”
“Strakhov?” Dostoevsky’s faced flushed furiously. “Do you know what he would do with her? Do you know the things he has already done?”
“I know exactly what he would do. He would take her to Chernobyl safely. That is what has been ordered of him.” Antipov glared. “You know how I feel about Strakhov.”
Dostoevsky growled loudly. “It was not a good idea to send him after her, regardless of his orders! I must find him.”
“Chernobyl,” Antipov said. “Even now, the migration begins. Go there, find the rest of our brothers. You will find the woman as well.”
“What will you do?”
The eidolon held up his rifle. “I will join the ranks of EDEN here. When the time comes, we will take back what we have lost. Novosibirsk will always be our Machine.” He pointed behind him down the hall. “Go. There is time to leave this place, but do not move slowly. You will be killed on sight here.” He looked at Varvara. “Who is this?”
“Varvara Yudina,” Dostoevsky said, looking at the blond medic. Varvara looked terrified. “She is coming with me.”
Staring at Varvara warily, Antipov exhaled. “As you wish. Now go. You will find Voronova at Chernobyl. Speed be with you.” Nightman salutes were exchanged, and Antipov left them.
“Do you trust him?” Varvara asked.
“Iosif? He is the leader of the eidola. He speaks honey but has the bite of a snake. But he has no reason to lie to me now.” He looked down the hall. “If Sveta is being taken to Chernobyl, then we too must go there.”
Swallowing hard, Varvara said, “Perhaps you should comm Oleg. To make sure he has her.”
“You heard about Max. That means Oleg has her. It is better for us to surprise him at Chernobyl. If he knows we are after her, he will harm her to spite us.”
“I will tell the others.” She reached for her comm.
“No,” Dostoevsky warned. “Leave the comm channel clear. I do not even want the possibility of anything being intercepted.” Varvara did as told.
Gripping his assault rifle tighter, Dostoevsky listened to the approaching sounds of EDEN—gunfire, shouting, and death. They were breaching the Citadel. Soon they’d control all of Novosibirsk.
It was time for them to leave.
FLANKED BY AN escort of four sentries, Ignatius van Thoor weaved through the dank stone corridors that led to The Machine’s secret underground hangar. Marusich was at his side, receiving updates from the various sections of Nightmen that were still standing. Not terribly far behind them, the sound of chaos rifles reverberated. Vector Squad was on their heels.
“Is Saretok prepared to receive us?” Thoor asked through quickened breaths. Just ahead of them, the opening to the spacious hangar cavern appeared.
“Yes, general,” answered Marusich, “Chernobyl is ready.”
Their pace quickened; the hangar was before them. As they emerged from the stone corridor into the underground room, all six of them picked up their pace. The Noboat sat perched before them, powered up and ready for flight. Escape was imminent.
Suddenly, Marusich skidded to a halt. The fulcrum pointed toward one of the hangar’s control booths. “General!” Thoor’s eyes followed, where they found a cluster of bodies sprawled on the ground. Technicians. One of them was ripped completely in half.
“What is this?” Thoor asked, mouth hanging in a stupor. His attention averted as a sentry stepped out of the Noboat’s side door. “You! What has happened here?”
The sentry flinched as Thoor shouted. In the next second, the unknown Nightman raised his assault rifle and opened fire. Bullets zinged past Thoor as he ducked down; his own sentries moved in to shield him. Marusich returned fire. In the seconds that followed, the sentry by the Noboat was joined by a pair of reinforcements.
They were Bakma.
Motioning into the Noboat, Tauthin shouted through his mechanized sentry helmet. “Into the Zone Runner! Prepare for dimensional shift!” The two Bakma at his side, Ka’vesh and Uguul, withdrew back into the vessel. As bullets ricocheted around the Noboat’s antechamber entrance, Tauthin ducked inside. The door closed behind him.
Marching into the bridge, Tauthin barked orders to his makeshift crew. Squatting by the bridge entrance, their canrassi breathed through its wide, bloody jaws. Tauthin sat in the captain’s chair. “Shift now!” From the engineer’s station, Gabralthaar engaged the phase shifter. The bluewhite flashes began. Tauthin turned his head to the floor by his chair, where the battered blond medic was propped unconsciously. Facing the view screen, Tauthin narrowed his eyes.
Blue lightning bolts flashed through the hangar. There was a crack of something like thunder. The Noboat disappeared.
Holding his visor hat in place amid the rush of the Noboat’s thrusters, Thoor stared slack-jawed at the shimmering vessel before them. Even without seeing it in full form, it was obvious what the Noboat was doing. It was turning its nose toward the exit.
“How could this be?” Thoor asked in horror.
There was an eruption of gunfire behind them. Thoor ducked for cover once again as his escort of sentries opened fire. Within seconds, a tidal wave of chaos rounds shredded through the sentries’ armor. They fell to the ground. Thoor and Marusich were the only two left. Rushing toward them, their X-111s poised and ready, were a dozen men clad in purple and white.
Marusich made no attempt to open fire. Throwing down his weapon, he raised his hands in the air.
At the forefront of the Vectors, a man decidedly larger than the rest stalked forward. Behind the tint of his EDEN visor, he glared at General Thoor. There was no need for the man to declare who he was. Thoor already knew.
“I did not kill your son,” Thoor said.
The Vector reached to his helmet. Detaching its clamps, he slid it off his battle-scarred head. His blue eyes never wavered.
“Had I killed him, I would not have denied it. I would have announced it to the world. You know this. This has been a conspiracy!”
Reaching for his holster, the Vector withdrew his sidearm.
Thoor’s eyes widened as he held out his hand. “Wait, Klaus, listen!”
Those were the last words spoken by Ignatius van Thoor. As Klaus Faerber raised his pistol and fired, Thoor’s head rocked back violently. His visor hat flew to the wayside. The Terror of Amsterdam fell to the ground.
Marusich went rigid, staring through his faceless helmet at the body of the general.
Without a word, Faerber turned his sidearm on Marusich, releasing three shots into the fulcrum’s chest. The bullets tore through Marusich’s armor. He toppled next to Thoor.
Everything went still. For almost sixty whole seconds, nobody moved. Sidearm still extended, the blond-haired German stared at the bodies before him. He shed not a tear.
Very carefully, one of the Vectors behind Faerber placed a hand on his shoulder. Whispering almost inaudibly, he gave Faerber’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. Then his hand fell away.
Lowering his pistol, Faerber holstered it then lifted his comm. His voice was gravelly and low. “Vector to Command. Thoor is dead.”
THOUSANDS OF KILOMETERS away, in the War Room of EDEN Command, President Pauling lowered his head and inhaled. Arms outstretched on the railing that surrounded the holographic image of Earth, he released a tired breath. “Thank you, captain. Well done.”
Behind and unbeknownst to the president, Archer and Blake locked eyes. Subtly, Archer nodded.
Running wrinkled hands through his thinning gray hair, Pauling addressed the judges without looking. “Prepare a statement for the media. Tell them what happened, and why. My resignation takes effect midnight tonight.”
“Yes sir, Mr. President,” June said quietly.
Lifting his head, Pauling faced the Council. “Good night, everyone. May God be with you.” Without another word, he walked out of the room.
The twelve judges of the High Command stood around the War Room. Some of their eyes were transfixed on the globe. Some were transfixed searchingly on each other. Everyone’s face bore some outward reaction. Everyone’s but one.
Chin lifted, Benjamin Archer stared forward. Not at any one thing or person in particular. Just forward. Just ahead.
Finally.
32
FRIDAY, MARCH 16TH, 0012 NE
2212 HOURS
SCOTT’S PLANNED DITCH worked exactly as it had in Luxor. With their transport making a slow, arcing turn toward the southeast, they descended just low enough to perform their drop near the bank of the Suez Canal. Boris, making sure that all of the autopilot coordinates were in place, was the last to leap from the ship. Soaked and exhausted, the refugees from Cairo swam frantically for the shoreline.
As per Scott’s command, Natalie was forced from the ship first. He wanted her visible and in front, ordering Esther to leap immediately afterward after being vehemently assured by the scout that she could function through the pain of her shoulder injury. The two women hit the water within meters of each other.
The water where they’d ditched was close to five feet deep—deep enough to break a low fall, but shallow enough to ensure that Centurion wouldn’t sink like a brick and drown. To Scott’s shock and relief, the Ceratopian’s condition hadn’t worsened during the flight. He was in poor condition, but he was alive. Scott would take whatever he could get. The Nightman dubbed “Four” stayed with the alien to aid him, as “One” did with Auric.
The moment Natalie’s feet touched bottom, the Caracal captain sloshed for the shore as quickly as she could. Esther was hot on her heels. Whipping around, Natalie swung a fist at Esther’s face. The scout grabbed it, twisted it around, and slammed Natalie face-first into the surf. Flicking her wet bob out of her eyes, Esther screamed, “Don’t bloody even think about it!”
“Let her up!” Scott yelled from behind them as he too came ashore, pulling off his helmet to address his scout. “Esther, let her up!” The scout relented and Natalie lifted her head, gasping for air while Esther winced and clutched her own shoulder. Scott looked in every direction. “Is everyone here?” Esther and Natalie were accounted for. Boris was farther down the shore, visible in the bright moonlight. Centurion was trudging ahead with Four, as were Jayden, Auric, and One.
Where was Rashid?
“Veck,” said Scott. He scanned the water. There was no sign of the fulcrum. He cupped his hands over his mouth. “Faraj!” Several dozen meters away, the missing Turk finally appeared, stumbling awkwardly out of the water. Scott ran a hand through his hair and buckled forward.
“Scott,” said Esther, “we need a place to hide until the Pariah can find us.”
For a second time, Natalie burst to her feet, flat-tracking down the beach—and for a second time, Esther caught her and dragged her to the ground, perching on her back to hold her down. After a less-than-gentle shove of Natalie’s head, Esther yanked her up with her good arm.
Grabbing Esther himself, Scott jerked her away. “Rockwell’s not the enemy!”
Natalie, sand-covered and spitting, stumbled to her feet. Scott caught her from behind. “There’s nowhere for you to run to. Just stop.” The next thing Scott felt were fingernails to his face—she’d clawed him. Growling in pain, he wrestled her down.
“She’s not the enemy, huh?” asked Esther.
“Listen!” Scott said, pinning Natalie face-up on the ground. Blood seeped from the marks on his face. “Stop fighting! You’re not going to get anywhere!” Natalie’s teeth were bared. She glared murderously. “You’re not a hostage. We’re not taking you with us.”
At that, Esther’s eyes widened. “We’re not taking her with us? It’s a little too late for that, don’t you think? What are you going to do, leave her in the middle of nowhere?”
Scott wiped his face with a hand. His fingers were blood-soaked. She’d gotten him good. He looked at her again. “When our ship comes, I’m going to give you a comm. Contact Lieutenant Marshall, have him come and find you.”
Boris and Jayden approached behind them.
Esther knelt at Scott’s side. “Scott, listen. They’re going to be coming for us soon—the whole of EDEN.” She eyed the sand-covered captain. “Rockwell wasn’t supposed to come with us, but now that she’s here, whether you like this or not, she gives us leverage.”
“Leverage? Like Svetlana’s been leverage?”
Esther touched his shoulders from behind. “If you want Svetlana back, you need to survive. Having Rockwell in our possession helps that. She’s a captain, Scott. She has value. If she buys us one escape, then she’s been worth it.”
“You go to hell,” Natalie seethed from the ground.
As much as Scott hated it, Esther was right. It wasn’t ethical. It wasn’t good. But it was ruthlessly efficient. Ruthless efficiency had gotten them this far.
Scott could feel the blood on his face coagulating. More scars. He didn’t even care. Looking sternly at Natalie, he rose up from atop her. “Get up.”
Natalie added, “And you can go to hell with her.”
Pulling the captain up, he gave her to Jayden. “Go let her wash off.” He looked for their Ithini. “Ju`bajai! Connect!” Scott pointed at his head. The Ithini complied. “The moment she even thinks about escaping, you let us know.” A sense of affirmation came from the alien—it was in no position to argue. As Jayden took Natalie to the surf, Scott walked off on his own.
Their mission hadn’t been a failure. They had their Ceratopian. Not the one they’d originally gone there for, but a key piece of the puzzle nonetheless. Once the Pariah found them, then they could…
…then they could what?
Novosibirsk had been invaded. Not by a small fleet of Bakma, but by EDEN. The military of an entire planet. If Thoor had sent someone after Svetlana—and he was positive he had—that meant Thoor had a backup plan. A place to escape to. There were a few possibilities. Krasnoyarsk was the most obvious choice. It was known as much for being a Nightman recruiting center as anything else. Chernobyl couldn’t be discounted; Thoor had shown interest in it. There were occasional rumors that the eidola had a presence at Leningrad, but that was unconfirmed. Could eidola even have remained back at Novosibirsk? He didn’t know where to begin.
“Yuri,” he murmured to himself. Dostoevsky had stayed behind for the sole purpose of finding Svetlana. Varvara had stayed with him. Of all the times for him to have needed a medic, he was now zero-for-two. Centurion was hurt—dying, according to Ju`bajai. Even if the Ceratopian’s condition hadn’t readily deteriorated, it certainly wasn’t getting better.
As Scott stood in contemplation, Rashid and One approached him. Only two of the Numbers had survived: One and Four. How fitting for the Fourteenth. “Captain Remington,” said Rashid, “what is our plan now?”
“We wait for the Pariah,” Scott answered. “I’ll tell you my plan when it gets here.”
Natalie rose from the waters of the Suez, her chestnut hair streaming behind her as the last granules of sand fell away from her clothes. Standing beside her like a pastor shepherding over one of his flock, Jayden paid strict attention to her every motion. But if this was a church service, there were no angels singing. And if it was a baptism, it was anything but in the name of grace. Wiping her hair back, her emerald glare searing through Scott as he stood on the shore, Natalie allowed her ire a moment to swell.
“Whenever you’re ready to head back, captain,” Jayden said, his voice wavering uncomfortably.
Running her hand down her face, Natalie shifted her enmity briefly to the Texan. But she didn’t say a word. Sloshing past him beneath the light of a full moon—and a particularly bright Venus—the Caracal captain made her way for the shore.
It would only be a matter of time until EDEN was onto him and his escapees—Scott knew that. Their stolen transport’s autopilot would give itself away eventually, and if whoever was chasing it was smart, they’d put the pieces together and come searching the beach. Their window of escape was still small; but the Fourteenth would come through. If Travis said he’d be there to pick them up, he’d be there. Of that, Scott was certain.
Scott surveyed his crew, from Centurion to Boris, from Rashid to Jayden. They were soaked, beaten, and on the run. But they still had life left. And that was a good thing.
Gathering the group on the beach, Scott instructed them to dig out seats in the sand. Eyes skyward, they waited for the Pariah.
 *
EDEN COMMAND
ONE HOUR LATER
ARCHER AND BLAKE sat alone in the Conference Room. The Liberation. That was what the event—the capture of Novosibirsk and the fall of Ignatius van Thoor—was to be called. The global media was already assaulting EDEN Command’s phone lines, ensuring that Carol June’s night would be a long one. The word was spreading quickly. Something major had just happened in Siberia. It was the middle of the day in North America, the news capital of the world. The world was about to learn that General Thoor was dead. Archer and Blake’s night had been a tremendous one.
The door to the Conference Room opened; the two judges turned its way. Entering the room were Judge Torokin and his nephew, the young scout from Vector, Sasha. As soon as the new arrivals saw Archer and Blake, they stopped. “I am sorry,” Torokin said, “I did not know you were doing business.”
Smiling tiredly, Blake said, “No business. Just taking in an extraordinary night. Please, come in.” Torokin and Sasha approached the round table, claiming seats several chairs down. “What a night, ey, gentlemen?”
“Indeed,” answered Torokin. “How can one sleep tonight? I do not know. The world without General Thoor. It does not seem real.”
“Have you spoken to Klaus?” Archer asked him.
“No. Not yet. I will try to call him tomorrow. Tonight will be emotional for him.”
For several seconds, the room fell quiet. “Was he close to his son?” Blake asked.
Torokin shook his head slowly. “No.”
Silence.
That Thoor had fallen to the hand of Klaus Faerber was almost unbelievable. Faerber had made the request himself, to President Pauling, when word of the Liberation had first circulated among EDEN’s elites. The Vector Squad captain wanted Thoor personally. It was a request EDEN couldn’t deny. Faerber would have gotten his way whether they approved it or not—especially for a matter like this. He’d have made it happen somehow.
All of the stops had been pulled out for the assault. Eight major EDEN facilities had contributed, as had hundreds of smaller stations from the four corners of the Earth. Jon Mariner and the Flying Apparatus had contributed. And as for Vector—Sasha aside—they had brought the full load. Both of their Vultures. Every one of their operatives. There had even been talk of reinstating Todd Kenner, Vector’s outcast scout, which had been another one of Faerber’s requests. It was the only one EDEN had denied. Just the same, the Liberation would be an event the world would talk about for a very long time.
There was a knock at the Conference Room door. It cracked open as EDEN Command’s night-shift secretary eased her head in. From his chair, Blake raised an eyebrow.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” the woman said, “but a call just came in from Cairo. They said it’s urgent. Should I call President Pauling?”
“No,” Blake answered. “You can patch it through to me here.” The woman acknowledged and stepped back outside. Several seconds later, a call tone rang in the conference room. Blake put it on speaker. “Malcolm Bake.”
The African-accented voice sounded panicked. “Judge Blake, this is ViceGeneral Yousef. We have a problem in Cairo.” Archer and Torokin leaned forward with interest. Sasha’s ears perked between them. “Our base has been,” he paused, seeming to search for a word, “compromised.”
“Compromised?” Blake asked. “What do you mean?”
“Someone has infiltrated our Confinement facility. They stole two specimens, a Ceratopian and an Ithini. Then…” he audibly swallowed. “Then they escaped.”
Archer cleared his throat. “This is Benjamin Archer. How exactly did someone infiltrate Cairo Confinement?”
“They came under the guise of transfers from another base. They used everything—hacking, disguises, forged identities. They released all of our specimens, assaulted our base network, then escaped during the chaos.” He paused. “They were from Novosibirsk.”
At that one word, the eyes of the three judges widened. “Names, vicegeneral,” Archer said.
“Their leader’s name is Scott James Remington. He was from a unit called the Fourteenth.”
Torokin’s expression shifted. “Remington. The Fourteenth. I know those names…”
Getting on the speaker, Blake addressed their secretary. “Brittney, send us a full report on the soldier Scott James Remington.”
Archer addressed Yousef. “You said they escaped with a Ceratopian and an Ithini. Were they of any significance?”
“The Ithini was a female—the only one ever captured. The Ceratopian was unexceptional. He was one of the captures from the Bakma-Ceratopian conflict.”
Archer and Blake shared a bewildered glance. A second later, Brittany’s voice came over the speaker. “Remington’s file sent, sir.” The wall monitors lit up with Scott’s photograph and record.
“He is a Golden Lion!” said Torokin, gasping. “Why would he undermine Cairo?”
At the bottom of Scott’s record—the last entry of any significance—was the interspecies conflict. “Bastiaan Platis was on that mission,” said Archer, rising to his feet. “He was part of the Liberation, correct?”
“I am already calling him,” said Torokin, leaping onto his comm.
Blake leaned in close to Archer, whispering discreetly. “That was the operation with H`laar. Jason was supposed to have…do you think H`laar is still…?”
Archer held his palm out for silence as he focused on Torokin, who was already speaking to Platis. “I am transferring you to our conference system,” Torokin said, snapping his fingers at Archer and Blake for attention. Moments later, Platis came over the speaker. “Bastiaan, during the Bakma-Ceratopian conflict, do you remember a soldier named Scott Remington?”
“Scott Remington?” asked Platis, intrigued. He repeated the name to himself. “I know this name. How do I know it?”
“He was a Golden Lion stationed at Novosibirsk,” said Archer. “According to Cairo, he just infiltrated their facility and escaped with a Ceratopian specimen.”
General Platis was mulling intensely. “Who was Remington?” he asked himself repeatedly. “Which one was Remington?”
“Please, general, we need you to think,” Archer pled. “We need to know why an EDEN operative would want to steal alien captives from one of our bases.”
Suddenly, Platis went quiet—as if he’d held his breath. It was noticeable enough to make everyone in the conference room lean inward. “I remember Remington,” the general said gravely. “I remember speaking to him—seeing his golden collar in the aftermath. He was one of the leaders for that mission from Novosibirsk. But you are mistaken about one thing.” Archer and Blake leaned forward against the table. No one in the conference room so much as breathed. “Remington was not wearing EDEN armor,” said Platis. “He was a Nightman.”
Archer collapsed back in his chair, his entire countenance shifting. Gone was the look of exhausted jubilation in the aftermath of Thoor’s demise. A look of ill disbelief took its place.
Slowly, he locked eyes with Blake.
 *
SCOTT AND HIS team were on the ground for almost an hour before the Pariah made its arrival. As the stripped Vulture’s green and red running lights cut through the night, the transport’s thrusters kicked up desert sand. Dried but still tattered, the escapees from Cairo stood together and waited. As soon as the Pariah touched down, its rear bay door whined to the sand.
Scott’s comrades from the Fourteenth were standing by the exit, wearing what little gear they’d had on them from Room 14. “Captain,” they acknowledged quietly. Only Flopper showed any signs of exuberance, barreling to Scott and leaping against his armor, his tail wagging incessantly before he moved on to the others.
Beside those by the bay door, William sat alone. The demolitionist’s head was in his hands as he stared at the ship’s cabin floor. Scott approached him, gently squeezing William’s shoulder. Neither man spoke.
“Guys,” said Travis over the Pariah speaker, “you might want to hear this.” Turning up the volume of EDEN’s global frequency, he and Tiffany glanced back to ensure the others’ compliance.
“Attention all EDEN aircraft and facilities,” said the voice over the speaker. “This is President Malcolm Blake. This is my first formal address.”
Drawing together by the back of the ship, the Fourteenth listened intently.
“I am delivering this message to confirm rumors you may have already heard, of which more details are certain to come. Tonight, in a coordinated global effort, the Earth Defense Network retook the facility of Novosibirsk from General Ignatius van Thoor.”
THOUSANDS OF KILOMETERS away, in a cell in the city of Krasnoyarsk, the three slayers outside of Lilan’s cell turned up the volume on their radios. Blake’s voice crackled through.
“We can confirm that General Thoor was killed in this operation, along with at least one other member of his counsel.”
The slayers took off their helmets. Unmasked and afraid, they swapped looks of dread. Behind the bars of their cell, Lilan and the Falcon survivors leaned closer to listen.
“News of this significant event will soon spread to all global media outlets. The reign of the Nightmen has come to a close. Even now, our officials are collaborating with Russian law enforcement to see to the arrest and incarceration of all Nightmen. The final word has been written in a dark chapter of human history.”
SITTING IN A CHAIR outside of Novosibirsk General Hospital’s ICU, Tanneken Brunner played with her already chewed fingernails. Her hopeful eyes looked up at every doctor and nurse that passed. But none of them spoke to her.
“But with every purge of evil come those who resist. Even as the liberation of Novosibirsk was at hand, agents of Novosibirsk were diligently working against humanity. These agents, led by an American Nightman named Scott Remington, infiltrated the EDEN base of Cairo in order to obtain what General Thoor considered high-profile extraterrestrial targets. It is not beyond the realm of possibility that General Thoor was attempting to ally himself with alien forces.”
THE EYES OF THE Fourteenth widened as they listened. Some of them looked back at Scott.
“We are asking all facilities, stations, and aircraft to assist EDEN Command in bringing Scott Remington and his cohorts to justice. We cannot allow even the possibility of traitorous collaboration between humanity and other-world species. The last known whereabouts of Remington are near Cairo, Egypt. In the event that he flees Egypt, we are prepared to lead a planet-wide search for him. Remington’s profile is being distributed to all of the major EDEN facilities as we speak. We can also confirm that an EDEN captain, Miss Natalie Rockwell, has been taken as a hostage. Her description is being circulated as well, to ensure that she is not harmed should confrontation arise.”
There was a pause.
“Remington and his men are highly skilled in both combat and misinformation. If approached, they may attempt to justify their actions in exchange for sanctuary or assistance. They are not to be believed. Though some of Remington’s operatives may wear EDEN uniforms, make no mistake: these are outlaws.”
Scott walked back down the Pariah’s ramp, the metal of his boots clanking against the cabin floor, his operatives turned to regard him. Natalie stared at the floor, her reddened eyes lost in despondency.
“This is an important time in the history of our species,” Blake said. “It is a time for unification, and for clarity of purpose. It is a time for hope. Together, we will purge from our planet those who wish our species harm, whether they be from our shores or the stars.
“This is President Malcolm Blake, wishing all of you in our defense effort good night and good luck. May God be with us.” There was a crackle of static. The transmission ended. The desert was quiet.
For several long moments, no one in the Fourteenth said a word. It was Scott’s mechanized voice that broke the silence. “If they’re asking for help, they know we weren’t in that transport from Cairo. That means they’ll be coming here.”
Becan took a step forward. “Wha’ are we goin’ to do, Remmy? Yeh heard wha’ the radio said. They’re callin’ us outlaws.”
Turning his head slowly, Scott looked at Travis in the cockpit. “Are we ready to fly?”
“Just tell me where to go, sir,” Travis answered confidently.
A moment of thought passed before Scott spoke again. “Krasnoyarsk. Take us to Krasnoyarsk.” Not only was he most likely to find Nightmansanctioned assistance for Centurion there, he was also most likely to find Svetlana. There was no better place for them to start.
With purpose, Travis looked at Tiffany. The blond pilot was already smiling. “Krasnoyarsk it is, sir.” Travis’s voice quieted. “All right, Tiff. Let’s go get your friends.”
Nothing was left behind when the cursed transport lifted off—only footprints in the sand and craters from the ship’s thrusters. Turning its nose to the north, the Pariah’s green and red lights disappeared into the night.
TWO HOURS LATER
TOROKIN AND SASHA were waiting in EDEN Command’s hangar when the blacked out transport touched down. As the whine of thrusters dissipated and the rear door of the vessel lowered to the floor, they approached without reservation. They were two of few men who could.
Stepping from the transport, helmetless but still in his purple and white armor, Klaus Faerber focused on them immediately. Flanked by Vincent Hill and Minh Dang—stalwarts of the most renown unit on Earth—he met Torokin and Sasha halfway. Despite their close friendship, no hug was exchanged between Faerber and Torokin. The air around them was somber. Quietly, Sasha nodded in greeting to Vincent and Minh.
“Klaus,” said Torokin, “you did not need to come.”
Walking past Torokin, Faerber continued his stride for the hangar exit. The others followed in step. “I want to know everything about Remington,” the Vector captain said through his thick German accent. “I want to help track him down.”
“That is not necessary,” said Torokin quickly. “We have a network of units organizing for the hunt. We will catch Remington. You have done more than enough.”
“If there is a network after this man, then he must be a threat. And if he is that great a threat, Vector will assist.”
“Klaus, please.” Torokin’s voice pled. “Do not press this.”
Stopping, Faerber eased his head back around. Facing Torokin fully, the battle-scarred captain’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
Silence. Torokin visibly bit his lip.
Brow wrinkling suspiciously, Faerber took a step closer. “What is it? What are you not telling me?”
“Klaus, please.”
“Leonid.”
Their eyes locked for several tellingly long seconds. Behind Torokin, the other three Vectors listened with intent. Torokin exhaled and shook his head. “I did not want you to hear this. But I suppose it is better that you hear it from me instead of a press conference.”
Klaus angled his head and listened.
“This fulcrum. This Remington,” Torokin said gravely. “One of the transports that killed your son belonged to his unit. It was the transport that survived.”
At first, Faerber indicated no reaction. Then slowly, but markedly, the shift came. His jaw clenched. His upper lip rose; the muscles around his eyelids grew tight. Then faintly—ever so faintly—the Vector’s breathing increased.
“Klaus…”
Faerber took a step back.
“Do not overreact to this. We are handling the situation.”
Turning away, his gait fervid, Faerber marched into EDEN Command.
Torokin, Vincent, Minh, and Sasha were left in Faerber’s wake. Their countenances grim, they watched their captain disappear down the hall. For almost ten seconds, none of them spoke. Then setting his hands on his hips, Vincent Hill released a drawn-out sigh. “Get ready for a manhunt, gentlemen.” The three other men looked at him, but none offered a rebuttal. Together, they followed Faerber inside.
EPIC • BOOK 5
ENEMY ONE
Run.
www.epicuniverse.com
WANNA TALK ABOUT IT? SO DO WE.
The Official Epic Community Message Board Located at www.epicuniverse.com/forums/
GET YOUR GEAR ON.
www.epicuniverse.com/purchase.html
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To God: You revealed so much to me during the course of TGB and encouraged me in the hours when I needed it the most. For anything good that comes from Epic, I give You all the glory and honor. For anything good that comes from me, ever, I give You all praise. I love you, Father. Thank You for Your Son.
To Lindsey: This is your acknowledgment, sweetheart, but it’s really for anyone who takes the time to read this section. They need to know that this story would not be what it is if it weren’t for you. Thank you for being my most honest critic, and for setting me straight when I went astray. I love you!
To my family: As always, thank you all for the constant encouragement you’ve provided me, not only through the course of this book, but throughout my life. I am so blessed to have each and every one of you! Thank you all for making me a better person.
To Jody Calkins: Thank you so much for joining the Epic crew, Jody, and for doing such an outstanding job editing TGB! Only a writer knows the true value of having an editor on their team. I’m thrilled to have you!
To Arlene Prunkl: You will forever be a part of Epic, Arlene. Thank you so much for getting me off the ground. You deserve every ounce of success that this life gives you, and I am so happy for you!
To Fiona Raven: You are a consummate professional, Fiona. Book four was a stressful project for me from start to finish, but as always, you were willing to work with me through it. Thank you so much!
To Lorenz H. Ruwwe: The cover is the first part of a book that a reader sees, and you did a phenomenal job. Your willingness to work with my ideas and see them through was extremely meaningful. I’m pumped to have you representing Epic!
To Stevie: Every writer should have a best bud to throw ideas off of. You’ve been there since day one of my Epic journey, and I appreciate that so much. Now get your books out there so I can promote the heck out of them!
To Luke: There would be no Epic Universe were it not for you. Thank you, man, for always being there when I have an issue that needs to be resolved to keep the .com alive. You are deserving of so much recognition.
To Earl & Denise: You guys already know how much you mean to me, but I’ll say it again: you guys help make Epic what it is. Thank you so much for being great fans and even better friends. Earl, I promise to try and cut back on the disasters that happen during my shift.
To the Myers: Natasha and J, you guys are incredible. I have no doubt that God placed you on an intersecting path with Epic. Tasha, thank you so much for the work you’ve done helping me get the word about Epic out there, and for rooting out opportunities that I never knew existed!
To Aaron Spuler: Thank you for being there even when things get slow! You’re an awesomely dedicated fan and compadre on the forums. Time for that place to get rocking again!
To Stephanie Police: You’ve been such a huge part of the Epic family, Steph—thank you for sticking with and contributing so much to the Epic universe. You’re so much more than a voice on a podcast. Don’t ever let life stop you from writing. You absolutely have a talent for it.
To Erik Sabol: In addition to be an incredible source of encouragement, you’re also an outstanding writer and soon-to-be-novelist. Right? Right?? Get busy! We both know you can do it.
To Patrick Todoroff: Congratulations on the success you’ve had with Eshu International—you absolutely deserve it! Thank you for being an ally in the indie writing scene. Let’s go rock the world.
To SR & the UTBBB: Everyone starts somewhere, and the sharing of my creative writing started with you guys. Thank you, SR, for supporting those ridiculous Bayou Bulletins, and the UTBBB for being a constant source of encouragement! You guys are amazing.
To Jake: I love you, buddy dog. Thanks for keeping me company (and entertained!) during those late-night writing hours. You are my Flopper.
To the Fans: Thank you guys for your enthusiasm, dedication, and above all other things this go-around, your patience! Three years…wow! Let’s not do that again.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
* Author photograph by Sara Kelley
Lee Stephen is a native of Luling, Louisiana, where he lives with his wife, Lindsey, and their dog, Jake. In addition to being a full-time coordinator with the Department of Homeland Security and Emergency Preparedness, Lee is an avid church-goer, audio producer, and Saints season-ticket holder.
To read Lee’s Christian testimony, visit http://www.epicuniverse.com/testimony.html