Outlaw Trigger

Lee Stephen

Stone Aside Publishing, L.L.C.

Copyright (c) 2008 Lee Stephen.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

ISBN-10: 0-9788508-1-5

ISBN-13: 978-0-9788508-1-4

Editing by Arlene Prunkl

Cover Illustration by Francois Cannels

Book Design by Fiona Raven

First Printing December 2007

Printed in USA

v1

Published by

Stone Aside Publishing, L.L.C.

Dedicated to

Humanity

0

Sunday, July 31, 0011 NE

0500 hours

Novosibirsk, Russia

Alexander Nijinsky stared through the darkness that was the Hall of the Fulcrums, his eyes resting on the wooden doors before him. He was inside the Citadel of The Machine—the heart of the Nightman sect. In truth, it looked more like a dungeon. The orange light of wall-mounted torches danced across the surface of his badge, intermittently illuminating the blue and silver of the EDEN logo upon it. He drew in a breath of preparation and turned his eyes to the sentries by the door.

One of them shifted to face him. He spoke through the zombified stare of his helmet. “Alexander Nijinsky?”

The flames on the wall flickered as the new initiate stood beneath their hues. “That is me,” he answered in native Russian.

“Enter.”

The wooden doors clanked as a giant deadbolt slid from behind them. Nijinsky pressed his hand against its thickened frame and it opened with an antiquated groan.

Novosibirsk was built over Fort Zhukov, an acropolis dating deep into the Old Era. The surface of the fort had been cleared to make room for the EDEN facility, but the underground structure remained. Initially, the ruins served no purpose. But to Thoor, they were ideal for his lair. The underground of Fort Zhukov was excavated and re-established, not as a part of the base itself, but as the enigmatical home of the Nightmen. EDEN didn’t even know it was there.

It suited them perfectly. The walls were constructed with stones. Torchlight illuminated its passageways. And a throne was prepared for its god. The concept was part function, part madness.

It was all Ignatius van Thoor.

The Inner Sanctum itself was enormous. It was Nijinsky’s first time inside. Torches lined its limestone walls and a crimson strip of carpet led deeper within. Nijinsky stepped forward as the doors clunked shut behind him. He flinched; then his ice-blue eyes scanned ahead.

There were no sentries in the chamber. Far in the front of the room, the horns of a Nightman’s fulcrum armor stood silhouetted against the sparse lighting. Behind the Nightman, a stairway ascended to the throne. The throne of the Terror who ruled them. But the Terror could not be seen; he was veiled in darkness.

“Alexander Nijinsky,” the Nightman said. He wore no mechanized helmet. His voice was natural and clear. “You may come forward.”

Nijinsky gave no verbal response. He hadn’t been asked to. He straightened into an erect posture and marched toward the throne. When he came within scrutiny’s distance of the Nightman, he stopped.

The Nightman was slender. He was of dangerous stature; the dark curves of his armor complemented his tanned face to perfect atrocity. His jet-black hair was slicked back, and his eyes pierced ahead.

“My name,” the Nightman said, “is Yuri Dostoevsky. But you will address me as commander. You have never heard my name before, correct?”

“I have not, commander.”

“And you have never seen my face before?”

“No, commander,” Nijinsky answered, “I have not.” His eyes flitted behind Dostoevsky to the darkness of the throne. They lingered for a moment, then returned.

“I have heard your name before,” Dostoevsky said, “and I have seen your face. We both know why you are here.” Dostoevsky took a single step forward. Scrutinizing Nijinsky’s uniform, he angled his head into a question. “Do you like that badge, Alexander?”

Nijinsky looked down at his jersey. His EDEN badge, the rank of delta trooper etched on its surface, reflected the flickers of light. “No, commander.”

“Do you wish to wear a different one?”

“Yes, commander. I do.”

Dostoevsky’s stare locked onto Nijinsky’s. His expression suddenly turned hard. “Then you know what it is you must do.”

Nijinsky drew a breath. “Yes, commander.”

Dostoevsky lifted his hand. Enclosed in it was a flat metal box, its hinges tainted with rust. He extended it to Nijinsky.

Nijinsky took it and gazed down upon it. His fingers traced its deteriorated edges. Then he opened it. Inside was a photo and a ring. “Who is she?”

“Her name is unimportant. She will come to you.”

Nijinsky’s eyes lowered again, where they regarded his badge. The bold letters of EDEN stood proud amid the silver and blue of its frame. His pupils shrunk, and he returned his focus to the commander. “I will do what it is you require.”

“Return when it is done, and you will be given what you seek.”

There was no hesitation. “Yes, commander.” Nijinsky bowed his head, gazing into the shadow of the throne a final time. He peered there for a moment, before he stepped back, turned around, and strode out of the chamber. The wooden doors closed in his wake.

Dostoevsky listened as Nijinsky’s footsteps disappeared down the Hall of the Fulcrums. Behind him, atop the merciless shadow of stairs, the Terror rose from his throne. When he spoke, his voice bellowed from the walls.

“You are certain he will do this?”

Watching the wooden doors, Dostoevsky answered, “Yes, general. His heart is filled with passion.”

“But will he take a life?”

Dostoevsky fell quiet. Torchlight reflected from the curves of his horns. His eyes grew colder. “For this…yes, he will.”

The clump of boot steps sounded from the top of the stairway. With every stomp, the Terror ascended closer to the ground—the Terror that was Ignatius van Thoor. As he emerged from the darkness, his remorseless eyes came into view. “Then we shall wait for him to come to us.”

As his voice stopped, the subtle sounds of the Inner Sanctum resurfaced. The flickers of the torches danced in place. Moisture dripped from the cracks in the walls. There were noises from things unseen.

Dostoevsky nodded his head. “Yes, general.”

Thoor stomped his boot to the floor and snapped his fist to his chest. It hovered above his uniform as he bore down at the Nightman he had summoned.

Dostoevsky returned the salute. His own fist hovered over his dark uniform for several seconds before the general relinquished his pose. Dostoevsky then turned away.

He marched down the crimson carpet of the Inner Sanctum and out of the wooden doors. The sentries saluted as Dostoevsky strode silently past them.

He left the Citadel of The Machine without stopping.

PART I

1

Sunday, July 31, 0011 NE

1228 hours

Western Mongolia

Three months after the assault on Novosibirsk

Scott smiled as he stood atop the incline. The landscape that stretched before him was surreal. Strokes of wind gently caressed the grass, as the lush splendor of the Altai Mountains stretched far to the south. It was like nothing he’d imagined. It was better. He inhaled the scent of the natural world as he whispered a breviloquent prayer.

It was his first time visiting Mongolia. It had never been a place on his list. Then again, most places weren’t.

As he stared off into the distance, Becan stepped to his side. “Tha’s a lovely view.”

Scott smiled. He couldn’t help it. “Yes, it is.”

The Irishman stood quietly beside him for several moments, then propped his e-35 assault rifle against his shoulder. “Yeh realize wha’ will happen if we fail here?” After several seconds of silence, he answered his own question. “Literally dozens o’ innocent elk will be left defenseless.”

Scott stared off at the landscape once more, then allowed his gaze to drift downward. Downward to the bottom of the incline, where a lone Bakma Noboat lay in wreck. Mongolia had never been a place on his list. Most places weren’t.

He cast a purposeful glance at Becan, then smiled. “We can’t allow that to happen.”

Becan smiled. “Let’s pound some purple monkeys, then.”

Turning around, Scott stood before his crew. His crew. The best undermanned crew in the world—at least in his mind. “All right, everyone. Here’s the plan.”

Max rubbed his oil-stained stubble as Scott spoke.

“We’ll engage from our position right now,” Scott said. “Max and I will take point. David, Oleg, and Becan, the three of you will v-neck behind us. Varya, you stay in our wake.”

She affirmed.

“Jay, stay here with Galina and tend to the unexpected.”

“Yessir.”

“Travis,” Scott said through his comm, “are you listening?”

“Loud and clear,” answered Travis from the Pariah, which sat perched in the distance.

“Get airborne and get in front of us. You’re going to be our lead blocker. Stay in front of our charge and maintain pressure on the boat. If you see anyone—anyone—open fire. Keep them inside.”

“Will do, I’ve got Boris on guns.”

“Take off.”

The Pariah‘s engines hummed to life, and it lifted.

“So that’s the plan, huh?” David asked as he stepped up to Scott.

“Is there a problem with the plan?”

David grinned. “Any plan with a ‘lead blocker’ is fine with me.”

“All right,” Scott said. “Then let’s go.”

It was Scott’s third mission as lead officer. Clarke and Dostoevsky had stayed behind. That was the perk of having a lieutenant who happened to be a Golden Lion—the Golden Lion. When a situation came up, Scott could handle it. And handle it he always did.

Scott skidded as he rushed down the hill. Smoke drifted from the Noboat at the bottom of the incline, but no hole could be seen in its hull. He was sure there was damage inside.

Bakma emerged from the doorway.

“Contact!” Travis said through the comm. As ordered preemptively, the Pariah opened fire. Its nose-mounted cannon erupted with orange the moment the Bakma emerged. The shots exploded around the Noboat’s entranceway and its inhabitants fell back inside.

Scott got to the bottom of the hill first, where he dropped to one knee. The door to the Noboat was wide open. His hand felt his belt for a grenade. One good toss could take out half of the crew, or whoever was still alive by the door. His fingers curled around the grenade’s surface. Then they stopped.

We can take this thing clean.

“Guns only—no grenades.” Scott’s free hand returned to his rifle as he lifted to his feet and proceeded forward. “Keep an eye on it, Travis! Becan, David, you’re with me. As soon as we clear the antechamber, I want Max and Oleg in the bridge. We hit the troop hall together. Varvara, you wait outside.”

The soldiers affirmed as they stormed toward the Noboat’s door. Scott was on the comm once again. “Travis, give us a burst, then fall back!”

The Pariah launched a volley toward the door. Then it veered up and away.

Scott wasted no time. “I’m left, Becan’s right, David’s got center!” He burst inside, just as the Bakma had fallen back from the Pariah‘s barrage.

Before the aliens had a chance to engage them, the three soldiers from EDEN opened fire. Their gunshots rang out through the antechamber, and the Bakma warriors fell.

“Max!” shouted Scott.

“I’m in!” With Oleg at his side, Max rushed straight into the bridge.

From the antechamber, Scott could hear Max’s shouts.

“Call grrashna! Call grrashna, you apes!”

The garbled sound of the Bakma followed next. “Grrashna—”

More gunshots rang, and bodies were heard slumping to the floor. Max’s voice came back moments later. “Nothing like a little false hope. Bridge secured.”

Scott glared in the direction of the bridge, then turned his attention to the troop hall, where he took in interior damage. Lights flickered down the hallway, as various cables sparked from the ceiling. Blood was splattered on the walls. Bodies were strewn on the floor.

“Moving in,” Scott said. He readied his rifle against his shoulder and tracked down the hall. David and Becan followed right behind him. “Same formation: I’m left, Becan’s right, Dave’s got center.” There were six separate rooms in Noboats—three on each side of the troop hall. The first two were living quarters, the next two were supply rooms, and the final two consisted of a kitchen and an engine room.

Though Noboats were classified as medium-sized vessels, they were borderline small in size. Nonetheless, they could support over thirty Bakma. But there weren’t thirty bodies on the ground.

Scott darted around the corner of the first left-side room—one of the living quarters. It was clear.

“My room’s clear,” said Becan from the door on the opposite side of the hall. “Movin’ to the second.” Before he could, David opened fire down the hall. A Bakma fell to the floor.

“Ex down,” said David.

Scott returned to the hall and spotted the Bakma that David had killed. It had come from the very last room on his side. “They’re in the kitchen.”

From behind them, Max and Oleg approached. Scott addressed them without turning around. “Stay with me and Becan. We have hostiles in the back.”

“Yes, lieutenant,” Oleg answered.

Max said nothing.

It took nothing more than a quick glance for Scott and Becan to check the supply rooms. Both were empty. Noises clanged from the kitchen up ahead.

Becan shook his head. “They’re not in the bloody supply rooms, with the guns, but they’re in the kitchen. Figure tha’ one ou’.”

“When you’ve got the munchies…” Max mumbled.

“Still want to do this guns only?” David asked Scott. “One grenade can clear that whole room.”

Scott’s answer was immediate. “Yes.” By that point, it was all about salvage—even if it was only foodstuffs. Everything gave EDEN insight. “Becan, get behind me. Max, take Oleg to the right.”

They all fell in line.

“Move.”

As Max and Oleg turned into the engine room, Scott and Becan burst into the kitchen. There were two Bakma lying in wait—but only for a moment. Scott and Becan got the preemptive jump on the triggers, and the stragglers fell to the floor.

There was a single shot from behind them. “Engine room clear,” said Max. “One monkey down.”

“Kitchen’s clear,” Scott answered. “Body count?”

“Four total dead in the bridge, I have two corpses in here right now, counting the one I just killed.”

Scott glanced on the floor of the kitchen. “Three here.”

“There’s six in the antechamber,” said David.

Scott gave Becan a glance. “How many did you have in the right-side living quarters?”

“Four bodies,” the Irishman answered.

“I had two on my end. Supply rooms?”

“One.”

Scott did quick math in his head. “That’s twenty-two.”

Becan gave him a look. “Twenty-two’s low for a Noboat.”

Scott stepped into the hall. “Dave, run a check of the antechamber and bridge again. Oleg, give me a recount in the living quarters and supply rooms.”

Becan stepped into the kitchen and glanced around. Scott followed.

Bakma kitchens were surprisingly like human ones. They had counters, like human kitchens, and preparation tables. Metal cabinets acted as storage compartments.

“Here’s this stuff again,” Becan said, as he stared into one of the food containers. It was filled with a substance named calunod. According to EDEN, that’s what Bakma prisoners called it. It was the equivalent of brown, slimy seaweed. Its odor was equally putrid. “Tha’s bleedin’ gross.”

But Scott wasn’t interested in calunod. He wanted the ship cleared. He stepped back into the hallway, looking for David. “What’s the verdict?”

David was kneeling over one of the bodies, though his gaze spanned the whole room. “There was one more body I didn’t see before, so that makes twenty-three dead. That’s more than twenty-two, but it’s still small.”

Scott knelt beside David, where he allowed himself to silently study the alien corpse before them. No matter how many times he’d fought the Bakma—and they were the most common enemy by far—he couldn’t get away from their sheer ugliness. The alien’s lifeless blue eyes bulged out above its obnoxiously protruding cheekbones. It looked hideous; all Bakma did. It was only fitting that they utilized the spider-eyed canrassi—the miniature fur-covered tyrannosaurs. They looked hideous, too. Thankfully, no such war beasts were there.

“Looks like a standard crew,” David said. “Same arsenal of plasma weapons, nothing too heavy.”

“Scouting party?” Scott asked.

“Who knows?”

There was truth in those two words. None of them knew a thing. Not Scott, not David, not the president of EDEN. Or at least, whatever the president knew wasn’t important enough to be passed down the ranks. They were in the middle of a war without a reason.

David picked up the dead Bakma’s plasma rifle. The gray contraption fit in his hands well. Plasma rifles consisted of two barrels, one atop the other, and a trigger system that worked startlingly like human technology. If EDEN wanted to, they could have easily confiscated and replicated the alien weapons. In fact, high officials had at one time tried to experiment with Earth-made plasma guns. But the willingness to experiment stopped right there. EDEN soldiers flat-out refused to use them. Plasma was for the Bakma. Humans liked their projectile weaponry just fine.

From behind them, Max ignited a sprig. He inserted the end of the small metal cylinder into his mouth, and sucked in a deep breath. When the blond-haired technician exhaled, a misty plume of cinnamon scented the air. “Ship looks pretty clear to me.”

Scott kept his eyes on the bodies. “Max, has anyone ever relayed to you the number of false surrenders we’ve received from the Bakma?”

“Nope.”

Scott turned to face him. “None.” He stared at Max. “Don’t ever kill a Bakma when he’s calling grrashna again.”

“Not ever?” Max asked, exhaling a cloud of cinnamon.

“Not ever.”

Varvara greeted Scott as he stepped outside. “All clear?”

Scott nodded. “Ship’s clear, no injuries.”

She smiled.

Becan was seconds behind Scott. As soon as he passed Varvara, he cupped his hands over his mouth and let loose an obnoxiously over-dramatized sneeze. He flung a handful of calunod on her breastplate, where it splattered against the bottom of her chin.

“God bless me.”

Varvara stared at him in disbelief, as the brown substance dripped from her neckline. She wiped it off and flung it down. “You are disgusting.”

Becan ran before she could sling it at him.

As Scott walked back to the hill, Jayden’s voice came over the comm. “Aw man, that’s it?”

“That’s it, Jay.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“He watched Varya through his scope the whole time,” Galina said.

“I did not!”

“You trying to take out your girlfriend?” Scott asked.

“No, man, I wasn’t doin’ it to kill ‘er.”

“So you were watching her,” Scott said with a smile.

“Man…veck.”

The Fourteenth took care of the initial cleanup themselves, packing not only the twenty-three Bakma corpses into the Pariah, but a small cache of weapons and equipment. The rest of the Noboat, including the engine components and foodstuffs, would be taken care of by cleaning crews later. Right now, it was time to go home.

The flight back to Novosibirsk was typical. Jokes were exchanged back and forth as a jovial air filled the ship. The Fourteenth had become accustomed to that. Despite being undermanned, they were one of the most reliable units at the base. They knew it. Thoor knew it. Everyone knew it. From Bakma crash sites to necrilid bug-hunts, they were the only unit that could launch with ten operatives.

It didn’t hurt that one wore a golden collar.

When they returned to the base, Clarke met them. After a brief retelling of the mission, they were dismissed. As usual, it was their only call that day. It was rare to be called out more than once. The rest of the afternoon was spent in rest and relaxation, with alcohol and banter in the lounge. Though Scott didn’t drink, he still hung around. There were too many good reasons not to leave.

When the nine o’clock curfew came, the Fourteenth retired to their bunks. As an officer, Scott had the luxury of his own room. For that, he thanked God every night. There was nothing quite like a quiet room to put the day’s events in perspective. Another successful operation. Another day with a purpose.

Another day done.

2

Monday, August 1, 0011 NE

0520 hours

The next morning

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

Scott squinted beneath the covers. His entire body tensed. As he slid the topmost sheet over his head and rolled to face the wall, he grumbled under his breath.

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

It wasn’t the sound of a comm. It was the tone of an alarm clock poised on his nightstand. As it pulsed through the silence of his private quarters, his mind returned to the realm of the conscious world.

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

“I’m up,” he mumbled hoarsely. “Zatknis.” He flung the sheets from his body and eased himself upright, his brown hair a tangled mess. His hazel eyes peered through the darkness; blood rushed up to his brain. He groaned and closed his eyes, then pressed his palm to his forehead.

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

He turned to the alarm clock, slamming his hand down on it.

Beep! Beep! Be—

Silence. The only reasonable thing to wake up to. He slid from the warm comfort of his bed, winced as he stepped on the icy tile of his floor, and removed his jersey from its closet hanger.

It was a beautiful day in the city of Novosibirsk. Puffy white clouds migrated across the light blue sky as the sun cast its yellow hues down to Earth. The Russian summer was balmy. Far in the distance, wild birds awoke with the break of day. Scott smiled as he listened to them sing. Once he was fully awake, he loved morning. The birds must have loved morning, too.

So much had changed in the months that followed the Assault on Novosibirsk. The massive hangar had been reconstructed, even larger and with a new stock of aircraft. A new garage was built, furnished with a fleet of six brand new Grizzlies.

The infirmary had just been rebuilt, and the patients in the gymnasium-turned-hospital had recently been transferred there. It wasn’t as large as the structure that once stood in its place, but it was something that the original had never been: state-of-the-art.

The research center, the main building, the cafeteria—they all stood as proud and ugly as they always had, the marks of the assault growing less defined with each building that was repaired. Novosibirsk—The Machine—was alive again. Though memories of the attack were etched in his mind, the newer state of Novosibirsk brought Scott a small degree of comfort. Of normality. The improvements were welcomed.

The base itself was not the only thing to change. Much had changed in the Fourteenth as well. In the wake of Ivan Baranov’s death, Dostoevsky had become their new commander. He took to the job with the aggression expected of a Nightman fulcrum—one of their leaders. Galina was promoted to epsilon, where her serious approach made her a valuable asset. Varvara climbed to the rank of gamma private, as did Boris Evteev, the scruffy-bearded technician. Scott’s friends from Richmond—David, Becan, and Jayden—all had scaled to the rank of delta trooper. Scott was proud of them all, but especially David. The 14-year nypd veteran was finally at a level he deserved. He could still stand to go higher. But delta was better than nothing. The only operatives who remained at their former ranks were Clarke, Max, and Travis.

The assault left the Pariah—the Fourteenth’s cursed Vulture transport—with a new coat of scratches and dents, but she was nonetheless able to fly. She’d also managed to completely avoid any repairs. Somehow, that part didn’t surprise anyone.

After their losses, the Fourteenth found hope with a new soldier—Oleg Strakhov. The Russian delta trooper was a perfect blend of professionalism and humor, and he quickly fit in with the unit’s pranksters. Oleg was transferred to the Fourteenth from the First, to act as a temporary replacement for their operatives lost in the assault. After a month of pleasantly surprising company, Clarke was assured Oleg’s stay would be permanent.

Then there were the newcomers. The today-comers. The ones who were yet to arrive. Philadelphia‘s class would graduate today, and their new stock of alpha privates would be distributed to the ends of the Earth. No place was closer to the end than Novosibirsk. Its stock of rookies would arrive that evening, and the Fourteenth would get two of them. Scott had no idea who they were, but they were numbers. That was all that mattered to a short-handed squad.

Every time Scott stepped into the barracks, he was reminded of just how much he loved his new private quarters. Everything about having his own room was marvelous. The storage space alone was enough. He could house all of his possessions, and sometimes even more. His closet was big enough for his armor.

The Fourteenth had fallen away from its traditional approach, which was for all unit members to sleep in the barracks. Now, it was rare for more than two officers to sleep there at the same time. Their shifts were a weekly rotation. This week, it was Max’s turn to stay.

It was Scott’s turn to awaken them.

Scott took hold of Room 14’s door handle. It was five minutes to six o’clock. That was close enough. He shoved the door open, clapped his hands, and burst on the light. “Wake up! This is your wake up call!”

Groans emerged from every bunk. Operatives covered their heads.

“Everyone’s dressed and on the track in fifteen minutes!” Scott clapped again. “Two laps, then we’ll kick workouts off!”

“I’d like to bloody kick you off,” grumbled Becan.

Max pushed himself up and dragged out of bed. “Isn’t there something in Scripture about letting people sleep?”

”’Celebrate God in the morning,’” Scott quoted matter-of-factly, “‘and His blessings shall follow your day.’”

“Yeah, whatever.” Max stumbled off.

David and Galina were already in the lounge when Scott walked through the door. They sat at a table in the center of the room, hot mugs of coffee cupped in their hands. Both were dressed and awake.

“You let them sleep in today,” David said sarcastically. “That was nice.” He kicked out a chair.

Scott smiled and sat down. The aroma of the coffee caressed his senses. “Six o’clock call starts at 5:55. Didn’t you know that?”

David chuckled in response.

“Did you sleep well, lieutenant?” Galina asked, smiling beneath her dark brown, cropped hair. There was actually a tinge of red in there, too. It had brightened during the warm months of summer.

“Yes I did. I slept very well.”

“You have earned it. That was good day yesterday.”

“Yes it was. You two been up for a while?”

“Yes,” Galina smiled. “You know how we are.”

Scott’s smile broadened. It was true. David and Galina were the early risers of the group. Scott was too, to an extent, but the two over-forty operatives had him beat. “You guys know what today is, right?”

David smiled. “It’s rookie day.”

“I can’t wait. I have no idea who we’re getting.”

“Units usually do not know until the day their new ones arrive,” Galina said. “That is how it has always been done. You four were the exception, of course.”

“Of course,” said David, nodding sagely.

“I’ve had today circled for a while,” Scott said.

David leaned back and grinned. “I thought you had this Friday circled for a while.”

Scott laughed. “No, I’ve had this Friday circled forever.” And he did. Friday, August fifth. The end of that same week. It had been circled for months, long before rookie day had been even a thought in his mind. And for good reason. On Friday, he would see someone far more important than any rookie they would ever receive. Friday, he would see Nicole.

She was coming to Novosibirsk to visit.

“Friday can’t get here fast enough.”

Galina sipped her coffee. “We have heard so much about your love for so long. You had better let us meet her.”

David laughed. “Are you kidding? Do you actually think we’re going to see them? They’re going to spend the whole week in his private quarters, up close and personal.”

Scott clasped his hands behind his head and winked. “You know it.” David knew exactly how the young couple felt. And exactly how they planned on spending their time. “I’ll only keep her locked in the room for a few days. You guys can meet her next weekend.”

Galina laughed. “I am sure we are all looking forward to it.”

Jayden sauntered into the lounge and scanned the counter. “Aw man,” he said. “You guys always drink all the coffee before we get up, and you never put another pot on.”

“Morning to you, too,” David said. “Remember when you didn’t like coffee?”

“Y’all got me hooked on that junk,” Jayden said. “And now I don’t have time to make any.”

“You got it tough, Jay.”

“I know. I oughta quit.”

Becan slipped inside. “Top o’ the mornin’ to yis.”

“What are we doin’ today?” Jayden asked.

“We’ll run two laps, then hit a typical workout,” said Scott. “It’s beautiful outside.” It was. It was cooler than usual. Still warm, of course, but that was normal for the middle of summer. Even in a city like Novosibirsk.

“Why can’t we go to the pool?” Jayden asked with a frown.

Scott shook his head in amused disbelief. Jayden was both the most lackadaisical and the most bellyaching person he knew. And probably the only person who could pull it off. “Because I said we’re going outside.”

“Man…you always make us go outside.”

That part of Jayden’s statement was true. Scott loved to take advantage of beautiful weather. Football weather. Maybe he’d run some passing drills later that week. It was a bit unorthodox, but Clarke let him get away with it. It was a change of pace, and it was still being physically active. Most importantly, it was a memory of fun. Even for Jayden. “We’ll go to the pool tomorrow.”

“Yeah, yeah. You say that every time.”

“Dobry utro!” Oleg said as he entered the lounge. His black tuft was particularly unkempt. It matched the scruff of his beard to perfection.

“Dobry utro!” Galina answered.

“Good morning, Strakhov,” Scott said.

Oleg grinned. “Good morning, my American lieutenant and friend! You have good news for us today, yes? We have easy day?”

Scott slid his hands into his pockets. “Come on, Strakhov, you’ve been here long enough. My days are always the easiest days.” It was almost true. Clarke’s days were the easiest days. That was because with enough coaxing, the captain could be convinced of anything. Even a full day off.

“You are best lieutenant in all of Novosibirsk. I always do whatever you ask.”

Becan eyed Oleg from across the counter. “Jay already asked him. We’re not goin’ to the pool today.”

“Chyort voz’mi!” Oleg blurted, then he looked at Scott. “It is okay, lieutenant. I still like you anyway.”

The conversation drifted between the bunk room and the lounge, as it always did, about recollections of dreams, complaints about earliness, and comments on the weather. By the time the ten-minute rush of preparation had passed, the operatives were on their way out the door.

Scott could scarcely wait for Nicole to meet them. She asked about them constantly, and he was always eager to share with her the latest from the Fourteenth’s rumor mill. The most recent rumor was that Jayden was pregnant. Becan was the originator of that one.

Several units opened their days with morning workouts, one of which was the Eighth—the unit of William Harbinger and Derrick Cole. On some occasions the two units worked side by side, a spectacle that always resulted in taunting from William and Derrick. It was all in good humor, and it usually wound up with the two men joining the Fourteenth for breakfast. Light snacks were consumed before sessions began, though there was always room for a full meal once workouts were finished. Convenience placed the workout area right beside the cafeteria.

“All right everyone,” Scott said as they came to the track. “You have ten minutes to grab a bite, then I want two laps out of everybody. Once we’re all done, I’ll let David run us through some drills.”

David laughed with pleasure as he strode to the cafeteria. The rest of the unit followed behind him.

“Good morning, Mr. Remington!”

The voice caught Scott’s ears just before he reached the cafeteria’s entrance. It was Captain Clarke. When it wasn’t the captain’s week to lead the morning routine, he was usually the last to arrive. “Good morning, sir,” Scott answered as he held the cafeteria door open.

Clarke quickened his pace and stepped through. “Have you recovered from yesterday’s mission?”

“Like clockwork. I’m not even sore.”

The captain smiled. “Brilliant, lieutenant. That’s what I love to hear.”

As soon as the captain was inside, Scott followed in step. “Did you get a chance to take care of some business yesterday, sir?”

“I did,” Clarke answered. “In fact, you’ll be pleased to know that General Thoor entertained my request for more operatives.”

“You mean beside the rookies?”

“That’s correct. He’s considering our request as we speak. So for now, our job is to wait.”

Scott smiled. That was very good news.

“What’s on our agenda this morning, lieutenant?”

“Two laps, as always, then I’ll let David work them a bit.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

It sounded wonderful for most people. Everyone enjoyed David’s morning workouts. They were intense, but David made them fun. “They’re itching to get wet, so I think I’ll let them hit the pool tomorrow.”

“Also wonderful.”

“Any word on our rookies yet, sir?”

Clarke smiled as he claimed a piece of bread from a cafeteria basket. Scott did the same. “As a matter of fact, yes,” Clarke answered. “I’ve got names and positions.”

“Am I about to be happy?”

Clarke chuckled. “I believe you’re about to be more than happy, lieutenant.” He sat down at a table, where Scott joined him. “Are you ready for the good news?”

Scott was always ready for good news. “Yes sir.”

Clarke swallowed a bite of bread and cracked a grin. “We’re getting a demolitionist…and a scout.”

Scott’s eyes lit up. “Are you serious?”

“That I am.”

“Unbelievable!” He wasn’t sure which was better. Demolitionists were just fun. Every now and then, the need for professionalism was outdone by the need to blow something up. But a scout? That was a total surprise. “We’re seriously getting a scout?”

Clarke smiled. “I was as thrilled as you are when I found out. The letter was in my mailbox this morning.”

Scouts were the prestige of EDEN. No other position trained harder, and no other position came with more respect. They were the EDEN equivalent of special forces. “What’s his name?”

Clarke swallowed another bite of bread. “You mean her name.”

Scott’s eyebrows lifted.

“Esther Brooking,” Clarke answered. “She’s a Type-2 scout.”

“What are Type-2 scouts?” It wasn’t a silly question. Few people knew exactly what scouts were.

“Tactical observation. Type-1 are tactical combat.”

Scott felt his heart sink a tiny bit. A Type-1 scout would have been fun. But a scout was a scout nonetheless.

“It gets better,” Clarke said.

“It gets better?”

Clarke grinned. “She’s British.”

Scott blurted out a laugh and leaned back. “You had to ruin it.”

“Bugger off.”

Scott smiled and considered Clarke’s news. A Type-2 scout. Tactical observation. Jayden would have someone new to partner with. Varvara wasn’t going to like that at all. “Who’s our demolitionist?”

“Maksim Frolov,” Clarke answered. “And that’s all I know.”

That was all that needed to be known. Demolitionists all fell under the same category. They made things explode. All other details were moot. “Esther Brooking and Maksim Frolov,” Scott repeated. He was already eager to spread the word.

“They’ll arrive at 2100 tonight,” Clarke said. “Let the unit sleep—they can meet them tomorrow morning. You will pick them up.”

“Not a problem, sir.” It made sense for Scott to meet them. Dostoevsky and Max weren’t exactly public relations specialists. And as for Clarke, if there was anything that could possibly be done by someone else, the captain usually found a way to make it happen. “What’s the forecast?”

Clarke smiled. “It’ll be raining stair rods. Nothing says ‘welcome to Novosibirsk‘ like miserable weather.”

Scott laughed. It had been the same for he and his friends. When they’d arrived at Novosibirsk from Richmond, frigid rain had met them. “Weather Mike knows what he’s doing.”

“That he does,” Clarke answered. “That he does.”

“I’ll take Galya with me tonight, if that’s not a problem with you.”

“As you wish. She’s an epsilon—she needs to do some of these things. You can let her run the morning session one day this week, if you’d like.”

“I might do that,” Scott said. Galina did well with workouts. She was as thorough a person as Scott had ever known. With that thought, he caught himself on the verge of a laugh. Galina was his subordinate. Somehow, that didn’t seem right.

“Well, that’s enough chinwag for now,” Clarke said as he rose from the table. “I’ve got two laps to run.”

“I’m one minute behind you, sir.”

Clarke laughed as he trotted out of the cafeteria. “You’ll be more than one minute behind me, lieutenant!”

Scott chuckled at Clarke’s taunt. It wouldn’t even be close. There were only two men who could push the former quarterback: Dostoevsky and Becan. Scott’s mind then focused on the commander. Where was Dostoevsky? It was unheard of for him to miss a morning session. It was unheard of for him to be late at all. Scott glanced up as his teammates started away.

“Remmy, yeh comin’ or wha’?”

“I’m coming,” Scott answered, as he waved his bread. “Few more bites.”

“Leave him alone,” Oleg said. “He is best lieutenant in Novosibirsk!” Becan scoffed as Oleg followed him outside.

Scott finished his bread, then proceeded to meet his comrades on the track. Just as he’d predicted, catching up with Clarke was no bother at all. He lapped him with little effort. Once laps were finished, Scott allowed David to lead workouts. Afterward, the operatives gathered together for their true breakfast. The drudgery of the initial wakeup was vanquished, and conversation was lighthearted and free. Scott told the crew about Esther and Maksim, and as expected, they met the news with cheer.

They returned to Room 14, where the rush of the showers began. Within an hour, the operatives were cleaned, dressed, and customarily scattered throughout the base. Morning session always ended that way. Later they would meet for lunch, and then they would find something to pass the time until dinner. That was how it worked, in the warm discomfort of their prison-cell home.

Only Jayden complained.

3

Monday, August 1, 0011 NE

EDEN Command

Judge Leonid Torokin hated receptions—even those held in his honor. But receptions for others? He hated them more. So naturally, his hate for this one ran deep.

“Good evening, comrade,” Judge Dmitri Grinkov said in Russian, a pseudo-sincere smile on his face.

“Good evening indeed,” replied Torokin. Grinkov was as close to a friend as Torokin had on the High Command. It didn’t hurt that Grinkov was the only other Russian.

Grinkov chuckled under his breath, sliding his thick hands into his suit pockets. “You sound pleased as always.”

The ambient sound of classical music reverberated from the walls of the ballroom, as a ten-piece orchestra performed from their stage along the back wall. Torokin watched them for a moment. The ensemble members were fortunate, Torokin thought. It was rare that citizens, whether they were musicians or caterers, were invited to EDEN Command. Even custodians needed high security clearance. The location of EDEN Command itself was unknown—even to the judges. All flights to the base were done blind.

He finally responded to Grinkov. “I hated my inauguration. I wished they would have just let me come in. No music, no celebration. None of it.”

Grinkov smiled. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“Don’t worry.” He shot a look to his counterpart. “I hated your inauguration, too.”

As the two judges stood side by side, the full capacity of EDEN Command bustled around them. Torokin’s eyes wandered over the room. It was all so unnecessary. The elegant lighting. The formal wear. The champagne. All of it. That was why he hated receptions. They brought out the fake in everyone.

“Look,” the larger Grinkov said, motioning to the other side of the room. “There is the man we are here to see. He is with Pauling—it must be him.”

Torokin followed Grinkov’s gaze across the room, through the weaving throng of attendants and guests. Sure enough, President Pauling was there, with the Canadian Judge Jason Rath predictably at his heels. And beside the two of them stood their guest. The man they were supposed to shower with praise. The late Darryl Kentwood’s successor.

Judge Benjamin Archer.

The first word that popped into Torokin’s head was pretty. It was a thought that he meant as insulting. Grinkov had another word in mind.

“Is he a judge, or a prince?”

He was right. Archer was tall and slender. He looked like a prince. His hair, champagne blond and a perfect complement to his countenance, was combed neatly. As Pauling introduced him to another judge, Archer stretched his lips in a smile. Even from a distance, his teeth sparkled white. He looked trained in appearance. Not in war.

Torokin hated him already.

“How old can he be?” Grinkov asked. “He looks young. Upper thirties?”

That sounded close. And Grinkov was right about something else, without actually saying it: Archer looked like one of the youngest judges there. Judge Shintaku was thirty-three, and after her was Richard Lena at thirty-six. Everyone else was well over forty. Torokin himself was forty-seven. But his body said otherwise. He was as perfectly built as a person could be, despite the relative smallness of his frame. He wasn’t a tower of muscles—he was lightning in a bottle. A bottle so hard it was scary. Standing next to the overweight Grinkov made Torokin look almost godlike.

Grinkov snagged an hors d’oeuvre from a passing server. He shoved it straight into his mouth. “He probably knows which fork to use first,” he said through a mouthful of food.

Even Torokin smiled at that one. “He probably does.”

They watched as Pauling led Archer through the room. As they drew nearer, Pauling’s eyes latched onto the two Russians. As soon as the president smiled, Grinkov hurriedly swallowed his food. “Here they come.”

Torokin assumed a tenser posture as they approached.

“Dmitri! Leonid!” said Pauling. “How are you this evening?”

Grinkov spoke in English for the first time. “Very good, Mr. President! Judge Torokin and I were just talking about how beautiful it looked in here. We are having a wonderful time.”

Torokin fought back a smirk.

“Yes, yes, they’ve done an outstanding job,” agreed Pauling. “There’s someone I’d like you two to meet.” He stepped to the side, and Archer took a step forward. The newcomer flashed a pearl-white smile. “I’d like you to meet Benjamin Archer, our newest judge.”

Archer extended his hand. “It is truly magnificent to meet the both of you.”

He was British. Yet another thing for Torokin to hate.

Grinkov shook Archer’s hand graciously.

“You’re shaking the hand of Judge Dmitri Grinkov,” Pauling explained to Archer. “One of the finest former colonels to ever come out of Leningrad. He’s been with us for over two years.”

“Dobry vecer,” said Grinkov.

“Dobry vecer, spasibo,” Archer answered.

Grinkov’s eyes widened. “You speak Russian?”

“Da,” Archer said with a grin. “Among several other languages.” He averted his attention to Torokin.

“And this,” Pauling said, “is Judge Leonid Torokin.”

As Archer extended his hand, he lifted his eyebrows. “The Leonid Torokin?”

“That’s correct,” affirmed Pauling. “Formerly of Vector Squad.”

Torokin took Archer’s hand and squeezed firmly. He was silently surprised at the new judge’s grip.

“It is truly an honor and a privilege to meet you, Judge Torokin. I’ve heard stories of Klaus Faerber and Vector Squad since my first day in EDEN. I admire you tremendously.”

Torokin nodded his head. “And you, Judge Archer. Welcome.” Archer had an intriguing gaze—Torokin noticed it right away. Beside the unique distinction of being amber in color, Archer’s eyes actually glinted of intelligence. It struck him as different immediately. It was ironically sad.

“You were vice-general of London base, were you not?” Grinkov asked.

“That’s correct, I was.”

“Then you already know a little bit about politics.”

Archer smiled. “Unfortunately, I do. I suppose it comes with the territory. Hopefully my contributions will be more tactical than political.”

“You are a tactician?” Torokin asked.

“I try to be multidimensional. I suppose I’m more of an organizer than anything else, but tactician? It’d be nice to think that as well.”

Torokin’s eyes shifted to Jason Rath, who stood behind Archer and the president. “And how did you find such a promising vice-general? He was your find if I remember, correct?”

The Canadian judge smiled. “Yes he was. I hear bits and pieces on occasion, and I heard his name mentioned several times. So I did my research. When the position came available, he seemed like a legitimate choice.” He looked at Pauling. “And I guess the president agreed, eh?”

Pauling nodded.

“Well,” said Torokin, turning back to Archer, “I look forward to working with you, then. If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask.”

“I certainly won’t,” Archer said, bowing his head. “Many thanks to you for your willingness to guide a novice.”

“You were a vice-general. You are not a novice.”

After a moment of polite closure, Pauling took a step to the side. “We’ve still got a few more judges to meet. Benjamin?”

He smiled. “Absolutely, Mr. President.”

Goodbyes were exchanged, and they walked away.

Torokin and Grinkov watched as Pauling led Archer and Rath to Judge Iwayama. After a moment, Grinkov spoke, again in Russian.

“He is smart.”

“He is capable,” added Torokin. “More so than I thought. I can see it in his eyes.”

Grinkov smiled. “So have you changed your mind about him?”

“No. I still don’t like him.”

“Rath speaks highly of him.”

“I don’t like Rath.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like Canadians.”

Grinkov laughed. “You don’t like Britons, you don’t like Canadians…you don’t like many things.”

“I like vodka,” Torokin said. “And young, beautiful women.”

“And I suppose since there are no young, beautiful women here, we will be drinking vodka tonight?”

Torokin watched as Archer was introduced to Iwayama. The older Japanese man bowed graciously. Judge Shintaku, standing submissively behind Iwayama, offered Archer the same courtesy. Tamiko. She was the closest thing to a young, beautiful woman that EDEN Command had, but even that wasn’t saying much. Her only competition was Carol June, the middle-aged American. Carol was actually an attractive older woman. She just also happened to be a witch. At least Tamiko had a decent personality.

Torokin just didn’t like Asians.

“Shall we invite Richard, then?” Grinkov asked. “He’s the closest thing we have to an alcoholic.”

“Yes,” Torokin said as he searched the room for Richard Lena. He spotted him assaulting the punch bowl. He liked Lena. Lena had an ‘attitude.’ He was a well-informed, American smart-aleck—at least in how he addressed people. He was quick to put foolishness in its place. “But I think he is getting a head start.”

“Are we skipping out on the dinner?”

“What will they do? Fire us?”

“I think it is best if we stay. At least for dinner. Everyone else will be here, and we do not want Archer to get a negative impression.”

Torokin hated social events, but Grinkov had a point. Whether he liked it or not, Archer was their new co-worker. Skipping dinner would do more harm than good. It was, once again, all political. “You are right.”

“I am always. Except when I am wrong.”

Torokin gave him a look.

Grinkov laughed. “Let’s go, then. Maybe they hired a new Russian server girl, young and beautiful. You do like Russians, right?”

“Some of them.”

Grinkov slapped his back. “Let us go.”

The rest of the reception was predictable. There was a formal banquet, complete with speeches by both Pauling and Archer. Even Rath, the man credited with finding the newcomer, had several words to say to the crowd. Lame attempts at humor were met with plastic laughs, and unnecessary toasts were raised in the name of Earth’s protection.

Torokin just went through the motions. He smiled when everyone smiled, and he sipped champagne when everyone sipped champagne. But his mind was on Darryl Kentwood.

He’d known Kentwood relatively well, considering they’d rarely spoken. Kentwood’s work ethic had been strong. His death was a loss to them all. And Benjamin Archer was supposed to replace that?

That was hardly an easy assignment.

In a way, Archer’s selection made him angry. It was true that the president appointed judges. But usually it was discussed beforehand. This time, Pauling had just taken Rath’s word for it, and Archer got the nod right away. Torokin wondered if it was English-speaking bias. Pauling was an American, Rath was a Canadian, and Archer was British. Heaven forbid another Russian got the chair. Or a German, of which there were none in the High Command. In fact, Uta Volbrecht had recently retired from Vector Squad. She would have been ideal for the job. But instead, they got an English monopoly. It was political. All political. And he was tired of it.

As his eyes wandered around the room, he took note of all the banquet’s participants. Everyone was there, or at least that was how it appeared. The other eleven judges were there, the EDEN Command staff members were there, even the individual secretaries were there.

But there was one person who he was sure wasn’t there. Kang Gao Jing—the director of Intelligence. The most secretive man in EDEN, both literally and figuratively. The judges were the only men who knew him, and even their relationships with him were obscure. He was the eyes and ears of EDEN. He didn’t exist.

Kang was fortunate. He could skip any banquet he wanted, and it wouldn’t matter at all. He could probably skip his own if he had one. Hardly anyone would recognize him anyway.

Before Torokin realized it, the men and women around him were rising to their feet, as a wave of post-banquet chatter washed over them. He leaned over to Grinkov and spoke. “Is it over?”

Grinkov smiled. “Were you not just here?”

“I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Yes, it’s over. Everyone is free to go.” His smile broadened. “And we are free to drink.”

Torokin allowed his gaze to shift to Archer. He was in a conversation with Judges Malcolm Blake and Carol June. It looked pleasant—exactly how all Archer’s conversations looked. “Have you spoken with Richard?”

“Yes, but he turned us down.”

Torokin shot him a look. “Are you serious?”

“He said he must call his family tonight. He has not talked to them for some time.”

“Family is so inconvenient.”

“I know.”

Torokin sighed and rose from his chair. “Then it is only the two of us, I suppose.”

“Yes. So it seems.”

“Is there anyone here that you still want to talk to?”

Grinkov shook his head. “We can leave whenever you want.”

“Let’s go, then. I’ve had enough for one night.”

“Me too.”

No one bid farewell to Torokin and Grinkov as they trekked out of the banquet hall and into the corridors of EDEN Command. But that suited them just fine.

There was no one to whom they wanted to say goodbye, anyway.

4

Monday, August 1, 0011 NE

1720 hours

Novosibirsk, Russia

Scott growled as a left hook smacked against the tip of his chin. His mouthpiece shook loose from his teeth. He stepped back and resituated it. “Lucky shot,” he mumbled through the rubber.

“Like hell, tha’ was lucky!” Becan said, removing his own mouthpiece and holding it. “Tha’s called a good stick!”

“Then how come that’s the first one you’ve landed?”

”’Cos I’m bein’ polite.”

“Yeah, right.”

Sparring together had become Scott and Becan’s new custom. On sporadic days, they would find time to escape to the gymnasium together, where they would exercise in one-on-one bouts. They made sure never to stick to a set schedule. They already had their fair share of those.

Becan slipped his mouthpiece back into place. “All righ’ then, dope. Millie up!”

Scott adjusted his headgear and bounced.

Then Becan struck. The move was a stutter-stepped hook, similar to the one he’d just landed. But the Irishman never struck the same way twice in a row. There’d be something different. And there was. The moment Scott moved to block the attack, Becan skidded and twirled back around. He sent a spinning hook kick to Scott’s face.

But Scott was ready.

He leaned back and tap-blocked Becan’s foot. He knew better than to actually grab it—that was a lesson he’d learned the hard way more than once. The Irishman had the nasty ability to turn anything into pivot point for follow-up attack. But not this time. As soon as Becan’s momentum was jarred to a stop, Scott slid to the ground and swept the Irishman’s feet. Becan toppled flat on his back.

“Veck!”

Scott waited for Becan to stand. “You all right? That was a pretty nasty fall you took there.” Scott grinned as the Irishman scowled.

There was only one rule that Scott and Becan abided by while they fought. Everything required some form of smack-talk. It was a mixture of lighthearted taunting and genuine competitiveness, but it was never taken to heart.

“Nasty fall this,” Becan said. He dashed forward with a fierce leg thrust, and as soon as Scott parried it, he struck with an aggressive right hook.

One that was snagged in mid-air.

“Veck, Remmy, no!”

But it was too late. Scott’s fingers were already coiled around Becan’s wrist, and with a instinctive application of pressure, electricity surged through the Irishman’s spine. Scott flicked the wrist, and Becan cut a flip onto the floor. For the second time, he landed flat on his back.

“Tha’s bollocks!” Becan said with a groan. “Yeh can’t use the Dostoevsky Special!”

Scott laughed and took out his mouthpiece. “What’s that rule again?”

“If I can’t stop it, yeh can’t bloody use it!”

“Right, that was it. I’d forgotten.”

“Bleedin’ righ’ yeh forgot,” Becan said, as Scott assisted him up. “I want some private Nightman sparrin’ lessons.”

Scott fought back a grin. He hated training with Dostoevsky. But it did have its rewards. Scott was now one of the few people who could go toe to toe with Becan. At least, go toe to toe with him sometimes. Becan was the better fighter, hands down. But every now and then, Scott had a good day. A day when everything worked. This was a very good day.

“So wha’s tha’ make the score this month?” Becan asked with a glare. “Me, twenty, you, one?”

“I’ve taken you down more than once.”

“Bollocks! Name a second time!”

“Last Thursday.”

“…name a third time!”

Scott tried not to laugh. “I guess that means we’re through for today?”

“Righ’. We’re bloody through.” Becan pulled off his headgear. His hair was a sweat-tangled mess.

But Scott’s hair was worse—practically dripping, and he ran a hand back to mat it down. A fight against Becan could turn a human being into a sweat factory, especially a fight that ended in victory. It took every grain of athleticism to keep pace with the Irishman’s prowess, and sometimes not even that was enough.

But this time it had been.

“So wha’ abou’ these rookies?” Becan asked as he stepped to the edge of the ring to throw off his sparring gear.

Scott knew Becan was changing the subject. He always did that when he lost. But Scott didn’t mind. “What about them?”

“Do we know anythin’?”

Scott shook his head. “I haven’t even seen their papers. You know as much as I do.”

“Yeh know wha’ I think is bloody ridiculous? The fact tha’ it took three bloody months to get reinforcements. That’s flickin’ insane.”

“Clarke did say we were getting more reinforcements, in addition to Esther and Maksim. We just don’t know who they are.”

“Or when we’ll have them?”

“Or when we’ll have them.”

Becan zipped his duffle bag closed and slung it over his shoulder. “I’m not surprised. Clarke never knows anythin’.”

The two men walked from the gymnasium and stepped out onto the grounds. Rain had already begun to fall outside, and they hurriedly made their way to the barracks. They managed to get there without becoming soaked.

“How bloody fitting is this?” Becan asked, shaking the drops from his hair. “Even the rookies arrive in a storm.”

Scott chuckled. “Clarke and I were talking about that earlier. That’s got to be more than coincidence.”

“They should put a sign on the airstrip: ‘Welcome to hell—it froze over.’ Or, it was frozen when we arrived, at least.”

Scott laughed a bit more. “I remember everything about our first night here, as if it were yesterday. What a miserable night.”

“It was worth it, least for me it was.” The Irishman winked. “I got to see Sveta showerin’.”

“Only you would consider that payoff.”

“No…” Becan said with a smile. “Only you wouldn’t.”

Scott said nothing as he continued to walk. Svetlana. He thought about her quite often. How could he not? But there was pain with her memory, too. There was Siberia. There was Anatoly. There was goodbye. And the thought of that still made him hurt.

“Ah well,” Becan said. “She was a little too flat-chested for me, annyway.”

Scott shot him a glare.

Becan stared back. “Wha’?”

“I bet she’d appreciate you saying that,” Scott said scathingly.

“Remmy, it was a joke. She was a nice bit o’ skirt.”

“That’s not the point.” Scott sighed and walked on. “Never mind.” To even try and explain it to Becan would be useless. Becan saw only her body. He saw blond hair, blue eyes, and small breasts. He saw just what she consisted of. He didn’t see her. The Irishman was like that with every woman.

“Didn’t mean to cheese yeh off. I’m sorry.” After several moments, he offered a small smile. “If it makes yeh feel anny better, I don’t think she was into me, either. The first time she saw me, she screamed.”

Scott tried not to laugh, but did anyway.

“There yeh go. Laughin’s good!”

Becan genuinely was who he was. Genuinely superficial, usually, but genuine nonetheless. Scott supposed that was better than nothing.

“So enough abou’ tha’. How abou’ Nicole?”

“If you say one thing about the size of Nikki’s breasts—”

Becan raised his hands in defense. “Righ’, I’m not tha’ dumb.” A moment later, he smiled. “Yeh must be excited.”

Excited didn’t even begin to cover it. Ecstatic was a more appropriate word. “I can’t wait. I almost can’t believe it’s this Friday.”

“I can’t wait to meet her, either.”

Scott could definitely wait for Becan to meet her. Without guilt. “She already feels like she knows everyone. She’s heard stories about the whole crew.”

“Yeh better not be tellin’ her lies abou’ me.”

“Everything I told her was true. Like the time we were in Turkey, and you forgot to bring ammunition.”

“Grand. Thanks for sharin’ tha’ one.”

“And the time Jay crippled that canrassi, and you tried to ride it.”

Becan broke out in a laugh. “Class.”

“I pretty much told her everything.”

Becan smiled for a moment, before he fell into purposeful silence. It lasted for several seconds before he spoke. “Did yeh tell her a date?”

Scott stopped in the hall. “What?”

Becan turned to face him. “Did yeh tell her a date? To get married. Did the two o’ yeh even talk abou’ it yet?”

Scott met him with a silence indicative of uncertainty. They hadn’t set a date. They’d barely even talked about it at all. In truth, he wasn’t even sure how to go about it. She was in North America, and he was in the middle of Russia. They were engaged, yes—but what did that mean in a relationship like theirs? It would work out. He knew it had to. But he still wasn’t quite sure how. “Not yet, but…I know we’ll talk about that when she gets here. We’ll figure it out, rest assured.” Some kind of way.

The Irishman smiled. “I know yeh will, Remmy. You’re a good man. Good men figure things like tha’ ou’.”

“And we will,” Scott said. “We definitely will.”

Though that was the last time that day Scott spoke of Nicole, she played in his mind from then on. The same as she had all week. The two of them would surely figure it out. It wasn’t a choice. It was something the two of them had to do. Everything hinged on their faith.

And of that, they had plenty.

2050 hours

Though night was beginning in Novosibirsk, it was 9:50 in the morning in Michigan. It was the perfect time for him to call. After Scott had punched in her number, he listened as the phone rang on the other side of the world.

The months since Scott’s transfer from Richmond had been lonely ones. Scott’s earlier conversation with Becan only served to remind him of it. He and Nicole had passed through every negative flurry that an engaged couple could have passed through. Confusion. Disheartenment. Bitterness. He still remembered the last thing he had said to her in person. See you in Detroit. How life had dramatically changed.

And yet, they held on. Love held on. He could still call, and she would still answer with that smile in her voice. That was all they needed.

The ringing stopped. The line picked up.

“Hello?”

“Dobry utra, my American princess.”

She was smiling. He could tell. “Hey there, handsome prince…”

It didn’t matter what she called him. She was there, and that was all that mattered. There had been several times when they’d almost lost it. They’d almost lost everything they’d built for six years. But they pulled through. The fires only served to refine them. “What’s going on?”

“Not much. Just getting ready for my little trip.”

“Little trip?” Scott smiled.

“Yesss,” she drawled. “I won a free vacation on a game show.”

He knew what the little trip was, and a game show had nothing to do with it. The truth was that they saved for months, and they split the cost of a round-trip ticket to Novosibirsk. God had opened the way. “Oh really?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Where to?”

“To the armpit of the universe.”

Scott laughed. “Congratulations, baby. You must be excited.”

“I am. A handsome prince will be picking me up.”

“I know. So who is he?”

“Very funny!”

He chuckled. On many occasions, Nicole had told him that being corny was his greatest gift. At least she found it amusing. “Four days away, baby.”

“I knooow. I’m so excited.”

“What do you have planned for today?”

She sighed. “Not much—I’m taking it easy. Tomorrow I’ll be doing a lot of shopping.”

“Sounds like fun.”

She laughed. “You know it. How about you? It’s late over there…”

He nodded absently. “It’s almost nine.”

“Why are you up so late?”

He grinned. He couldn’t wait to tell her. He was about to meet their newest additions: a demolitionist and a scout. It was still so hard to believe. “We’re getting two rookies tonight.” His grin widened. “A demolitionist—and a scout.”

“Oh, okay.”

His head drooped, and he closed his eyes. Deep down inside, her apathy didn’t surprise him. It was about as exciting to her as new shoes were to him. He laughed to himself and went on. “So yeah. They’re coming in about thirty minutes. A teammate and I are meeting them in the hangar.”

“Sounds like fun,” she answered.

If she only knew. “It will be.” He couldn’t blame her for not caring. If he were in her shoes, he wouldn’t want to know anything about Novosibirsk either.

“How’s David?” she asked.

“He’s good. He still doesn’t know when Sharon is going to head out here. Hopefully soon, though.” He was surprised she hadn’t already. “He misses his kids like crazy.” It was amazing how David held himself together. Every time Scott asked him about it, David told him that Sharon was used to it. Scott thought it was a little tragic. David had his bouts of sadness, and Scott was usually the one to hear them, but overall he was handling the distance with poise.

“His wife stayed in New York, right?”

“Yep. She’s staying there with the kids.” The original plan was for Sharon to move to Richmond, Virginia, to be closer to David at that base. Russia had ruined that idea.

“How are Jayden and Varvara?”

“They’re good. It’s been about three months now.” That was perhaps one of the strangest things to Scott. In the four months that Scott had known Jayden, the Texan had Varvara for three of them. Yet he still thought of Jayden as the lonely cowboy. That mindset just seemed to fit.

“I’m glad for him. I can’t wait to meet him. To meet everyone.” He heard her smile again. “I feel like I know them already.”

“As long as I get some time with you, too.”

“Mmm,” she said, “sounds sexy.”

“It will be.” Of that, he was certain. But sex wasn’t part of the equation. They were both traditionalists when it came to waiting. As far as up close and personal, however—that was acceptable anytime.

He glanced at his clock and sighed. Galina would be there any minute. He had told her to meet him in his quarters, where they would set off for the hangar together. He knew she’d never be late.

“Scott?”

His attention returned to Nicole. “Yeah, baby?”

“…I’ve really missed you.”

His heart melted. In his world of grenades and assault rifles, words like those brought him home. They gave him hope in the dark night. “I’ve missed you, too.”

“I can’t wait to see you again.”

“I’ve been saying that for the past four months.” It felt like so much longer.

The conversation was halted by a firm knock on the door.

Scott closed his eyes and sighed. Galina was on time again. For the first time ever, he hated it.

“What was that?” Nicole asked.

“Hang on, sweetie.” Scott pressed his hand over the receiver. “One second, Galya!” He returned to the phone. “I’m sorry—that’s Galina. It’s time for us to go.”

“You’re going with Galina?”

“Yeah.”

There was a hesitation. “Should I be jealous?”

Scott chuckled. “Only if you want to be.” She had nothing to worry about. It wasn’t that he had anything against Galina. She just wasn’t Nicole.

Nicole sighed. “I’ll let you go then. Are you going to call tomorrow morning?”

“You mean tomorrow night?”

“Right. Whatever it is on your side of the planet.”

“Definitely.”

“Good.”

An exchange of I love yous took place, followed by a pair of goodbyes. Before he knew it, the phone was off, and he once again sat by himself.

He missed her already.

Galina was in the hallway, a wet umbrella folded in her hand. As soon as Scott opened the door, she looked up at him and smiled. “Was that your wife-to-be?”

Scott offered a grimace. “Yes it was, Galina, and thank you for not being just a little bit late tonight.”

She laughed. “I am sorry. She is still good, yes?”

“She’s great. She can’t wait until Friday.” He couldn’t either. “You know who we got tonight?”

Galina’s smile remained. “Maksim and Esther.”

“You ready?”

“I am always!”

“Let’s do it.”

Clarke’s forecast was spot on target, as merciless rain fell. Though the shower wasn’t heavy, it was constant. It was enough to get everything soaked. It even smelled like bad weather.

Scott and Galina trekked across the grounds, sheltered under the same umbrella, as operatives from other units dashed through the puddles. “There’s a lot of people out tonight,” Scott said. His eyes scanned the grounds. It was the first time he had seen so many operatives about at curfew. It was obvious why.

“Yes,” Galina answered. “All the new alphas will be getting here soon. Maybe here already. These are probably the ones going to meet them.”

“Think our rookies got ‘the speech’ yet?”

Galina laughed and looked at him. “You mean from General Thoor? I am certain.” Her gaze returned forward. “He was probably waiting there for them, like he always does.”

Scott remembered well his first encounter with the general. He remembered the flight from Richmond. He remembered the pouring rain. He didn’t know what to make of the man they called the ‘Terror.’ If not for Thoor, Novosibirsk would have been overrun by the Bakma. Thoor and his Nightmen had saved them. But did that justify everything else?

“It was terrible weather when you arrived, was it not?”

Scott nodded absently. “Yes it was.”

She chuckled under her breath. “That is little Novosibirsk tradition. Show them the bad first.”

“Ha,” Scott said with a snort. “I’m still waiting for the good to kick in.”

The hangar was packed. Wide-eyed rookies were clustered in every direction. Some stood alone, while others listened to the droning of their new unit leaders. Somewhere amid the controlled chaos, the Fourteenth’s new blood waited.

Scott peered ahead as he and Galina tracked closer. Rain pattered against their umbrella, as their feet splashed the concrete below.

“Is there a way this is supposed to work?” Scott asked.

“I do not know. I have never done this before.”

Scott realized it in that moment: he and his friends had lucked out. They had avoided the chaos of coming in with a graduating class. They’d come in as transfers. Just them, the technicians, and Thoor.

It made sense that this class was so large. Over three thousand soldiers had been lost in the Assault on Novosibirsk. They had to be restocked. But was this enough?

When they finally entered the hangar, Scott grabbed hold of a passing technician. “Are they separated by unit?”

The technician stared at Scott for a moment. “English, no good…”

Galina was quick to take over. After several seconds of what Scott could only assume was the Russian version of same question, the technician smiled and replied. Then he hustled away.

“He says they have been put in unit order…so we are fourteenth from the left.”

“Is it really going to be that easy?” Scott counted from left to right, until his eyes came to rest on two lone operatives, one man and one woman. They stood next to each other in the back.

“That must be them,” Galina said.

“It’s got to be.” He glanced to her. “You ready?”

“Very much!”

“Let’s bring them home.”

He couldn’t help but wonder what the alphas were thinking. He wondered if they knew where they were. In the network that was EDEN’s bases, Novosibirsk was by far the worst. Its reputation was downright abhorrent. At least the rookies had teammates to greet them. “These guys have it made. We got turned loose the moment we got here.”

Galina laughed as she kept by his side. “You turned out okay.”

“Just okay?” he asked with a look.

“Maybe a little better.”

As the alphas drew closer, their features came into view. The scout was the first one he studied. She was a fair-complexioned black woman. Her mocha-colored skin complemented her chocolate bun to perfection, a bun that—despite its dampness—sat tidily in place. As soon as Scott and Galina neared her, she turned to regard them.

Her eyes were large and brown, and they followed Scott with heightened timidity. She was tiny, and slender to match. She looked like a scout.

The man beside her was large, but not huge. If Scott had the right pair, then this was the smallest demolitionist he’d ever seen. He towered above the girl, and he was still taller than Scott, but compared with William Harbinger he was average. His brown hair was almost too short to hold wetness—practically shaved—and he was as pale as a man could become. The two rookies were complete opposites.

“Get your game face on,” Scott said.

Galina gave him a funny look. “My game face?”

“Sports reference.” As soon as they drew close, the alphas snapped to salutes. The girl’s was crisp—purposed; the man’s more casual. Scott returned a salute of his own. “Who do we have here?”

The girl was first to speak. “Alpha Private Esther Brooking, sir!” Her voice was chirpy. It fit her small size to perfection.

The man beside her smirked. It caught Scott off guard. “Alpha Private and Demolitionist Maksim Frolov, lieutenant.”

Scott was impressed—Maksim had noticed Scott’s rank already. The smirk was unexpected, but he liked it. It was different coming from a rookie. “Well, Ms. Brooking and Mr. Frolov, welcome to Novosibirsk. I am Lieutenant Scott Remington, and by my side is Epsilon Galina Lebesheva.” As soon as Scott told them his name, Esther lifted an eyebrow. “We are part of the squad known as the Fourteenth. Do you two have all your bags ready?”

“Yes, lieutenant,” Maksim answered.

“Excellent. Let’s get you in for the night.”

Unpacking was a pain. Scott knew this all too well; he’d unpacked twice. If anyone were to tell him that two homes were better than one, he’d beg to differ. He watched as Esther and Maksim slung their wet duffle bags over their shoulders. He was certain they wanted the same thing he had when he was in their shoes: a warm shower and a bed. He knew they’d get them both soon.

“How was your flight from Philadelphia?” asked Galina.

“Very good, ma’am,” said Esther.

“Good. You must be tired tonight, yes?”

“Yes ma’am, very much.”

As they walked past the Pariah, Scott dipped his head toward it. “That’s our Vulture, right there by the corner. Whenever we get called for a mission, that’s the ride we take.”

Esther noticed the tail fin immediately. The dog and name were impossible to miss. “Why do they call her the Pariah, sir?”

Galina and Scott swapped a wry look. “We will let Travis tell you that,” Galina answered. “He is our pilot. I am sure he would be happy to explain it to you.”

“Where are you two from?” Scott asked.

“Cambridge.”

Maksim grinned. “Novosibirsk.”

“Novosibirsk?” Galina asked in a surprised tone.

“Da.”

A local boy, thought Scott. This was already his home. “This isn’t much of a jump for you, then?”

“I live twenty minutes away from here, lieutenant.”

“It’s a smidge farther for me,” said Esther.

Scott turned to her. “Don’t worry about getting too lonely. Our captain’s from Britain.”

Her smile grew large. “Fancy that, sir!”

“He will love the new company,” Galina said. “We give him hard enough time as it is.”

As Scott stepped out from the hangar, Galina lifted her umbrella and he edged beneath it. “You two don’t mind a little rain, do you?”

“No sir,” Esther said as she followed. She blinked as the droplets hit her face. “I’m fond of water anyway. I feel at home.”

Scott almost said something, but bit his lip before he could. The poor girl just had no idea.

The journey to Room 14 was a wet one, at least for the rookies. Despite the rain’s lack of severity, it drenched them from head to toe. Scott found it amusing. It was good to be on the dry side of the spectrum. The stormy arrival was a rite of passage, and his dues had already been paid. As they stepped into the barracks, their wet shoes squeaked down the hall.

“So you’re a scout, Esther?” Scott asked.

Esther brushed the damp strands from her face. “Yes, sir. I’ve graduated with high results, in the upper twentieth percentile for all Type-2s.”

Scott smiled. It was boasting, but it wasn’t arrogance. It was eagerness to please. “So what exactly does a Type-2 do?” He already knew the answer, but it gave them something to talk about.

“Tactical observation, sir. We listen, we watch, and we report. We’re choice for sniper supplementation and tactical planning.”

“We have a sniper in the Fourteenth. Delta Trooper Jayden Timmons. He’s from Texas.”

“Texas, sir?”

“Blue Creek.”

“Shall I need to adjust to a slurry accent?” she joked.

Scott chuckled. “He’s not so bad. I’m sure you’ve had your fill of southerners in Philadelphia.” Captain Williams was a southerner. Scott switched his gaze to Maksim. “You ever fought Captain Williams, Maksim?”

“Da, lieutenant,” said Maksim, laughing. “He beat me quick.”

“He beats everyone quick.”

“Did you fight Captain Williams, sir?” Esther asked.

“I did. I lasted about fifteen seconds.” Which actually wasn’t bad. There were more than enough cadets who went down with the first hit.

Since Dostoevsky had taken Scott under his wing, Scott’s hand-to-hand prowess had soared. He didn’t plan on being a Nightman anytime soon, but he had to hand it to them—they knew how to fight. He wondered how he’d handle Captain Williams now.

Within a minute, they stood outside the door to Room 14. Though water droplets fell to the floor, the alphas remained properly silent.

“Here’s the drill,” Scott whispered. “Curfew for most units is 2100 hours, and we’re no exception. After nine, we expect lights out and lips sealed. Understood?”

They nodded.

Scott gripped the knob. “All right, then. Let’s be quiet while we slip inside. You’re on your own to find bunks. Just don’t wake anyone up.” He turned the knob, pushed the door, and slid into the darkness.

Or where there should have been darkness.

The room was lit up and alive with operatives milling about everywhere. Even Clarke was there, entertaining Boris with a game of chess in the corner.

Scott stood in dumbstruck silence, as Becan pranced in his direction.

“I’m guessin’ these are the new ones, then?”

Scott was too stunned to reply.

“Howyeh!” Becan grinned to Esther and Maksim. “Becan McCrae, pleasure to meet yeh both!”

As the alphas stood in the doorway, the room’s focus turned to them.

“Here at last!” Clarke said, standing from the chess board. Boris threw up his hands.

“Captain, I checkmate you in two moves, why you leave?”

Clarke ignored him.

Scott leaned close to Becan as the operatives neared. “Why in the world is everyone up?”

“The captain said we could stay up to meet the rookies! Tha’s grand, isn’t it?”

It was grand, all right. Especially since Clarke had told him earlier to let the unit sleep. Somehow, Scott wasn’t surprised. After nine, we expect lights out and lips sealed. Understood? His own words replayed in his mind. So much for being taken seriously.

“Hi,” David said as he extended his hand. Travis did the same. Esther and Maksim offered them dampened smiles.

Becan pulled Scott aside as introductions ensued. “Esther’s a little vixen!”

He immediately gave Becan a look. “Give the girl twenty-four hours before you try to bed her.”

“Righ’. I’ll start timin’.” He checked his watch.

The crowd parted as Clarke stepped through. “I’m delighted the two of you are here! When we learnt we were due for a demolitionist and a scout, we were ecstatic.”

“We’re tickled pink, sir,” Esther said.

“Bloody good to hear a real English accent!” Clarke beamed as the other men groaned. “Please come, and I’ll introduce you to the rest of our crew.” With that, he led the alphas away.

“He’s kind of small,” Travis said, glancing to Scott.

“What?” Scott asked.

“Maksim. The demolitionist.”

“He’s bigger than anyone else here,” Scott answered. “You don’t have to be a registered giant to be a demolitionist.”

“Yeah, but still—”

Becan cut in, looking to Travis. “Can you lug a mini-gun?”

“Well…no—”

“Then dry up. He’ll do bloody grand.”

“Anyway,” Scott said, “when were you guys planning on sleeping tonight? Or should I not wake you up tomorrow morning?”

“Please don’t,” Becan said.

“I’m serious.”

David chuckled. “Loosen up. We’ll be fine. Clarke already said we didn’t have to get up at six. We can sleep in for once.”

“You never sleep in.”

“I know.”

“Righ’,” said Becan. “Well, I’ll let yis talk abou’ trivial things, like goin’ to bed an’ wakin’ up an’ all. I’m goin’ to show Esther the community showers.” Within seconds, he was on Clarke’s tail, as the captain gave the alphas the tour.

David smiled as he watched Becan go. “So what do you think? About the rookies?”

Scott slid his hands in his pockets. “It’s too early to think anything yet. They haven’t even unpacked.”

“You working them hard tomorrow?”

“Actually, we’re swimming tomorrow.”

Jayden’s eyes shot wide open. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious. Now stop whining all the time.”

“Sweet!”

“You working them hard Wednesday?” David asked.

Scott laughed and shook his head. “Actually, Wednesday I’m running some passing drills.”

“So basically, they’re getting the easiest military transition in history.”

“Right.” And right David was. On their first day with Charlie Squad, Tacker had pulled a mission drill. “They’ll be fine. This place will show its face soon enough.” Something was going to be their reality check. The food, the weather, the Nightmen…something. No one got off at Novosibirsk unscathed.

Scott glanced across the room and saw Becan. Unbelievable. He really was showing Esther the showers.

“Thank you,” Galina said from Scott’s side. “For letting me come today.”

“Thank you for coming, Galina.” He loved that about the epsilon medic. She was always doing her best. Always willing to do more. “But I think this is the part where I leave.”

She smiled. “You are going to bed?”

“Yeah. My work here is done.”

She sighed and turned to Becan. “Then I will drag him away from Esther and gather everyone for sleep. Or they will all drown tomorrow from tire.”

Drowning would certainly put an end to the swimming requests, thought Scott. “Night, Galya.”

“Good night, lieutenant.”

“Night everyone.”

“See you tomorrow, Scott!”

Tomorrow. Captain’s permission or not, they weren’t sleeping in. Not on his watch. At least not too much, anyway. Scott waved to those nearby, and slipped out of Room 14.

It was funny how fast he’d adjusted to officer life. It was funny how fast his teammates had adjusted to him as an officer. It had slid into place like a glove.

He was excited about tomorrow. He wasn’t crazy about admitting it, but he liked the pool, too. It was a nice change of pace from outdoor training.

When he crawled into bed, sleep found him right away. He offered it no resistance.

5

Tuesday, August 2, 0011 NE

EDEN Command

The night met Judge Torokin with restlessness. As Monday rolled over to Tuesday, he laid still in the bed of his judge’s suite. Despite he and Grinkov’s earlier enthusiasm for vodka, neither man had left Torokin’s room drunk. They only talked of past battles and future issues, then solemnly retired to their rooms.

It was politics that kept him awake. The banquet had rendered him bitter. This was a war. It was a war in which they had few answers to show for their roles. And they were bringing in more politicians. It made him sick.

Torokin slid out of bed. Throwing on his official judge attire, he gave himself a brief look in the mirror. This was a war—a war in which he felt unproductive. There was only one thing he could think of to do. The one thing he could do anytime.

He could try to get answers.

Torokin rarely visited Alien Confinement, despite the luxury of rank that enabled him to do so. He was more interested in other things such as tactics and movements and guns. But on occasion, he ventured inside—usually in the hours of night.

There was too much that EDEN didn’t know. That upset him. He was a man who lived for the offensive, and an offensive was the one thing they couldn’t mount. They had no way to invade the aliens’ worlds. They had no way to challenge their space-faring fleets. They had almost no way of doing anything—except waiting, reacting, and readjusting in the aftermaths of the incursions. That thought made Torokin feel vulnerable. He hated it.

As he stepped to the first security door, he eyed the camera above. The tired voice of a guard addressed him.

“Please look into the retinal scanner.”

Torokin did so, then waited patiently as the first set of doors opened. Ahead, two sets of similar doors remained closed. A retinal scanner, a hand sensor, and a voice detector: the three requirements to obtain entry. And if those were compromised, there were six armed guards at the inner doorway. When added to the fact that no one knew exactly where EDEN Command was, it was safe to call Confinement secure.

As soon as Torokin had passed through the final two doors, he found himself inside the corridor. The familiar smell of sterility hit his nose.

“Good evening, Judge Torokin,” one of the armed guards said in Russian. There was always at least one guard who could greet the judges in their native language. That was designed. “Can I assist you?”

“No,” Torokin answered. “I know my way.”

The guard resumed his place as Torokin stepped past.

He knew he wouldn’t get answers from any of the aliens. At least, he’d get nothing new. They’d spoken to this same set of prisoners for months. There were only so many ways to ask the same questions. But that didn’t mean that Torokin wouldn’t try. At least he felt useful, even if it was only the false impression of true progress.

A scientist hurried to meet him. “Good evening, Judge Torokin. Will you be speaking to a prisoner today?” The scientist was Puerto Rican, but spoke English.

Torokin paused for a moment. “ic-22.”

“Right this way.”

The code was actually a designation. An Ithini captured with the Ceratopians was designated an ic. This was the twenty-second one they’d had. While he’d never spoken to it before, he’d watched others try. It was particularly unresponsive, but for whatever reason it remained there.

Of course, there were ibs, too. Those were Ithini captured with the Bakma. But they tended to be considerably less intelligent. It was a detail that had not gone unnoticed.

As soon as they reached ic-22’s cell, the scientist stepped to a side-door panel. The door itself was opaque—Command didn’t want the aliens staring about. After the scientist pressed a series of buttons, the door slid open. The cell was dimly lit, but it was obvious that moments ago, it had been completely dark. ic-22 was barely awake, and turned its head to the men. Then it sat up.

The Ithini, or ‘grays,’ as they were commonly referred to, were stereotyped by most citizens as being cute. Torokin, on the other hand, found the Ithinis to be the eeriest of all the species. Their large, black, bulbous eyes sat slanted on their oversized heads. Their bodies, frail to the point where they looked anorexic, were covered in tight, off-white skin. It felt like rubber to the touch.

While not overly dexterous, they walked with a gangly gait. They walked as if they were tall—odd, considering that the average Ithini measured barely five feet in height.

They were telepathic, at least to an extent. They had the ability to ‘connect,’ as they called it. It allowed them to understand concepts and feelings, but only so far. There was no evidence that they had the ability to read minds thought for thought, transfer exact ideas, or manipulate will. They merely adjusted their frequencies to match others’, which gave them a puzzling inclination to comprehend. It made little sense.

“B’nik ya`asua,” the scientist said as he entered the cell.

The Ithini stared silently.

Torokin could see his own reflection in the alien’s eyes. It was impossible to tell if an Ithini was tired. Their faces were almost always stoic. They did display occasional emotions—fear, excitement, curiosity. But their personalities in general were subtle, if not at times completely void.

“Will you speak with us today?” the scientist asked.

The alien did nothing.

Torokin folded his arms as he watched the scientist sit down in a chair. The cell door behind them was opened, but it didn’t matter. There was no way the Ithini could escape.

“He doesn’t want to connect,” the scientist said. “He would have done so by now.”

Torokin rubbed his eyes, then leaned against the wall. “Have you spoken to this alien before?”

“Yes, I have. Several times.”

“Ask him what your name is.”

The scientist turned to the Ithini. “Tsi-t`an, jie’a`ntik?”

Several seconds of silence passed without response.

“Tsi-t`an, jie’a`ntik?”

“Does he know your name?”

The scientist sighed. “Yes, he does. I don’t think he understands. He didn’t connect.”

“You’re speaking in his language. How can he not understand?”

The scientist tried again. “Tsi-t`an, jie’a`ntik?”

There was nothing.

“The Ithini are a stubborn lot, aren’t they?” The new voice came from outside the cell. It was a British one. When Torokin turned around, he was genuinely surprised at who he saw.

It was Benjamin Archer, the newly-named judge.

“When they connect, you can speak to them in gibberish,” Archer said, “and it seems like they know what you’re saying. But when they won’t…you might as well chat with a wall.” The champagne-blond judge smiled warmly. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Judge Torokin.”

Torokin surveyed the new judge. “You are up late tonight. For what reason?”

“Today I became a judge,” Archer answered, restraining a grin. “I’m a tiny bit excited.” As he stepped into the cell with the others, he motioned toward the alien. “While I was at London, I worked a great deal in Xenobiology. It’s a remarkable field.”

“Is that why you’ve come here tonight?”

“It is.”

Torokin fell silent. Archer was the last person he’d expected to run into. But what the new judge claimed was correct. Torokin distinctly remembered hearing about Archer’s involvement with alien interrogations. He wasn’t sure where he’d heard it from, or from whom, but he remembered that it had been briefly brought up.

“Mind if I?” Archer asked the scientist.

The scientist quickly stood from his chair. “Not at all, Judge Archer, please do.” He allowed the new judge to sit down. “Welcome to Confinement Command.”

“Thank you very much.” Archer turned his attention to the Ithini. It stared back with blank inattention. “B’nik ya`asua,” Archer said with a smile. “My name is Ben.”

“I could not get him to connect,” the scientist said. “He does not want to speak.”

“Oh, but he does,” Archer answered. “He just doesn’t realize it yet.”

Torokin appeared skeptical as Archer began to speak to the alien prisoner.

“The blue tit is nonmigratory, commonly found in the countries of Europe and western Asia. With a wingspan of approximately thirteen centimeters, it is one of Britain’s smallest and most popular garden-variety birds—”

There was a noticeable change in the Ithini’s expression. Its eyes seemed to shift, appearing frantically more alert.

Archer smiled. “And just like that, we’re connected.”

The scientist’s jaw practically dropped.

Torokin’s stare went from doubting to impressed.

“How did you do that?” the scientist asked.

“He made it curious,” Torokin answered.

Archer grinned. “Absolutely correct. You see, before, this was all too typical. You came in, you greeted him, you asked him questions. He knew what to expect.” Archer turned back to the alien. “But what I just gave him was new. I threw him something he didn’t expect. I started talking, and he wanted to know what I was talking about. It’s as simple as that.”

“Yu’toi yanta,” the Ithini hissed hoarsely.

Torokin and the scientist stared.

“Oh, and he’s not happy one bit,” chuckled Archer. “But it’s all right.” He spoke to the alien. “You’re still going to learn something new. A blue tit is a bird, it’s one of the animals on Earth. It flies in the air with wings, and on those wings there are feathers. Would you like a picture?”

“Yu’toi yanta, nihash tzia-na.”

Archer laughed as he spoke to the men. “That’s about as close as they come to sarcasm.” He rose from his chair. “You’d better get him a picture by tomorrow.”

“You speak Ithini?” Torokin asked.

“I’ve studied it. It’s not a difficult alien language to learn. Almost as easy as Bamkanese.”

Torokin fell silent for a moment. “Then you know why they are here.”

Archer moved to the Russian’s side and the scientist sat down again. “‘Jub’isha tau zeinilik Reshuah’,” he recited. “‘The Great Race for Earth’.”

Torokin’s focus trained onto Archer. The new judge was exactly correct. That was what the ics called it. Or at least, that was the closest way for EDEN to remember it. The actual translation was somewhat more complex. More literally, it meant, ‘the necessary obligation to preemptively fulfill Earth.’ As to what that meant, no one knew. “You will not be learning as many new things as I thought you would,” said Torokin.

“There’s much yet to know. What is this race that they’re running? What is the goal? And more pertinent to us…why Earth? There’s only one thing we truly do know.” He leaned into Torokin, as his voice fell somber. “Whatever it is they’re racing towards…apparently, we’re in the way.”

“Yet they do not destroy us,” Torokin said. He stared at the now unresponsive Ithini.

“No they don’t,” Archer affirmed. “When we lose a city to the Bakma, the Bakma abandon it. The Ceratopians used to bomb us, but now they never do. Now they fly around as though they’re confused until we shoot them.” He smiled. “But that’s why we’re here. To learn what it is we don’t know. Then to win.” He walked out of the cell, casting a final glance to the scientist and the Ithini. “He won’t speak to you anymore today,” he said to the scientist. “He’s quite displeased.”

Torokin followed him out. “Do you make a habit of angering aliens?”

“Only when the need to anger them outweighs my desire to speak peaceably. Enemy or not, we must be able to communicate. The Ithini don’t respond well to torture.”

“None of them do,” Torokin said. “The Ceratopians can handle the pain, and for whatever reason, the Bakma don’t like to speak at all, torture or not. It is as if they are afraid. But afraid of what, we do not know.”

“And yet, the Bakma willingly surrender in battle. It’s quite bizarre.”

“Indeed.”

Archer smiled. “But there will be a time to discuss such things, and I’m afraid that time is not tonight.”

Torokin nodded. “You are correct.” He glanced at the guards as they walked past. “Have you become acclimated in the base?”

“As acclimated as one can become on their first day here,” Archer answered. “But yes. The layout’s not hard to learn. I’ve been about.”

“Will you sleep tonight?”

Archer laughed. “I suppose that I must. The excitement will die down, I am sure.”

“It will,” Torokin said, “when you realize we are more politicians than soldiers.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a good politician,” said Archer, “as long as he or she gets things done. Am I not correct?”

Torokin scrutinized Archer. Nothing about politics was good. Not one thing. “If you believe you are correct, then you must be.”

“I believe that I am,” Archer answered, “because I believe in the power of a common goal. I believe that a common goal can overcome any obstacle. I believe that men can work together.”

Torokin felt his disappointment sink in. Archer was just as he’d thought. He wasn’t a soldier. He was a talker. And this was a war. “You had better get sleep, then, Judge Archer. Training for this job does not last very long.”

Archer smiled warmly. “I’m sure it doesn’t.” As he stood by the exit to Confinement, he extended his hand to the Russian. “It was good to see you again, Judge Torokin. I’m excited for work to begin.”

“As am I,” Torokin said. “As am I.”

The two men bid one another farewell, then went their separate ways down the halls.

As for Torokin, the late night excursion failed to bring any alleviation of his restlessness. He entered his room nonetheless, locking the door behind him, and once again slipping beneath the covers of his king-sized bed—to once again attempt to enter the realm of dreams. To dream of the one thing he wanted to do more than anything. The one thing that brought him any sense of rest. To dream of war.

He never fell asleep once.

6

Tuesday, August 2, 0011 NE

1025 hours

Novosibirsk, Russia

Morning

Varvara whipped up from underwater, her wet hair slapping her back with a splat. Her devilish grin slid to Jayden, as she slicked back the rest of her dusty blond locks. The nearby men gaped as she cavorted toward him.

Jayden cheered as she pulled him below.

Scott laughed from his perch at the edge of the pool. As promised, the Fourteenth was delivered from the chore of an outdoor session and taken to the gymnasium-sized swimming pool. The eight o’clock wakeup was an added bonus. He hated not sticking to schedule, but seeing his teammates having fun made it worth it. Even if they were a bit too impassioned for his taste.

Galina was leaning against the poolside next to him. They’d been observing the other operatives for a while. “You made them happy. This is why they love your week.”

Scott smiled. They did love his week. They loved it because it was the week they got a break, but still managed to work. It wasn’t always fun and games, nor had it been that morning. He ran them through various water exercises, then they swam laps for almost forty minutes. But there was always a wind down. That’s what they loved. “They needed some fun,” he said. “That’s why God made me.”

“I would hope that He made you for more than that,” she laughed.

Scott returned his gaze to the pool. God had made him for more than that. His relaxed flexibility was just an added bonus.

He chuckled as Jayden and David thrashed around in the water, then his eyes settled briefly on Varvara. He averted them immediately. He could only look at a swimsuit-clad Varvara for so long before discipline turned him away. Becan had once described her as ‘drop-dead delicious’ to watch. Scott had another d word in mind: dangerous. Despite Varvara’s pleasing personality, she had a wild streak a dozen miles wide. She was a sin waiting to happen.

“Nicole will be here soon,” Galina said in a measured tone.

“Friday,” he said. “I still can’t believe it.” Jayden could keep Varvara. Scott had Nicole, and she was all he wanted. She was beautiful and pure. “You’re going to love her when you meet her.”

“I am sure that all of us will. We have heard so much about her already.”

That was because he loved to brag about her. About the little things she did that made him smile, and about the days when a visit from her was all it took to complete him. He hadn’t had one of those days in a while. That was about to change.

“What will you do?” Galina asked. “While she is here? She will sleep in your room, yes?”

He nodded. “I’ll stay in Room 14.” Galina always respected his convictions. That was another thing he liked about her. She accepted the fact that Scott would sleep in a separate bed. Unlike the others.

“When will you marry her?”

“I honestly don’t know.” It was the second time someone had asked him in as many days. It was something he needed to address while Nicole was visiting.

“There will be many broken hearts when you do, I am sure.”

Scott laughed. “Not in Russia.”

She hit him with a smug look. “Maybe I will have broken heart.”

“I’m sure you will,” he said as he swiveled to face her. Another reason he enjoyed Galina was because she was safe. She wasn’t a threat, nor did she try to be. They could pick, and it didn’t mean a thing. Not every woman was like that.

She exaggerated a sigh and looked away. “If only I were younger. Then I could attract the good boys.” She stretched her arms in preparation for a swim.

“Your man is coming,” Scott said. “Just give him time.”

She tossed him a wry little smile. “I will not wait up for him. He must catch me first.” She shoved back into the water. “Goodbye for now, my secret American love.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

She laughed and swam away.

Scott watched her go for a moment, then his focus averted to the rest of the pool. He watched as his teammates splashed around and fought with one another. It was satisfying to see them having a good time.

He scanned the water until his eyes caught Maksim. The rookie demolitionist was in the midst of a mellow conversation with Boris and Max—the two technicians. It seemed appropriate. But where was Esther? His eyes skimmed over the water’s surface, but she was nowhere to be found. Maybe she went to the restroom. He was sure she hadn’t just disappeared.

He leaned his head against the poolside, stretched out his arms, and closed his eyes to relax.

Esther gasped as she emerged from underwater. Her hair was plastered over her face, but a quick down-and-up dunk slicked it behind her head. She wiped the droplets from her eyes and grinned. “How was that?”

Becan’s eyes widened as he clicked his stopwatch. “Tha’s bleedin’ amazin’! Tha’s almost six minutes!”

She pursed her lips. “I’ve done better. The best I’ve held is six-and-a-half.”

“How’d yeh learn to do tha’?”

She smiled. “It’s a part of scout training in Philly.”

“Righ’, but why?”

“It’s all part of tactical observations. Sometimes you’ve got to stay hidden.”

“Yeh mean all scouts can hold their breath for tha’ long?”

“No way,” she winked. “I was choice, no competition.” As Becan laughed, her eyes fixated on the pool’s edge. They lingered on Scott for a moment, then they returned to Becan.

Becan raised an eyebrow. “Wha’s tha’ abou’?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I saw yeh givin’ Remmy the once-over, don’t pretend tha’ yeh didn’t. Yeh fancy him or somethin’?”

“My left foot!” she said, almost blushing.

His eyes narrowed. “Then wha’s it abou’?”

Esther’s gaze settled on Scott again. She fell quiet as she observed him. “Is he the Golden Lion?” she finally asked.

Becan nodded his head and dog-paddled.

“Have you fought alongside him much?”

“I have. I was with him in Chicago—we assaulted the Carrier together.”

“Get away! You were there in Chicago?”

“I was.”

Her lips remained pursed, as she dipped her head to her neckline. “He’s really that good, then?”

“He is. As class as I’ve ever seen.”

Esther watched Scott from the center of the pool. “The Golden Lion,” she whispered. “When we met in the hangar and he introduced himself, I knew his name was familiar. Is there a side to him?”

“There’s not. He’s sound through an’ through.”

“He seems it. Do you think I could talk to him?”

Becan hesitated. “Wha’ do yeh mean?”

“Do you think I could talk to him? Is he approachable?”

“Tha’ depends on wha’ yeh mean by talkin’ to him. He’s already doin’ a line, yeh know—girl from America, she’s comin’ this week.”

She squinted her nose. “I don’t want to pull him, I only want to chat.”

“You sure yeh just want to chat?”

“Last time I checked,” she answered sarcastically.

“Dry up.”

“Seriously,” she gave him a look. “Do you think I could approach him?”

“You could. If yeh swim close enough he’ll probably start blatherin’ on annyway.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he said.

“Fancy that.”

Scott’s head leaned against the pool’s outer rim, and his eyes were still closed. It had been a great idea to bring everyone for a swim today. They were all having a good time. He didn’t mind having the reputation of being the easy-week officer. His week was a good transition into Dostoevsky’s week, which was the worst by far. Even Clarke and Max dreaded it.

Scott opened his eyes and lifted his head upright. He scanned the pool. Maksim was still in conversation with Max and Boris. Galina was in the middle of her laps. Clarke shared a word with Oleg Strakhov, as David and Travis chatted on from afar.

He turned his head only to be surprised by Esther, as she waded meters in front of him. So she was still there. She must have been underwater before. “How goes it, Brooking?”

She smiled hesitantly. “Very good, sir. I could get accustomed to this every day.”

“Don’t. You’re catching me in a good mood on a good week.”

She laughed and cocked her head. “I’ll do my best to take advantage of it, sir.”

She had a good attitude. She had struck him as a good girl from the get-go. “You get everyone’s names down yet?”

Esther’s smile lingered. “Yes sir, mostly. Some of the Russian names are hard to pronounce, though.”

“It’ll all come. We’ve got a pretty friendly group.”

“I’ve noticed as much, sir.”

“Some are more friendly than others.”

She laughed, and her mocha skin blushed a shade of red. “I think I’ve noticed, sir. Is his name Becan McCrae?”

“Watch him. He’s dangerous.”

“I’ll do my best.” Silence lingered between them, as Esther rubbed her hand back over her hair. She flicked her gaze at him, as a water droplet fell from her nose. “Is it…all right if I talk to you for a moment, sir?”

“Sure. Is something wrong?”

She shook her head. “No sir, not at all. I only want to chat.” She leaned against the pool’s edge beside him. “When I met you yesterday and you spoke your name, I knew it sounded familiar. Now I realize why.”

The Golden Lion. It was inescapable. Most people didn’t match his name with his title, until they saw him in his gold-collared armor. But then, there were always the observant ones who made the connection. Ones like Esther.

“I can’t tell you how much I admire your accomplishments, sir,” she said. “I don’t mean that as flattery…I mean it as truth. There are lots of us who look up to what you’ve done. We aspire to it ourselves.”

“I was surrounded by a lot of exceptional talent.”

“Much talent is wasted by lack of leadership, sir.”

It was a wise statement. He couldn’t dispute it. “God opened a door, I just stepped through. It’s taken me a decent ways so far.” That was an understatement and he knew it. Only months ago, he’d been an alpha private out of Philadelphia. Now he was a bona fide lieutenant. Not even Klaus Faerber had reached officer status that quickly. Discreetly, Scott was rewriting the record books. Or not so discreetly, depending on how closely people paid attention to the news. Reactions always varied when he introduced himself.

“You’ve used your position quite well, sir, if I may say that.”

Scott smiled a bit. “I guess I won’t stop you from saying it.” It was useless to disregard praise; he’d tried before without success. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

“You must be proud of yourself, too. How old are you?”

“Twenty-two, sir.”

She was almost the same age as him. “You’re twenty-two and a scout already. That’s impressive.” Scout training lasted four years, and it was the most comprehensive training in the Academy. She must have enlisted at eighteen. “I know you must be pleased.”

“Yes sir, I am. To graduate meant a great deal to me.”

He smiled. “You think you’re ready for the real EDEN now?”

She retucked a damp tendril. “That’s what training is for. To prepare one for the real thing, is it not?”

Scott couldn’t help but smile. She had no idea what she was getting involved in. She couldn’t know, not until that first plasma bolt whizzed past her head, and her vision flashed white for the first time. “You’ll do fine. Just follow our lead when we give it, and do what we ask of you. Our job is to keep you alive.”

“I’m excited about combat, sir, but I will confess I’m a bit nervous.”

That was natural. When Scott had first seen South Michigan Avenue in Chicago, his heart had nearly leapt out of his chest. “It’ll all come.”

Esther watched the center of the pool and sighed. She sunk down until her chin touched the water. “I was scared when they’d told me I’d be stationed here. I’d requested London, but…I suppose Academy had other plans.”

Scott’s eyes followed hers, where they distanced in the reflections of the water. He knew the feeling of being stationed far from home. So did Becan. So did a lot of people. “I asked for Detroit Station—my fiancee lives near there. They sent me to Virginia. I thought that was bad…then I came here.” Virginia wasn’t bad at all. At Richmond, he’d had it made. He just hadn’t realized it back then.

Esther’s smile disappeared for a moment, but resurfaced as she dipped her head his way. “I was going to say, sir…that having you as one of my leaders makes it easier.”

He canted his head in her direction. It was an unexpected compliment. It was sweet. “Thank you.” He smiled. “I mean that.”

She grinned. “You’re welcome, sir. I meant it as well.”

From the center of the pool, Becan waved his hands frantically. “Esty! Come an’ show Jay wha’ yeh can do with your breath!”

Esther turned her head to Becan.

Scott couldn’t help but laugh. Scout training had prepared her for just about everything—everything but the Irishman. No amount of training could prepare her for that. “I think you’re being summoned.”

She flashed Scott a smile. “So it seems.” As she slipped from the pool’s edge, she glanced back to him and gave him a wink. “Wish me luck, sir.”

“Good luck.”

Esther grinned, then dove under the water and torpedoed Becan’s way.

Scott watched her as she emerged in the center of the pool, next to the small crowd of Jayden, Varvara, David, and Travis. She would fit in fine, especially with her personality. She was already making waves with some of the men—or at least one of them. As for Scott, it was the scout aspect of Esther that he was genuinely itching to discover. He couldn’t wait to see what she could do.

The Fourteenth stayed in the pool until 1100, when the prune-skinned operatives abandoned the water for the warmth of their towels. As they returned to Room 14, the excitement of the rookies’ arrival filled the air. Esther and Maksim talked to everyone. And more importantly, everyone talked to them.

Wednesday was equally casual. The morning began with passing drills, where the two rookies held an American football for the first time in their lives.

When Thursday rolled around, the only thought on Scott’s mind was Nicole’s impending arrival the next day. Workouts were light, as he allowed Galina to lead them. When night came, Scott could barely sleep.

Then it was Friday. Her day. The day that the love of his life would be in his arms once again. Scott informed the Fourteenth that morning workouts were cancelled, a message met with celebration by all. Breakfast was as conversational as ever, as the anticipation of her arrival gave way to the realization that she was actually coming. The knot in Scott’s stomach was tight with pleasure. He memorized every second on the clock.

One second faster.

Tick.

One second closer.

Tick.

To her.

7

Friday, August 5, 0011 NE

1400 hours

Scott shielded his eyes as he squinted into the sky. It was a beautiful day. It was a gorgeous day. It was the day he’d been waiting for since Richmond. He could barely hold himself still.

The entire week had felt like a blur. The excitement of the new alpha privates was but a vapor as the reality of Nicole’s arrival overtook every priority that EDEN’s most notorious base could throw at him. And now he was there, standing in the massive opening of Novosibirsk‘s hangar, staring over the airstrip, waiting for that glint in the sky.

David smiled from beside him. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”

Scott squinted further and attempted to still himself. He was glad that David had come with him. No one else was there; that would have been too much. But David was good. Scott almost couldn’t believe that the older operative and Nicole had never met. “I can’t explain how I feel, man. I can’t explain it at all.”

“You don’t have to. I know what you mean.”

Scott smiled and looked at him. If anyone could understand what Scott was going through, it was David. He hadn’t seen Sharon in just as long, and they were married. He hadn’t seen his kids for that long, either.

Returning his gaze to the horizon, Scott ran his hand through his hair. Where was she? Her transport was due at 1400. It was 1401.

It was an odd feeling, standing there in the hangar staring off into the distance. It was the second time he’d experienced it at Novosibirsk. Except the first time, it was for the opposite reason. It was months ago—the day Svetlana had left. He remembered standing there, side by side with Galina, watching Svetlana’s transport disappear into the distance. Never to come back again.

“You’ve missed her, huh?” David asked.

Scott laughed a bit under his breath. “You know, I actually have.” She was the first friend he’d earned there. The first one who’d given him a chance.

David shot him a funny look. “Why say it like that?”

Glancing at David, Scott quickly shook his head. Nicole, idiot. He meant Nicole. “No, that’s not what…” he laughed pathetically. “That’s not what I thought you asked.”

David raised an unexpectedly suspicious eyebrow. “What’d you think I asked?”

“It was nothing, man, I mean it. Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. And yes, I’ve missed her like crazy.” More than anyone else.

David was silent.

Scott looked at his watch again. It was still late. Immediately, the nightmare scenarios ran through his head. Maybe something had happened. Maybe the transport had crashed, or maybe it got attacked. No, that was impossible. That was too much, even for fate. It was just running late. It was just running one minute late. That kind of thing happened all the time. They probably had hit turbulence.

“You know I’m jealous of you, right?”

Scott turned to David. “I know, man. I wish so much that you could see Sharon.”

The older operative chuckled. “Don’t sweat it. I’m just messing with you.” He held his breath for a moment. “Mostly.”

Scott laughed and turned back to the strip. He wondered what Nicole would look like. How would she have her hair? Would it be up? Would she have it down around her shoulders? Maybe she’d wear a ponytail. It didn’t matter how she wore it. As long as it was her hair on her head, he’d be the happiest man alive. He couldn’t stop looking at his watch.

1404.

Where was the stupid transport? It was a civilian transport—that was the problem. If it was the military, it’d be on the second. But these civilian airbuses were never on time. At least, sometimes they weren’t. Every now and then.

God, let her be okay. Please. If I never ask for anything again, just let her be okay.

“Calm down,” David said. “You’re making me nervous.”

“She should be here. I don’t see anything yet.”

“Maybe she got cold feet. Maybe she met a handsome Russian at the airport and they’re running off to get married.”

Scott glowered at him. “I’d better get invited to the wedding.”

“You won’t.”

“Why not?”

David motioned to the sky. “Because there she is.”

Scott snapped his gaze back, where his eyes scanned the skyline. The moment he saw it, his pupils grew wide.

There it was. That tiny glint in the distance. There was the love of his life.

He could barely control himself.

“Breathe,” David said. “In, out, in, out.”

“I’m breathing.”

“Now remember—watch the public displays of affection in front of all these Nightmen. I don’t want you two to get mowed down for a kissing violation.”

Scott brushed the hair above his ears. “I look okay?”

“Like a monkey.”

The speck grew larger. It was more than just a speck now. It was the silver nose of a civilian airbus. He could see the faintest trace of an exhaust plume behind it.

Scott blew out another breath. She was there. She was in that airbus, looking out the window at the ground far below. He wondered if she was as nervous as he was. He wondered if that was even possible. All the months. All the phone calls. All the tears. And now she was moments away.

“You sure you don’t want Becan here?”

“No.”

“So you do want Becan here?”

Scott shook his head in frustration. “I mean yes.”

“Yes you do, or yes you don’t?”

“Dave!”

David laughed and slid his hands in his pockets. “Just asking. I can easily call him on the comm for you.”

The airbus grew larger. Scott could make out the windows now as it neared the airstrip. Thank you, God. Thank you so much, for everything. Thank you! Its primary engines whined down as its maneuvering jets took over. Within seconds, it hovered above the airspace right in front of the hangar. Right in front of them.

“Do you need to go take a spiz before she lands?”

Scott scoffed. “Yeah, now’s a great time.”

“I hope she likes me. I’m kind of nervous.”

“I bet it’s killing you.”

“It is.”

The vertical thrusters burned to life, and the airbus began its descent.

She was there. She was right there, meters in front of him. He couldn’t see her in the airbus windows, but he knew she was there. She was probably pressed to the glass, just out of view.

The wheels of the airbus touched down with a gentle jolt, and the roar of the thrusters whined down to a low, steady hum. Technicians trotted from the hangar as the pilot gave them signals through the window.

Scott didn’t know how many other civilians were on board. He was sure there couldn’t have been many.

There was a piercing hiss, and the airbus settled down. Silence. Then, the side door opened.

Just like that, she was there.

Her mahogany hair was teased down the small of her back. A few loose strands fell around her face, and she lifted a hand to brush them away. She wore an off-white shirt, tucked into faded blue jeans. Her body was as perfectly slender as it had always been. Her face was as animated and beautiful as it had always been. Everything was exactly the same.

Just how he wanted it.

She saw him as soon as she stepped on the ground. Her dark blue gaze grew wide, as the smile that was already etched across her face stretched wider. Her teeth glistened like pearls.

Time slowed. It slowed to almost a stop. In that moment when he ran to her and she ran to him, nothing about the outside world mattered. There was no outside world. There was no Novosibirsk. There were no Nightmen. There were only the two of them. When they met in the middle, there was almost no room for words.

She leapt into his embrace, throwing her arms around his neck passionately. As he lifted her up from the waist, her heady fragrance gripped his senses. Then they kissed.

It was magical. It was everything that wonderful could be. It was time. It was patience. It was endurance. It was the pent up frustration of so many months, poured out in a connection so real it was almost too real to be true. When their lips finally pulled apart, they locked moisture-filled eyes. The day had finally come.

“I can’t believe it,” she whispered. Her voice shook. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I’m here.” His eyes closed as he clung to her tightly. “I’m right here with you.”

Their lips met again. He didn’t care if the other passengers saw. He didn’t care if the Nightmen did, either. For that one tender moment—for that one heaven-sent moment—Novosibirsk became Paradise. Nothing could take it away.

“Excuse me,” one of the technicians said in broken English, tapping Scott on the shoulder. “We do need area clear.”

Scott and Nicole separated, and they shared a quiet laugh. He wasn’t embarrassed, and he was sure she wasn’t, either. But it was time to move off of the airstrip. They’d have plenty of time to catch up in the physical sense later. “Was your flight okay?” he asked as he picked up her bag. He lifted it over his shoulder with one hand, while his other hand slid into hers.

She shot him a frustrated look. “I barely cleared Customs.”

“Really? Where?”

“Moscow. It’s a lot of fun explaining why you’re an American citizen flying into a Russian military base, let alone this one.”

“You had those papers I sent you, right?” Dostoevsky had filled them out himself, even borrowing a photo to attach it to them. It was a surprising but appreciated gesture.

She smiled. “Yes, and they worked. They just had to be inspected about a dozen times. I might not be able to go back.”

Scott squeezed her hand a little bit harder. “I can live with that.”

As soon as they entered the hangar, David approached them. Scott’s smile broadened, and he released Nicole. “Baby, this is someone you’ve been waiting to meet.”

Nicole swung her gaze ahead. Her sparkling smile appeared again. “You must be David!”

David smiled and extended his hand. “And you’d better be Nicole.”

She laughed and took his hand. “I want to hug you.”

“Then come on, don’t just stand there.” David opened his arms and wrapped her up. “I feel like I know you, girl.”

“Same here,” she answered as she hugged him. When they released, she slid her hand back into Scott’s. “He talks about you all the time.”

“Lies.”

“No,” she said solemnly, “it’s all good.”

David smiled. “You have a lot of people looking forward to meeting you, young lady. You’ve been the talk of the town all this week.”

“Have I really?”

“Lion Boy’s been in a good mood since Monday, and it was his week to work us out. We’re not complaining.”

She turned and gave Scott a look. “Did you really make them run passing drills?”

“Yes he did,” David answered.

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Oh my God.”

“They enjoy it!” Scott said in happy defense.

“We really do,” David said. “Everyone loves it when we do that.”

Nicole nudged Scott’s side. “All he ever talks about is football. Start talking about anything else, and he’ll eventually get back to it. He can turn anything into a football reference.”

“Yeah,” David said, “we’ve noticed.”

“All right guys,” Scott said as he looked at his watch. “There’s thirty seconds left and we’re out of time-outs. Let’s get moving.”

She eyed him again.

“Lead the way, gunslinger,” David said. “Don’t get tackled in-bounds.”

For Scott, the walk to Room 14 was better than ever. As he and Nicole walked hand in hand, he pointed out the various appendages of Novosibirsk, from the cafeteria to the running track to the main building. Nicole seemed particularly interested in the buildings that bore damage from the assault, on which Scott was delighted to elaborate. By the time they arrived at the room, she’d been given a thorough crash course on the layout and history of the base.

It struck him during their walk together that there was utterly no distance between them. Their separation felt like a glitch—a brief skip in time. Even in the short while she’d been there, he’d already forgotten what it was like not to hold her hand.

As they finally approached Room 14, his free hand hovered over the doorknob. He knew it was going to shock her. In her medical world of clean and tidy, the bunk room would be like hell. She was used to his football crowd from college, so she’d be able to take it. But still, he knew what she’d be thinking. She’d be thinking that he was an officer, and he was supposed to maintain a superior standard. And then she’d tell it to him: ‘enforce the rules of cleanliness.’ Easier said than done.

“Remember what I warned you about, baby?”

Nicole eyed him. “Scott, open the door.”

He hesitated, then pushed the knob forward. It was shocking. It was startling.

It was spotless.

Each bed sheet was folded to perfection. Each pillow was fluffed and in place. The floor was swept. The showers were off. As Scott stood almost in horror, a particular scent touched his nose.

Potpourri?

He stood dumbfounded in the doorway as Galina approached from within. “You must be Nicole,” she said, extending her hand. “We have heard so much about you. Hello, my name is Galina.”

Nicole smiled and took her hand. “Hi, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Galina.”

“Welcome to our room.” She stepped aside to allow Nicole to enter. “It is not much, but we do the best we can.”

David leaned into Scott and whispered, “There’s something very wrong with this picture.”

Nicole smiled and stepped inside. “It’s bigger than I thought it would be.”

Scott restrained himself. It wasn’t bigger. It just had actual floor space. That had never happened before. As Galina stepped beside him, Scott edged closer to her. “What in the world?”

“Thank me later.”

As David closed the door, Nicole swung around to face them. Her face beamed. “It’s cozy! It’s not like you said it’d be at all.”

Scott’s mouth hung open as he stared. “Yeah…baby…” he wasn’t sure how to explain, so he moved on. “Let me go ahead and introduce you to everybody.”

“Everyone is in the lounge,” Galina said. “Most of them.”

Scott returned his attention to the room. Boris and Oleg were concluding their settlement at the chess table. Max watched them silently from the corner. Travis flipped through the pages of a comic book.

“All right, baby,” Scott said as he ushered her in. “Right this way.” As they neared the chess table, Boris and Oleg stood and offered courteous nods. “Nikki, this is Boris Evteev and Oleg Strakhov. Boris and Oleg, this is my fiancee, Nicole.”

“Very good to meet you,” Boris said. His beard was scruffy no more. Its hairs were combed through and through.

Oleg smiled. “I would say same thing, but I do not speak English.”

Nicole laughed heartily. “I can tell you’re one of Scott’s friends.” The group chuckled and handshakes were exchanged.

“Boris is one of our technicians,” Scott said. “Oleg’s new with the unit. He got here after the assault.”

“And you got stuck with Scott?” Nicole asked, playfully nudging Scott’s side.

“I would make comment,” Oleg answered, “but I do not speak English.”

They laughed again as Max approached. His hands were slid in his pockets, but he removed one to offer to Nicole. “Hi Nicole,” he said. “Matthew Axen, good to finally meet you.”

Scott’s eyes widened.

Nicole smiled and took his hand. “Hi, Matthew. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

He chuckled. “I’m sure you have.” He shook her hand. “You have a real good husband. Future husband,” he corrected himself. “One of a kind.”

Nicole cast a glance to Scott. “I think so too, thank you.”

“If there’s anything you need, let us know.”

As soon as Max walked away, Scott gave him a suspicious stare. This was like an alternate dimension.

“Honey,” Nicole whispered, “was that the one who…?”

Scott replied quickly. “Yeah.” The one who knocked him around. Scott’s antithesis.

“He was nice.”

“Yeah,” he answered troublingly. “I know.”

The lounge air was adrift with the mixed scent of coffee and tea, as operatives livened the tables with cordial conversation. At one table, Clarke sat with Dostoevsky. At another sat Becan, Jayden, Varvara, and Esther. Only Maksim sat by himself. There wasn’t a brash voice in the room. Not even an obnoxious laugh.

Galina’s words echoed in his mind. Thank me later. Thank her for what? Had she threatened them with death?

“Remmy!” Becan said. He pushed from his chair. Jayden, Varvara, and Esther did the same. He hurried over to meet them. “Howyeh! Nikki, I assume?”

Nicole smiled and took his hand. “You must be Becan.”

“Am are! He talks abou’ me tha’ much, does he?”

“You have no idea.” She slid a sly eye to Scott. “Don’t worry, it’s all been good. And usually entertaining.”

“O’ tha’ I’m sure,” laughed Becan.

Jayden removed his cowboy hat and extended his hand. “Jayden Timmons. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

As Nicole conversed, Scott pulled Becan aside. “Becan…what in God’s name is going on?”

“Wha’?”

“It’s like I walked into a parallel universe. There are scented candles, for crying out loud.”

“Oh, righ’.” Becan eyed Nicole discreetly, then edged close to Scott’s ear. “It’s Galina. She threatened to revoke alcohol privileges for a month if we misbehaved.”

“Oh?” Scott had been wrong. She hadn’t threatened them with death. This was much more effective. “She can do that?”

“She can. Made us clean the room an’ everythin’.”

“Wow.”

“Righ’,” he laughed sadly. “Medics are bleedin’ savage.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Jayden.” Nicole said, turning to the young Russian medic beside him. “And this must be Varvara?”

Jayden nodded. “Yes ma’am, it is.”

Nicole blinked and cracked a laugh. “Ma’am?”

Varvara blushed and waved him off. “Please do not worry. He does this to me, too.”

“Wha’ do you two have planned tonigh’?” Becan asked Scott.

“We might get something to eat,” Scott answered. “She’s probably starving. Then we’ll go to the room.”

“Your private room?”

“Yeah. Do a little catching up on the past half a year.” It had been longer than that, actually.

“Yeh goin’ to kiss her?”

“Of course I’m going to kiss her.”

“Wha’ are yeh goin’ to do after tha’?”

“I don’t know…probably lay down and talk for a while…”

“An’ then wha’?”

“Becan, I’m not giving you the play-by-play!”

“I am glad we finally get to meet you,” Varvara said. “The lieutenant talks about you all the time.”

Nicole laughed. “I’m sorry, I’m just not used to him being referred to as ‘the lieutenant.’”

“He’s done many things to deserve it.”

“I’ll second that,” Esther chimed in beside them.

“Thank you,” said Nicole, smiling at both women. “He’d love to know that you said that. He cares a lot about everyone here.”

“We know this,” said Varvara. “That’s why we care about him. He is very deserving of the Golden Lion.”

“I’ll let him know you said that.”

“Please do.”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Scott said to Becan. “She still hasn’t met the captain or the commander.”

“Righ’, we’ll talk after, then.” A nod was exchanged, and Becan hurried away.

Scott stepped to Nicole’s side. As soon as she was finished with Varvara, he snaked his arm around her waist. “Few more people I want you to meet, sweetie.”

She squeezed his hand. “Okay.” Her gaze returned to the others. “It was great meeting you all.”

“The pleasure was ours,” Varvara answered.

As Scott led her away from the table, Nicole pressed against his side. “You’ve got quite a reputation, baby.”

“I do, huh?”

“Mm-hmm,” she answered. “Everyone says such nice things. Especially the women, it seems.” She eyed him. “Is there a reason for that?”

He chuckled lowly. “I knew that was coming.”

“So is there, Lion Boy? Is there a reason you’re in the same unit as all the beautiful women? Did you get to pick them yourself?”

“Yep. I sure did. All men get to hand-pick their female teammates. It’s somewhere in the back of the rule book.”

“So which female teammate did you pick?”

“All of them. I couldn’t help myself.”

She poked at his side.

As soon as they neared the officers’ table, Clarke and Dostoevsky rose. “This must be the lovely Nicole,” Clarke said. He extended his hand, as soon as she took it, he lifted her hand to his lips. “You are as magnificent as anticipated,” he said as he kissed it. “It is truly a pleasure to meet you.”

Nicole blushed and glanced away. Then she bowed her head. “Thank you very much…”

“I am Captain Nathaniel Edmond Clarke. You may call me Nathan.” The captain released her hand. “You have the luxury of not being bound to subordinate obligations.”

Nicole dipped her head again. “And you may call me Nikki, Nathan.”

“As you would have it, Ms. Nikki, soon-to-be Remington.”

Nicole angled her head to Dostoevsky.

“Nicole,” Scott said, “this is Commander Yuri Dostoevsky.”

Dostoevsky lowered his head and quickly looked away. “Mrs. Remington.”

She smiled as she shook his hand. “It’s close enough to say that, I suppose. Thank you so much for getting me through Customs.”

“Will you be staying with us for long?” Clarke asked.

Nicole’s attention returned to the captain. “For ten days. Then I go back to the U.S. for another semester.”

“What subject are you studying?”

“Nursing. I have one more semester after this one. There’s a little work left after that, but it’s moving along.”

“Will you move here to Novosibirsk then?”

She frowned, looking back at Scott.

Scott’s eyes were already distant. Would she move to Novosibirsk? She was about to be his wife. They couldn’t live on separate continents. But what choice did they have? Could he get a transfer somewhere else? What if they had no choice? “We’re still figuring that out,” he said. “We have a lot to figure out, but we will.” He squeezed her hand. “We will.”

Nicole forced her frown away. “We will,” she said. She entwined her fingers around his.

“Brilliant,” Clarke said. “If there’s one bit of advice I can offer the two of you, it’s this. Never let love go. Trials may seem impassable, but you can overcome. This coming from a man who’s been married for ten years.”

Scott’s mouth fell open. Had Clarke just said he was married?

Clarke looked at Scott and chuckled. “This surprises you, lieutenant?”

“I never knew that, sir…”

“That’s because I never make mention of it. My work life and my private life are entirely different entities. But yes, I have a lovely wife and two beautiful daughters.”

“They live here?”

Clarke nodded. “In Novosibirsk, the city itself. Even though I could if I wanted to, I’d never let her live here on base. I visit her as often as time allows—we speak every day. What, did you think I was always in my quarters when I wasn’t around? I spend quite a few nights back at home.”

Scott was astounded. That absolutely floored him. All this while, he’d thought the captain was retiring to his quarters every night. “I don’t know what to say, sir.”

“Ask me how I did it.”

“How did you do it?”

“We never let love go. When I was assigned here, she took a chance and moved with me from London.” He smiled. “And here we are.”

Within a span of seconds, Scott’s respect for Captain Clarke grew tenfold.

“Well,” Clarke said, “as much as I’m sure the two of you would love to chinwag with us all day, I’m certain you’ve got some catching up to do with one another.”

“Yes sir,” Scott said. “That we do.”

“Then cheerio to the both of you. Don’t let us see you anymore today. That’s an order.”

Scott had no problem with that one. Nods were exchanged, and Scott and Nicole turned away.

“I had no idea he was married,” Scott said as he led her out of the lounge.

“That’s amazing,” Nicole answered. “She must really love him.”

Scott’s gaze distanced again as he heard her words. She must really love him. Was Novosibirsk really that far? Could Nicole love him that much?

She squeezed his hand. “Almost as much as I love you.”

Alleviation. To hear her say that relieved everything. They could make it that far. God had put them together for a reason. God put Scott in Novosibirsk for a reason. Everything would go as planned. “We’ll figure this out.”

“I know. I trust you.”

As they passed through the bunk room, several of the operatives offered their goodbyes. Scott gave a special wink to Galina, who quietly replied, “You owe me.”

“I like your unit,” Nicole said as they stepped into the hallway. “I like Nathan.”

Scott laughed. He wasn’t used to the captain going by first name alone.

“His voice is sexy.”

That caught his attention. “What?”

She looked at him coyly. “His British accent is sexy. You’d better watch out.” Her eyes returned ahead, and she cleared her throat. When she spoke again, it was in a mock-British accent. “I could get accustomed to his presence.”

“You keep dreaming about that.”

She giggled and squeezed his hand. After several seconds, her face grew serious again. “I don’t like your commander, though.”

“Dostoevsky?”

“Yeah. I know he helped me get here and all, but…I got a wierd vibe from him.”

Scott laughed. “I hate to make you think you’re not special, babe, but everyone gets a weird vibe from him.”

“He wouldn’t look me in the eyes.”

Scott’s brow furrowed. Dostoevsky never had trouble with eye contact. Confrontation was the commander’s middle name. “I’m sorry. I guess that’s just how he is.” They walked for a moment longer, before Scott nudged her side. “He was probably blinded by your beauty.”

She laughed. “Right. Because he really looked nervous.”

Scott looked at her appreciatively. That was what he missed. He missed her laugh. He missed her wit. He missed her everything. “It’s good to have you back, baby.”

“It’s good to have you back, too.”

It felt like she hadn’t been gone a day. Every bit of love, every bit of familiarity. It all fell into place as though neither of them had skipped a beat. The touch of her hand was as warm as ever. Nothing had changed at all.

1542 hours

For the next hour and a half, Scott and Nicole lay awake in bed. It brought back so many fond memories, her being there beside him. It brought back so much normality. The touch of her skin, the fullness of her hair. They were part of his senses just as much as they were part of her body. He still could hardly believe she was there.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“You.” The truth was broader. He was thinking about them. He was thinking about marriage. He was thinking about Novosibirsk. Somehow, all three of those would have to fit together. They would have to harmonize. He just didn’t know how.

“Just me?”

His hand got lost in her curls. “Maybe a little bit more.”

She nestled in at his side, turning her dark blue eyes to watch him. “Like what?”

It was an easy question to pose. It was an impossible one to answer. To even ask, ‘How are we going to make this work?’ would be to indicate doubt. It opened the door to the possibility that there was no answer. That was unacceptable. “Just thinking about what we need to do.”

“What do we need to do?” she asked. Her gaze trailed to his lips, then it returned to him.

“I don’t know.” It was a truthful answer. He regretted not having something else to say. “I’ll put in for a transfer.”

“When?”

“Just before the wedding.”

Her fingertips traced the edge of his neckline. “When will that be?”

When would that be? It was the same question he’d asked himself every night for months. “There’s so much to think about.”

Her gaze settled down, and her head rested in the crevice of his shoulder.

There was much to think about. She had school left. He was already in the middle of his career; her future stared her dead in the face. How could their paths co-exist?

“Let’s elope,” she said.

Scott’s mind stopped. He tilted his head to read her. “What?”

“I’ve been thinking about it…for a while now, but especially since Nathan said that today. His wife moved here so they could be together.”

He propped himself up on his elbow. Was she serious? “Baby, what about school?”

“I’ll transfer,” she answered. “I’m sure there must be a university with nursing courses here. I’ll transfer my credits and enroll.”

“Sweetie,” he tried not to laugh, “it’s not like moving to another neighborhood. This is the middle of Russia. This is nowhere.”

“I know,” she answered, “but God called you here, and He called us together. I’m ready to make this work.”

She was crazy. Was she crazy? “When are you talking about doing this?”

“Now.” She nuzzled against him. “Before I go home. This next week.” Her fingers danced over his chin.

“But this is Russia, baby. You can’t even speak Russian.” It went even beyond that. Nursing school was hard enough in her native language. Though she never admitted it, he knew that her grades had been slipping. But in Russian? She’d never stand a chance.

Her face softened, and she closed her eyes. “I’ll learn. I’m pretty good at foreign languages. I learned French pretty quick.”

“Sweetie…”

When her eyes opened, they glistened. “Scott, please. This isn’t something I thought of five minutes ago. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, for weeks, for months. About the possibility. And when Nathan said that today, it just sounded so obvious. I don’t know what else to do. They wouldn’t even assign you to Detroit Station, so what makes you think they’ll grant you a transfer?”

“I’m an officer now.”

“Yeah.” She almost laughed. “In Novosibirsk. Do you understand that, Scott? God put you here. He didn’t put you in Michigan. He didn’t even put you in America. I’ll move here on base. You heard what Nathan said, that’s allowed.” She continued before he could cut her off. “You always talk about God’s will, and how you felt all of this was so right. I’m trusting you, Scott. Let me trust you.”

He sighed and glanced away. She didn’t know what she was asking. “Baby…”

She guided his face to look at hers, and spoke to him in a whisper. “God is putting you in the places you need to be. He’s putting me there, too. Let’s trust Him together.” Before he could answer, a smile broke from her lips. “So, Scott Remington…will you marry me…now?”

His heart melted. God is putting you in the places you need to be. Those were the words she’d always told him. Maybe she was right. Maybe this was their destiny together. Maybe everything that was their future hinged on this decision. She felt it was right. He had his doubts, but she was determined. She wouldn’t have asked about it if she weren’t. And for the first time since his first day at Richmond, there was a solution on the table. There was a way they could be together.

There was a way.

How else could he answer her question?

“Okay,” he said. “You say you’ve thought about this—and I believe you. I’ll trust you, too.” He held onto her hand. “Yes, Nikki. I will marry you—now.” As soon as he said it, he felt a burden on his chest lift away.

Nicole smiled contentedly. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in close. “I love you.”

That statement required no hesitation. “I love you, too.” Enough to trust her. “Let’s take a few days to figure this out. Not to talk ourselves out of it. Let’s figure out how to do it.” Somehow. Some crazy way. But a way nonetheless.

She quietly nodded her head.

For the next several hours, Scott and Nicole lay side by side. Few words were spoken, but few words needed to be. The tunnel still stared at them from ahead, but for the first time, there was a thin horizon of light at the end of it. There was hope. There was a chance.

There was the two of them.

Clarke’s orders were fulfilled to the letter. No one else saw them that day.

8

Friday, August 5, 0011 NE

1945 hours

Alexander Nijinsky stood outside, behind the back of the hangar. He had been there for quite some time, blowing the scented vapor of a metallic sprig from his lips. In his free hand sat the picture. The face of the woman—the one who would come.

She had a beautiful essence about her. She was young. She smiled like a sunrise. It was a professional picture, and he wondered how Dostoevsky had gotten it. He wondered who the young woman was. But none of it mattered. She was the Rule. That was all Nijinsky needed to know.

He folded the picture and slid it back into his pocket. Then he pulled out the ring that had come with it. It was old—or at least it looked old. It looked like an ordinary ring, like a wedding ring. Until he slipped it on his finger. As soon as it was firmly in place, a minute needle—barely a sliver—protracted from its edges. It stuck out not even two centimeters. But it was enough. He stared at the ring as he held it in the palm of his hand. It looked so harmless.

Nijinsky had always wanted to be a Nightman, and he’d finally been invited to become one. He was assigned to the Third, a unit with deep Nightman influence. He leapt at the chance to transform. It was an opportunity offered only once, and it was always a mistake to say no. The prize was the position of slayer—a foot soldier of the Nightman sect.

He wasn’t sure what attracted them to him. One never approached the Nightmen on their own accord—they only replied to the call. He had been in Thoor’s presence only once before, while he was with the Third in Siberia. That was when the underground Bakma outpost had been destroyed. Thoor had ridden in their transport for that mission. He could only assume that’s where he was noticed. There was no other way to explain it.

His eyes scrutinized the needle for several more seconds, before he finally slipped the ring—carefully—from his finger. The slightest slip could kill him. As soon as the ring was removed, the needle retracted.

Nijinsky slid it into his pocket, where his hand remained. In his other hand, between two of his fingers, he carelessly gripped the metallic casing of his sprig. Blowing a huff of its vapor out again, the delta trooper sighed.

Dostoevsky’s words played again in his head. She will come to you. His only job now was to wait.

And to watch.

* * *

Saturday, August 6, 0011NE

0530 hours

The next day

Scott awoke in the bunk room. He knew what time it was without having to look at a clock; his body had adjusted to the routine. Despite the fact that he typically slept in his private quarters, the snores and creaks of the bunk room didn’t bother him. He had become forever accustomed to their presence. He rarely even noticed when someone took a shower or rose out of their own beds early. The transition from private room to bunk room was no transition at all. Nonetheless, he preferred the former. As he eased upright, he pressed his hand against his forehead.

What time is it really?

He bent down and felt for his watch on the floor. Squinting at its glossy display, he saw that it was 0530 hours. Exactly the time that he’d thought. When he panned his gaze in the direction of the lounge, his second prediction was confirmed. There was an orange glow beneath the door—David and Galina were up.

Rising from bed, Scott padded across the bunk room. He smelled the coffee and tea as soon as he slipped inside.

“Good morning,” David said.

“Dobry utro,” said Galina.

Scott mumbled through his grogginess, “Good morning. Dobry utra.” His hair was a tangled wreck, but he didn’t care.

“I’m impressed,” David said as Scott shut the door. “I didn’t think you’d actually be able to do it.”

“What?”

“Sleep in here, without her.”

Scott was sure there’d been some bets cast on that one. He was surprised that Nicole was allowed to stay on base at all. Though most facilities catered to visitors, any catering at The Machine was unexpected. “How much did you lose?”

David laughed and sipped his coffee. “I stayed out of it. But Becan’s going to be ticked.”

“She is very nice,” said Galina. “You must be happy to have her.”

Scott offered a smile of his own. He was happy. He was about to be a whole lot happier. The thought of their eloping had played in his mind all night. Even as he slept, it played in his dreams. The more he thought about it, the more he loved it—and it was her idea. Their chat with Clarke had been a blessing in disguise. “I am, Galya. More than you know.”

“And I,” she said, “am very jealous. I am afraid I will lose you forever.”

Scott chuckled in his morning-deep voice. “Don’t worry. You’re still my secret Russian love.” He really did love Galina, just not in the romantic way. She was the female version of David. He cherished her soul.

“I had better be,” she replied. “Or it will not be fun for you come examination.”

David smiled. “You’ve got a great girl, Scott. She lived up to the hype.”

This pleased Scott immensely. The confirmation from David meant a lot to him. It felt good to believe that nobody else’s opinion mattered, but it wasn’t the truth. It mattered a lot. Especially from people like David. “Thanks, man. She really is.”

“Watch her around here,” David said, winking. “I’ve been getting a little lonely lately.”

Galina shot him a glance. “And what makes you think she will like after you?”

“Women like older men.”

“Not that older,” she scoffed.

“Did you guys know that Clarke was married?”

“Yep,” answered David.

“You did? How?”

“It’s an innate sense. Like telepathy.”

A blank look crossed Scott’s face.

David chuckled. “We’ve swapped wife stories before. I thought you knew.”

“No. Yesterday was the first I heard of it.”

David smiled. “So what are we doing today? Swimming pool? Passing drills? Having a hoedown?”

Galina looked puzzled.

“We’re actually working today,” Scott said. “Some laps around the track, then the weight room.”

“What is hoedown?” Galina asked.

“Ask Jayden,” Scott said, “he’ll tell you all about it.”

David set down his coffee and leaned back. “I thought for sure you’d take us to the pool again. So you could see that little knockout of yours in a swimsuit.”

“It’s because she’s a knockout in a swimsuit that I’m not taking her to the pool. You guys don’t need added incentive.”

“So what’s she going to do while we work?”

Scott sipped his coffee. “Watch, probably. She might actually run with us.”

“Really?”

“She’s a sporty girl. Played soccer in high school, she was a cheerleader in college. Runs all the time.”

“I’m impressed.”

“She could probably outrun a few people here. She’s got some legs.”

“When are you going get her?”

“As soon as I finish this coffee and wake everyone up,” Scott said as he looked at the clock. He’d warned her the night before that they would wake up early for the morning session. That she still wanted to go with him made him feel good.

“Take it with you,” David said. “I’ll rustle up everyone here.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Go get your woman.”

“I appreciate it, man.”

“We’ll be in the cafeteria.”

“Sounds good.”

“Tell her good morning for us,” Galina said. “Though I suppose we can tell her ourselves.”

“I’ll pass it along anyway.” Scott waved, turned, and stepped out the door.

They had to elope. There was no question about it. He had tossed the idea in his head in the past, but never seriously. She’d never have gone for it. Or at least, he’d never thought she would. But now that it was her idea, it was brilliance. It was the only option there that made sense. There was still much to figure out, but that was what the next week was for. There was plenty of time. Plenty of time to do it right. He wouldn’t tell anyone else until the deed was done. There wasn’t any need to.

When he cracked open the door to his private room, a shaft of hall light cut through the darkness. Through the fireworks display of dust particles, she was there. She was tangled in his bed sheets, her head against his pillow, her hair tossed over her face. No motion was made when the light hit her. She only breathed. At that moment, he thought it the best sound he’d ever heard.

As he slipped inside, she stretched and twisted her body. “Mmm.”

He smiled. She always looked like an angel when she slept. He would watch her sometimes while they were at Michigan together. She would come to his room to study, while he worked on playbooks and pass routes. He always knew when she fell asleep. The softness of her breathing stole the room. It still did.

She sighed, and her body settled down. Scott eased the door shut as he entered. Then he moved to the bed and knelt by her side. As his hand brushed strands of hair from her face, she murmured again.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” he whispered.

“Mmm.” Her body arched beneath the covers.

“It’s time to wake up.”

Her lips parted, then fell into comfortable rest. She was awake. As she stared into his eyes, the corners of her mouth eased upward.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He brushed her hair past her ear. It was so thick and full. So healthy. It shimmered like sunset on a bay. “Good.”

Her hand slipped out from under the covers, and she curled her fingers around his. “You’re still here.”

“Of course I am, baby.”

“Marvelous,” she grinned beneath sheltered lids.

He couldn’t have summed it up with a better word. Marvelous. No other word captured the totality of how he felt in every single way. Of how they felt together. Marvelous.

“Do I have to wake up, now?”

“Yeah.” She always asked him that. Even when she knew the answer. “It’s time to get up for both of us.”

“Okay.” Her gaze flickered open, and her smile grew wider. “If you are, too.”

It didn’t take her long to get out of bed and get ready. She always dragged at first, but quickly freshened, and activity took over. Within minutes, she was out of the bed and full of life. After the routine of teeth brushing and face washing, she was dressed and ready for the day.

It was strikingly normal to have her there. She felt right. He could imagine her settling down in Novosibirsk, maybe even in the base itself. He wondered why Clarke’s wife wasn’t there, before remembering that Novosibirsk was still Novosibirsk. Why would anyone willingly stay?

Once they were ready, they abandoned Scott’s room in the officers’ wing and made their way outside to meet the rest of the Fourteenth in the cafeteria.

The weather was warm. The rains had slacked off since the alpha privates’ arrival, though dark clouds still loomed in the distance. Occasional shafts of sunlight would break through—characteristic of a day that drew a stark line of contrast between beauty and barrenness.

When they arrived in the cafeteria, many from the Fourteenth were already there. There was an additional guest at their table: William Harbinger. The Eighth was due to join the Fourteenth’s workout, and as tradition held, that meant the Fourteenth adopted William for the day. When the two units merged, the demolitionist rarely ate with his own. Derrick Cole often joined him, though at the moment the deep-voiced southerner was absent.

David fired off a salute as soon as they neared. “All hail the Golden Lion.”

“Hey Nicole,” Travis said, as Scott escorted her to a seat. “Welcome to the Suckateria.”

“We’ve got all kinds of great dishes,” David said. “Gristle, fat, cold slop. Anything you want, as long as it’s disgusting.”

Nicole laughed and settled into her chair. “Thanks, I think.” She turned to William, who beamed from ear to ear. “I know I didn’t meet you yesterday.”

“Nope,” William said. He extended his hand. “William Harbinger.” His grasp engulfed her slender fingers. “I’m the Fourteenth’s adopted son.”

Withdrawing her hand, Nicole said, “It’s nice to meet you, William.”

“Call me Will. Or Big Will.”

“Or Imbecile Will,” David said.

William eyed him.

“Just don’t call him Harbringer.”

Nicole laughed again, and she flitted her gaze to Scott. She leaned into his ear to whisper, “He’s huge.”

Scott smiled in silence.

“Did you sleep well?” Varvara asked Nicole. Atop Varvara’s head sat a brown cowboy hat, almost an exact duplicate of Jayden’s. Jayden had had it shipped in from America as a gift, and she wore it fashionably often. The added benefit was that she could leave it on the ground by the running track, without fear of it being stolen. No other Russian wanted a cowboy hat.

“I slept great. Yesterday was such a busy day.”

“I cannot imagine,” Varvara said, then she turned to Scott. “I am sure you missed your room last night, yes?”

“A little bit.” Scott said. “I’m just used to sleeping alone now.”

Varvara smiled. “Well, soon you will have a beautiful wife to keep you warm at night. You ain’t gonna sleep alone forever.”

Scott fought to hold back a grin. Varvara also had the privilege of improving her English while dating a Texan. She was the only Russian who spoke English with a twang. Judging by the amused look on Nicole’s face, it caught her off guard as well. Between Varvara’s accent and hat, she’d become a bona fide Soviet cowgirl.

Scott looked past the table, where he saw Becan approaching. The Irishman stumbled with every step, his sleep-tossed hair spiking in all directions.

“Top o’ the bloody mornin’,” Becan mumbled. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of money. He smashed it into Jayden’s outstretched hand.

“Much obliged,” Jayden said, as he shoved the money into his pocket.

“Because I slept in the barracks?” Scott asked.

“Yep.”

Nicole passed on that one and glanced about the table. “You guys typically eat before running?”

David indicated the various bread baskets at the front counter. “Nothing too heavy, just enough not to run on an empty stomach. There’s bread in the line. That usually holds us over till we eat afterward.”

She grinned and looked at Scott. “I’m going to go grab a bite, baby. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll go with you,” Scott said.

She laughed, placing her hand on his shoulder. “No, no, it’s all right. It’s just right there. I’m a big girl.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure!” she said, smiling. “I’ll get you some, too.” With that, she sashayed away.

As soon as she was out of earshot, William leaned closer to Scott. “Dude, she’s a hottie.”

“I know.”

“How’d you do that?”

Nicole weaved through the cafeteria, stepping up to the bread counter. Of all the people in the room, she was one of the few in civilian clothing. She stood out among the uniformed throng.

To one man, she stood out even more.

* * *

Nijinsky spotted her as soon as she took her bread. His ice-blue eyes locked onto her, and he pulled the photograph from his pocket. It was her. She was the one. The one whose white smile sparkled from the gloss of her picture. The one whose name was unknown.

She’d come to him.

There was no time to think—no time to hesitate. He slid the picture back into his pocket and pulled out the ring Dostoevsky had given him. As he slipped it on his finger again, the tiny sliver of a needle protracted into the open palm of his hand.

It was time.

Nijinsky slipped from his corner and tracked across the cafeteria. As he jostled through its occupants, his open palm remained locked at his side—the ring safely distanced from his leg. His gaze followed her as he moved to intercept her. She didn’t see him at all.

The act was casual. Practiced to perfection. He glanced away from her just as she drew near, so that their bodies bumped innocently together. An intentional accident. As she fell slightly off balance, he immediately put his open palm on her shoulder to steady her. She never even felt the tiny prick. “Prostite menja,” he said in apology, then he smiled and hurried away.

She blinked and watched him walk off.

Nijinsky slipped the ring from his finger, and the needle retracted into its tainted surface. He slid it back into his pocket and left the cafeteria.

His task was complete.

* * *

Scott smiled as Nicole returned to the table, two pieces of bread in her hand. “Thanks, baby. I would have gone with you.”

“I know,” she said. “It’s okay.”

Scott took his piece of bread from her and bit off a chunk. The aroma of warm steam rose from within it—it was actually fresh. “The bread’s actually good. I think they make it locally.”

Her brow furrowed as she massaged her shoulder.

“You all right?”

“Yeah,” she answered lightly. “Shoulder’s a little sore—I must’ve slept on it funny.”

Becan chortled. “Yeh think you had it bad last nigh’—try catchin’ some zeds in the barracks.”

“I’ll pass on that for now.”

“Can I get a bloody pass, too?”

“Gentlemen!” The newly arrived voice came from beyond the table, and the operatives turned to face it. It was Captain Clarke. He smiled as he approached, offering a wink to the women. “And ladies.”

Nicole smiled.

“Are we ready for our jog today, Lieutenant Remington?”

“Yes sir. Just waiting for everyone to finish breakfast.”

“Morning lasts only so long, lieutenant.”

“I’ll take that as my hint to hurry up.”

“If you will.”

“Yes sir.” The operatives around him were already discarding their food when Scott turned to address them. “You heard the man. Let’s get a move on.”

“Did you sleep well last night?” Clarke asked as he turned to Nicole.

Nicole flashed him an amiable smile. “Yes I did, Nathan, thank you.”

“Will you be joining us this morning, then?”

“I’m not really in running clothes…”

Clarke grinned. “At least entertain us from the sideline. We’ve never had a cheerleader before.”

She hesitated for a moment before saying, “I think that sounds good. Is that okay, Scott?”

“Of course,” Scott answered. “That’d be great. I actually thought you might run with us.”

She half-frowned. “I would if I were in different clothes, but I don’t feel like changing.”

Scott wrapped his arms around her. The other operatives began their exodus from the cafeteria. “Don’t worry about it. You’re not an enlisted operative—you can get away with being a spectator.”

“Because you know I’d beat you anyway.”

“If it makes you happy to think that, that’s fine with me.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He smiled and kissed her forehead. “Let’s go.”

The weather was serene. It was too overcast to be beautiful, but just cool enough to be comfortable. Sunlight cracked through the clouds at sporadic intervals as the grounds of Novosibirsk came to life.

The Eighth joined the Fourteenth near the track, where they stretched in preparation for their run. Derrick Cole worked alongside William as the warmup progressed, as he always did when that time came around. Nicole took her place on the sideline, while Scott led the opening exercises. Within minutes, both units were limbered and prepared for the jog. As they started off along the blacktopped ground, operatives clustered into mobile discussions.

Scott found his place with his usual running crew: David, Becan, Jayden, and Travis. He slowed his pace enough to allow William and Derrick to catch up, at which point the seven-man group traveled as one.

He enjoyed the camaraderie of William. Derrick was always fun to be around, too, but William was like a part of the Fourteenth himself. For all of his southern swagger, the demolitionist was one of the goofiest men Scott knew. He was right up there with Becan.

William flagged his hand and panted as the group edged ahead of him. “Slow the hell down, guys.”

Becan turned in mid-stride and jogged backward. “Righ’, yeh big lunkard. Trim the gut an’ maybe you’ll keep up.”

“I don’t have a gut, McIdiot.”

“If it looks like a gut, an’ smells like a gut.”

“You’ve smelled it?” Travis asked.

“How can yeh not? He’s a walkin’ tsunami o’ sweat drops.”

Holding point for the pack, Scott said, “I’ve been getting the football bug again. You guys think we can rustle up enough people for a game?” He always had the football bug, but more so when Nicole was there to watch him. It brought back memories of college. When she’d run onto the field after a game to embrace him. Now she could do it again.

David laughed. “Scott, how many people here even know how to play football?”

William huffed. “I can play football.”

“Who else here can play?” Scott asked.

Jayden raised his hand.

“I’m all right,” said Travis.

Becan ahem-ed. “None o’ yis could catch me if I was at tailback, so I migh’ as well not even play.”

Scott looked at him funny. He was surprised Becan even knew what a tailback was.

“I could catch you,” Jayden said.

“Sure yeh could.”

“I’m pretty fast, man. I’d be a good receiver.”

“Righ’.”

“I’m serious!”

Catching up to Scott, David said, “So William is a blocker, Jayden’s a receiver, Becan’s a—”

“I can tackle, too!” William said.

“With that little piece of information, might I recommend flag football.” Everyone but William laughed. “Jayden’s a receiver, Becan’s a tailback. I can do some blocking, and I’m sure Travis can catch.” He kept at Scott’s side for several moments, then he grinned. “Too bad nobody here can throw.”

Scott shot him a glare.

“Calm down, gunslinger, I’m joking.”

Scott harrumphed. He could throw. He could rifle. “I could have started, you know. I did for four games.”

“We know,” David and Becan said in unison.

“I went two-and-two. Should have gone three-and-one.”

William huffed from the rear. “Why didn’t you start?”

“Because some asinine suck-up was two years ahead of me, and he started the year before.”

“Thanks for asking him, Will,” David said. “I was hoping I could hear this a five-thousandth time.”

“Guy’s name was Shawn Klein,” Scott said. “God, he was horrible. Protect him and he’d pick you apart, but the second you got pressure on him, he was flinging balls into the stands.” In an open quarterback competition, Scott would have smoked him and more. “And what made it worse, we had two freshmen on the offensive line. So the last year I was there, there was someone in his face every play.”

“How did you get to play?” William asked.

“Someone finally popped him one. Ohio came with an all-out blitz, he dropped like a brick. Broke his ankle.” He felt bad as he said it. He never wished injuries on anyone. As much as he felt he was better than Klein, he didn’t want to replace him that way. “There were only four games left in the season, and we weren’t going anywhere anyway. We were one-and-five. So I played the last four games.”

“Pay attention to this,” David said. “Notice how he remembers every single detail.”

“First game in, and I lit up the field. We played Southern California. They were four-and-two, ranked fifteenth. No way we should have won. No way we should have even come close.”

“What happened?” William asked.

“We destroyed them. It was 20-3 at halftime. The final score was 33-24.”

“Notice how a nine-point win is ‘destroying’ them,” David said.

“You’ve got to understand,” refuted Scott, “this was the fifteenth-ranked team in the nation. Killer pass rush, probably better than half the top ten. They just had no offense.”

William’s eyes widened. “They had no offense and they scored twenty-four points?”

“We weren’t too hot either, remember?”

“Right. So you torched one of the best defenses in the nation. That had to rock.”

“Oh man, it was great.”

“How did you do it? If you had no line and they had that great a defense, how’d you not get killed?”

Scott wiped sweat from his brow. “I scrambled a lot.”

“You’re not a pocket-passer?”

“Come on, man, I’m five-foot-eleven. Every time they brought the rush, I rolled out and burned them. They’d send a seven-man rush, and they left receivers open everywhere. By the time they figured me out, we were up seventeen.”

“Man, that’s awesome.”

As Scott came back to the beginning of the track, he saw Nicole standing at its edge. She goosenecked in his direction, and he made eye contact. She was trying to get his attention. As he neared her, he glanced back to the group. “Hang on, guys. I’ll catch you next time you come around.”

As the group trotted past him, Scott broke from the track and slowed to a walk. His face glistened, and he wiped a hand across his brow.

Nicole smiled as he neared. “Hey, sweaty man.”

“Hey,” Scott said as he caught his breath. He wiped his hands on his shorts, then propped them up on his hips. “What’s up?”

“I think I’m going to go back to the room,” she said somewhat sadly.

“Something wrong?”

“No…I just want to lie down for a while.”

He took her gently by the arms. “You feel sick or something?”

“No, nothing like that. I just have a little headache, is all. It started at breakfast, just feels a little worse now.”

“A headache?”

“Yeah, it’s starting to come on a little. It’s nothing to worry about—everyone gets them.”

Scott nodded. “You won’t miss much. We’ll just run some laps, then hit the weight room for a while. You want me to walk you to the room?”

She smiled and shook her head. “It’s okay, sweetie. It’s not that far—I won’t get lost.”

“You sure?”

She gave him a look.

Scott glanced down at his outfit. Its color was darkened with sweat. She probably wouldn’t even touch it. “Do I get a kiss goodbye?”

Her lips curved. “Sure.” She leaned into him, propped her hands against his arms, and pressed her lips against his. Scott savored the lingering gentleness. He was surprised she had touched him at all. When she pulled away, her eyes sparkled. “Do you love me?”

“I’ll always love you.”

For a moment, she said nothing; she simply stared in his eyes. When she finally spoke again, her voice was sweeter than ever. “I’ll always love you, too.”

“I’ll see you in a bit.”

“I’ll be there.”

Then she was gone.

It took a minute for the group to loop back around to Scott, but he rejoined them as soon as they did.

“Everything all right?” David asked.

“Yeah, everything’s fine. She’s got a headache coming on, so she’s going to lie down for a bit.”

“She’s probably running off with some hot Russian guy.”

Scott laughed. “Right. Where’s Boris—is he still here?” He threw a mock-glance about the track. “He’s a chick magnet.”

Travis chuckled.

Scott set his pace again. Everything had gone as well as he imagined. She even enjoyed the Fourteenth. That was an unexpected bonus.

That statement got him wondering. Why had it been unexpected? The Fourteenth was a good group. The only knock against them was that they’d come after Richmond. Richmond had been perfect. Richmond set him up for a future. Then he was ripped away.

Ripped away.

That’s why he never thought of the Fourteenth as the ‘better’ group. In Richmond, he’d had time to settle. He’d met Charlie Squad, and everyone was in the same boat. They went out together, they failed together, and they won together. They had time to bond. There was no bonding moment in Novosibirsk. They’d arrived in the darkness of night, in the middle of an onslaught of rain. They’d arrived to General Thoor.

That was why Charlie Squad had felt better than the Fourteenth. That was why Charlie Squad remained a distant memory of perfection. He had never quite eased in with the Fourteenth as he had with Charlie Squad. He’d been thrown into the Fourteenth like fresh meat. All four of the Richmond transfers had. Their bonding moment at Novosibirsk had been the death of Lieutenant Novikov in Siberia.

The reality was, he loved the Fourteenth. He had more fun with them than he ever had with Charlie Squad. David, Becan, and Jayden were always a blast. They were the originals. But the others were just as good. Travis was fun to be around—he was under-appreciated, but he was sincere. Even though they weren’t with him right then, he enjoyed the company of the Russians, too. An enigmatic kind of funny, Boris the technician never lost at chess. Oleg was nothing but a clown. Galina and Varvara had a distinctly unusual chemistry that soothed everyone around them. Dostoevsky took time out to train him. Even Max was more comrade than threat.

And they had Clarke.

Things were just as good here as they had been with Charlie. It shouldn’t have been unexpected that Nicole would get along with them. He got along with them, too.

Derrick Cole flagged for his attention. “Get back to the story, man.”

Scott snapped out of his thoughts and glanced back. “What?”

“About football. It’s good to hear about that again.”

David grimaced as Scott shook his head. “That’s it, really,” Scott said. “We lit them up from one end of the field to the next. I had over four hundred yards passing that game.”

“What happened in the next game?”

“Next game was great. We played Iowa. We won 17-7. I remember that game—they were singing my praises.” He couldn’t restrain his smile. “It was the first time I’d ever seen banners with my name on them in the stadium. It felt awesome.” He’d thrown two interceptions in that game. That was a detail he’d leave out of the story. They’d won, and that was all that mattered. “When we won, people went crazy. We knew we wouldn’t be ranked that year, but we loved playing the spoiler.”

Nicole, too, had been great. She’d always been great, but his college memories of their relationship were still vivid. She’d gone to every one of his games. Even when he wasn’t starting, she attended, just in case. She wanted to be there when he broke out. She wanted to watch him be a star.

Those were his best memories of college games. The victories were wonderful, and the locker room celebrations would always be special in his mind. But the best part was seeing her after the games. He remembered pushing through the fans and finding her embrace.

His first victory had been like that. The Southern California game. The game that wasn’t supposed to be close. When he’d jogged off the field with his helmet in the air, she fought her way through the celebratory frenzy to see him. Her little body was barely visible through the mass of school colors. But she’d done it. The look on her face was priceless. She was completely thrilled—completely thrilled for him. She was grinning from ear to ear; it was something he’d never forget.

“It’s bleedin’ hot!” said Becan, interrupting Scott’s reverie.

Scott looked ahead and wiped his brow. It was warm, but he didn’t mind. It was better than the harsh blasts of winter.

“I can’t believe Nicole didn’t want to join us,” David said. “I’m offended.”

Scott laughed. “Yeah, I bet you’re offended.”

“I am.”

“I think it’s Jay’s fault,” Becan said.

Jayden grew defensive. “What? Why?”

“I think it’s your fault. I think she’s got eyes for yeh an’ she’s afraid she’ll run off with yeh.”

“Aw man, be quiet.”

“She’d have to fight off Varya, though.”

“Maybe they could mud-wrestle,” David said. “I bet Varvara would go along with it.” He looked at Jayden. “Don’t you think?”

“Whatever, man.”

“Righ’,” Becan said. “I don’t mean to offend yis or anythin’, but I’d pay to see tha’.”

“They could do it for charity,” David said.

Scott humphed sarcastically. “I’m sure Nicole would mud-wrestle Varvara for charity.”

“They’d make a killing. I’ll pass it on to Thoor.”

“You do that.”

“Man, if they heard y’all talkin’ like this,” Derrick laughed.

“No, no,” said Scott, raising his hands in defense, “see…there is no ‘y’all’ in this discussion. This is all them.”

“Nicole said her shoulder was sore,” David said. “I bet she was practicing for the fight.”

Scott shook his head. “You’re probably right. Especially since you made up the fight idea about two minutes ago.”

“I think Nicole would win,” Becan interjected.

“Why would she win?” Jayden asked.

”’Cos Varya’s a blonde. Nicole could probably distract her with somethin’ shiny.”

William skidded to a stop.

The rest of the group paced on for several moments before looking back at the demolitionist.

“It’s okay, Will,” said David. “You’re not blond—you don’t have to be offended.”

William said nothing. Standing at the center of the track, he fixated his penetrating gaze on Scott.

“Will?” David asked.

The demolitionist stood motionless. His chest heaved from the run, but his face looked far from exhausted. He looked enervated—his eyebrows were lifted and his mouth hung open. His face was drained of color. He was frightened beyond anything he’d ever experienced.

He was terrified.

Scott wiped his arm across his forehead. He’d never seen William like that before. The rest of the group stood alongside him as he took a step toward him. “Will…what’s—?”

“What did you just say?” William asked, cutting off Scott and looking at David.

David’s mouth fell open. “Uhh…I said your name…”

“Before that!”

“I told you not to be offended. I was kidding.”

“About Nicole!”

Scott slanted his head. About Nicole?

David turned to Scott, giving him a funny look before returning to William.

“About her shoulder,” William said.

The group’s focus switched between David, William, and Scott. With uncharacteristic uncertainty, Scott propped his hands on his hips. He didn’t like the look on William’s face. What was he talking about? Where was he going with this?

“I said,” David hesitated, “that she said her shoulder was sore…”

William’s eyes pained. They almost screamed in agony. He shot a look to Scott, his breathing intensifying. “Joe’s shoulder was sore!”

Scott’s initial reaction was, Joe? Frustrated, he turned to William. “Will, what in the world are you—?”

“Joe Janson!”

Scott was jolted—he physically reacted before the details began to coagulate in his brain. Joe Janson? William’s partner from the Eighth, months ago? The tall black man? Why was he talking about him? Joe Janson had nothing to do with Nicole; he had never met her before. So what if they both had sore shoulders? Joe Janson was dead.

A thought entered his mind.

Was William trying to say that because Joe had a sore shoulder, and Joe had died, that Nicole was going to die because she had a sore shoulder? That was crazy. What kind of connection was that? That was no connection at all. But…was that how Joe had died? Scott remembered hearing nothing about a sore shoulder. It was something else…but what?

“Joe’s shoulder was sore,” William said, “and then he went to bed.” He propped his hands on his knees, and drew a defeated breath. He looked at Scott, probing deep into his eyes. “With a headache. Joe Janson died of a headache.”

Scott felt his heart when it stopped.

“Wait a minute,” David said. “Joe had a sore shoulder and a headache…”

“…and then he died,” William said. “Then it killed him.”

“What killed him?”

“The Silent Fever.”

Becan gasped, everyone else went rigid, and Scott’s mind began to race.

Wait. There’s no connection here. William’s just coming up with things. Crazy things. Her shoulder was sore. She had a headache. That was it. Her shoulder was sore. She had a headache. That was it. Joe’s shoulder was sore. Joe had a headache.

And that was it.

Joe Janson was dead.

Scott’s mind thought enough—he was gone. The muscles in his legs exploded, and he tore off the track toward the barracks.

David, Becan, and Travis were right behind him, while Jayden darted off for Varvara. William and Derrick were left behind.

It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible. It was just a coincidence. Please God, no…it’s just a coincidence… He didn’t even hear the sound of his friends behind him. He registered only the strides of his feet. Every flex. Every push. Every everything. Run! Run! She’s waiting for you. She’s in your room right now. She said she’d be there.

He smashed into somebody. Two people who were blocking his way.

He didn’t stop.

He ripped open the door to the officers’ wing. Everything around him was a blur. Shoulder. Headache. Death. Shoulder. Headache. Death. The words circled endlessly in his mind. And they connected. Please, no! God, it’s all in my head! Please, God! Officers careened off him as he tore down the hall.

She had been fine all morning. She’d eaten breakfast. They’d planned to elope.

When he touched the handle of his door, his world came to a halt. His fingers curled. His wrist twisted. He pushed it open and turned on the light.

Nicole was slumped on the ground. Her body lay limp as a doll’s.

“Nicole!”

He raced to her side. She didn’t move.

“Nicole, oh God, Nicole!”

Her body was sweaty; her hair plastered to her face. When he swept it away, he shrunk back in horror.

Her skin was devoid of color. Her once sparkling eyes stared at nothing.

“God…no!”

Becan was the next to round the corner. He covered his mouth and stumbled back.

David and Travis came next. As soon as David saw her, he rushed to her, saying, “She’s going to be okay!”

Scott grabbed her shoulders and shook her violently, but her body was lifeless in his hands.

“She’s going to be okay. Varya’s coming!”

Scott shook Nicole’s shoulders again to no avail; her body was still limp. It’s a dream. I’m not here. She’s not here. He was still in bed, and his alarm clock would wake him up. He was still in the bunk room, sleeping.

Becan’s voice wavered. “Oh God…oh God…”

Jayden and Varvara rounded the corner and entered the room, Clarke and Max behind them.

“What happened?” Max asked.

Varvara made for Nicole. Her hands trembled as she tried to separate Scott. “Please, Scott! Please!” Her voice shook. “Let me see her!”

Scott couldn’t speak. He couldn’t see straight. He slipped his hand into Nicole’s, entwining his fingers around hers. She didn’t squeeze back.

Max tugged Scott away. “Scott, let Varya work, please! She’s gonna be okay, just let her get there!”

She always squeezes back. Why isn’t she squeezing back?

Max whipped his head to the door. “Where the hell is Galina?”

“She’s coming!” Travis said. “She’s down the hall right now!”

Squeeze back! Please baby, squeeze back! You can, I know it! He couldn’t even scream. His jaw was locked wide open.

Varvara shoved, and Scott fell away.

Max locked his arms around Scott’s shoulders and held him in check. “She’s going to be all right, okay? She’s going to be all right—let them work!”

Varvara was atop Nicole when Galina burst through the door.

“Where is she?” Galina asked, joining Varvara. “Anything?” she asked in Russian.

“Nothing. No pulse, no warmth, there’s nothing.”

David put his fist over his mouth. His eyes moved from Scott to Nicole.

Scott’s mind was blank. He could still see Nicole, but he didn’t want to. His body writhed like a child’s. He made no more attempt to go near her.

Becan, Jayden, and Travis knelt beside David. Esther and Maksim watched behind them. Clarke stood dumbstruck in the hall, as a gathering of officers drew near.

Max looked at the officers in the hall, then turned back to Clarke. “Captain.”

Clarke’s stare was fixed on Nicole.

“Captain!”

Clarke snapped out of it and focused on Max.

“Get them outta here!” Max said as he pointed to the other officers.

Clarke immediately waved off the crowd. “Please return to your quarters! Now!”

As Galina desperately worked on Nicole, the color in David’s face began to drain. “Do you want me to call the infirmary?”

Galina pounded on Nicole’s chest. Becan flinched with every hit.

“Galina?”

She pounded harder. Harder. Harder.

Scott curled in a ball in the corner.

Galina cursed in Russian and slammed her fist into Nicole’s chest a final time. Nicole’s body moved with the impact, but there was nothing else. No movement. No sound. Nothing.

She was dead.

Galina’s muscles sagged, and she lowered her head. She raised a hand to cover her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Do you want me to call the infirmary?” David asked again.

“No!” she screamed at him, biting down on her fist. Her body tensed and she shook her head. “No,” she murmured again.

Scott crawled to the corner as Max let him go. He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t look at Nicole. Though no words would come from his tear-stricken gasp, in his mind, he cried out her name. He cried it again and again. He cried from the depths of his soul.

Nicole never answered.

9

Saturday, August 6, 0011NE

0650 hours

At the same time

The door to the Inner Sanctum opened and Nijinsky strode down the carpet. At the front of the room, adorned in the horns of his fulcrum armor, Yuri Dostoevsky waited.

Nijinsky halted before the throne, giving the Nightman salute. “I have done what you have asked of me,” he said in Russian.

Dostoevsky’s stare met him back. “We know. We always know.”

Nijinsky lifted his eyes to the shadowed veil of the throne. Thoor, the Terror upon it, spoke his name.

“Alexander Nijinsky.”

Nijinsky stood erect; the general rose from his seat.

“You have severed the chains to your soul. You have paid for your conversion with blood. You have accepted our training. You have fulfilled our requirement.”

The hair on Nijinsky’s arms tingled.

“You are now one with the Night.” Thoor gave a salute, and Dostoevsky did the same. “Your armor awaits in your room.”

Nijinsky started back in surprise. “It is already there?”

“It was there before you came.”

“…then you knew when it happened?”

“It is as I told you,” said Dostoevsky again. “We always know.”

A moment of silence passed, before Nijinsky swallowed a breath. “Thank you, general. I will never fail you.”

“Leave us, slayer,” Thoor answered.

Nijinsky acknowledged the general, turned around, and strode down the carpet. Thoor and Dostoevsky watched as he opened the wooden doors and disappeared into the Hall of the Fulcrums. The Inner Sanctum was left in silence.

Dostoevsky’s eyes sunk. For several seconds, he said nothing. When he finally spoke again, his voice was intense with new purpose.

“It has begun.”

* * *

1823 hours

Later that evening

David stepped through the lounge doors, where the Fourteenth stood in silence, vacant stares on their faces. It was the first time they’d seen him all day. The first time they’d see him since she died. There was no coffee or tea in brew. There was no conversational chatter. There was barely any life at all.

Becan, Travis, and Jayden sat at one table, Varvara and Esther beside them. Max, Boris, Oleg, and Maksim sat at the far end. Every one of them wore a blank look.

As soon as they saw David, they straightened their postures.

“How’s Remmy?”

David sighed as he eased the door shut. “He’s okay.” He lied. “For right now.”

“Did he talk to yeh?”

David looked down. “A little bit. Galina’s with him, so…” His face fell into a frown, and he eased into a chair. “I don’t know. It’s too soon to say anything.” After several seconds had passed, he turned to them. “Anyone talk to Will?”

“I did,” Jayden answered. “He’s shaken up, but he’s gonna be all right.”

David said nothing.

“I don’t think annyone should leave him alone tonigh’,” Becan said. “I’m talkin’ abou’ Remmy.”

“Galina’s going to stay with him. She’s got him on suicide watch, so…we’re going to get some kind of rotation going.” As soon as those words—suicide watch—left David’s mouth, a tangible weight hit the air. David leaned forward and rubbed his face. “I don’t know for how long. She’s sleeping on the floor tonight, but tomorrow she’s going to try and get him into a room with a bunk. So someone can stay with him all the time.”

“I can stay with him,” Jayden said.

Becan nodded. “Me too.”

“I can stay,” added Travis.

“I don’t think it’ll be a problem,” David said. “Galina thinks we should stick with three or four people maximum, she thinks the consistency would be good.” He turned to Becan and Jayden. “It’ll probably be us and her, with Varya checking in while Galina’s not available.”

Travis tried not to look disappointed. “You think it’d be all right if the rest of us stopped to visit?”

David looked at Travis, then smiled sincerely. “Definitely, Trav. He’d love to know that you care.”

The room grew quiet for a moment, before Becan coughed to clear his throat. “So it was Silent Fever, then?”

David made no answer.

“Da,” Varvara answered. Her voice was weak, and her eyes were dark. She’d been that way since morning. Her cowboy hat sat untouched on the tabletop.

“So wha’ the bloody hell is Silent Fever?”

“No one knows.”

“Someone here knows,” Becan’s eyes narrowed. Max fell into his glare. “An’ they better start talkin’.”

“What makes you think I know?” Max asked.

“Just call it a bloody hunch.”

“Are you joking?”

“Yeh never did like Remmy, an’ we all know it.”

“Yeah, so I killed his girlfriend. That makes a lot of sense, moron. Way to uncover the truth.”

Becan didn’t answer.

Varvara sucked in through her nostrils. “Silent Fever is unknown disease. It is a virus. Nobody knows why it is here.”

Becan stared at her. “Does annyone know why it’s killin’ people we know?”

“Just one,” David said.

“Wha’ abou’ Joe?”

“Joe was with the Eighth. Different unit entirely. He never ran with our crew, we just ate with him.”

Oleg spoke for the first time. “Who is Joe?”

“He was with Will and Derek’s unit,” Travis answered. “He died not long after we met him.”

“Of Silent Fever?”

“Yeah.”

“We still knew him,” Becan said.

David sighed and stared at the Irishman. “The only thing that matters right now is that Nicole’s dead, and Scott’s about one step away from insane.”

Esther winced at David’s words. “Does Galina think he’ll…?”

“We don’t know. That’s why she’s got him on watch. He just lost his fiancee, for God’s sake. They’ve been together more than six years. How would you deal with that?”

Esther’s gaze sunk to the floor.

“I talked to Clarke earlier,” Max said. “He’s gonna relieve Scott till he’s ready to come back. Just like he did with Svetlana.”

Jayden’s eyes widened in realization. “What if he leaves? Like she did?”

“Who is Svetlana?” Oleg asked.

“Don’t ask,” Becan answered. “Touchy subject.”

David eyed the Irishman, then turned to Oleg. “She was in the Fourteenth. She dated a lieutenant who was with the unit, too. He got killed—”

“Got murdered,” Becan corrected.

David eyed him again. “He died.” His gaze returned to Oleg. “And she left the unit.”

“You think Remington will leave?” Oleg asked. “Where will he go?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers here.”

“Does he have family?”

David shook his head. “His parents died when he was young. He has a younger brother.”

“What about Nicole’s parents?” asked Jayden.

David frowned. “He called her parents a few hours ago.” He bit his lip, hesitated, then finally spoke. “They won’t be checking up on him anytime soon. That’s all I can say.”

“They’re gonna blame him…” Jayden said.

“He already blames himself.”

“Does his brother know?”

David nodded.

“What’s he gonna do?” Jayden asked.

“What can he do? He’s not even in college yet. Mark’s just a kid.”

Travis shook his head. “I can’t believe this just happened. I can’t believe we’re talking about this. How could someone as good as Scott go through this?”

“Because life ain’t fair,” Max said.

Becan glared at him.

“What? What’d I say? It’s true, ain’t it?”

Before an argument could erupt, Esther spoke up with a question. “When can we visit him?”

Becan and Max settled down.

“Whenever you want,” David answered. “I wouldn’t go tonight, though. He’s sleeping, and that’s exactly what he needs to do right now.”

“Would tomorrow be okay?”

“Give him time to wake up. Then I think it’d be fine.”

Esther’s eyes lingered on David for a moment. She touched the back of her neck. “Do you think it’d be…appropriate for me to visit him? I haven’t known him for very long, I just…”

As her words trailed off, David looked at her and tried to smile. “Esther, you can go. Believe me. It’s okay.”

She offered a single nod.

Oleg folded his arms. “So now, what do we do? What do we do if we get called on mission? Does he go with us?”

“How the bloody hell’s he goin’ to go with us like he is?” Becan asked.

“I am sorry,” Oleg said. “I am only asking.”

“It’s true though,” Travis said, looking at David. “What if we get called out?”

Max answered before David could. “Like I already said, as of right now he’s relieved. Galina’s an epsilon, she can handle officer duties.”

Travis shook his head. “Yeah, but…Scott keeps us alive out there. I mean, it’s no offense to Galina, we all think she’s great, but…she’s not Scott.”

“Then I’ll keep you alive out there, Travis.”

“We’ll do fine on the field,” David said. “Dostoevsky and Max can handle us.”

After nobody else spoke, Esther sighed. “I was so prepared to follow him. I was so excited to begin my career after his example. To see how he is now, after he was so uplifting before…I can’t even describe it. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say it’s all bollocks, ‘cos tha’s wha’ it is.”

“Scott will be okay,” David said. “He needs time, and more than that, he needs us. But he’s a strong young man. I think everyone who’s worked with him knows that. He’ll be okay.”

Becan’s stare hardened as he turned to face David. “Speakin’ o’ Dostoevsky just now…where the hell’s he been? Does he even know wha’ happened?”

“Yes, he knows,” Max said. “I told him myself.”

“An’ wha’ did he say?”

“Not a whole lot. But that’s nothing new.”

“Well tha’ nuggerknocker had better visit him. Or at least send him a bleedin’ sympathy card.”

“You know Yuri won’t do that. He’s a Nightman.”

“I don’t understand the Nightmen,” Esther said. “I’ve seen several since I’ve been here, but I’ve not actually met any, aside from the commander.”

Maksim spoke up for the first time. “You do not want to.” The room turned to him. “My uncle was a Nightman before they disbanded. They are horrible people. My uncle was horrible person.”

“Yuri’s human,” Max said. “He feels as much as we do. He’s just not gonna show it.”

No one commented. As the clock ticked 1830, David’s gaze fell to the floor.

“Yeh look knackered,” Becan said.

“I am.”

“Go catch some zeds, then.”

David looked at the clock. “It’s not even curfew. I’ve got three hours to party.” It was laced with dead sarcasm.

“Welcome to the party,” said Travis.

“I don’t know. It’s just early. It feels too early.”

“We won’t be loud,” Becan said, “cross our hearts. Yeh need some rest, you look like someone took a spiz on yeh.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Get some rest, man,” said Jayden. “You deserve it.”

After several moments, David answered. “You know, this hasn’t even hit me, yet. The reality of all this.”

“It hasn’t hit annyone, yet,” Becan said. “Get some sleep before it does.”

“I will,” said David. He drew a deep breath, pushed back his chair, and stood up. “First I’m going to call my wife, though. I feel like I need to do that.”

“Does she know?”

“Not yet.”

“All righ’ then. Get to it.”

“Good night, guys,” David said, waving to them.

“Night David.”

“Night Dave.”

They watched as he stepped through the lounge room door, easing it shut in his wake. The lounge returned to silence.

Jayden looked at Varvara. Her eyes were already on him.

“Hell of a day this turned out to be,” Max finally said.

As Varvara’s eyes began to glisten, Jayden moved to her side.

Nobody else made a sound.

Over the next few hours, the occupants of Room 14 filed out one by one into the bunk room. Conversation remained elusive all the while, as quiet company seemed the only appropriate thing to share.

When the last person left the lounge, most of the Fourteenth was already asleep. Minutes later, all of them were. It was the first time that had ever happened before the nine o’clock curfew.

Not one of them cared enough to notice.

10

Sunday, August 7, 0011 NE

EDEN Command

Leonid Torokin lowered into his chair at the black table of the High Command’s conference room. It was their first official session since Archer’s banquet. The new judge was given the extra time to acclimate himself to the job, and Pauling decided that no sessions would be held until he had done so. That wasn’t unusual—all new judges took time to transition in. Thanks to a relatively quiet week on the battlefront, High Command could get away with it this time.

“Good morning,” Grinkov said, sitting beside him.

“Good morning.”

“Did you sleep well?”

Torokin half-frowned. “No.”

“Are you still having nightmares of combat?”

“They are not nightmares of combat,” Torokin answered. “They are dreams of combat.” He inclined his head to the High Command. “This is the nightmare.”

His gaze roamed the circular table, around which the other judges sat. Finally, it came to rest on Archer, who sat directly opposite him. He remembered his brief conversation with Archer in Confinement Command. The new judge looked comfortable in his chair and was seated appropriately beside Judge Rath. On the other side of Archer sat Richard Lena.

Pauling cleared his throat, and the conversation around him fell silent. The president stared at the tabletop, where the pages of his notebook sat open in front of him. “Good morning, everyone. It’s been a while since we last met, so hopefully we still remember one anothers’ names.”

Poor attempt at humor, Torokin thought. Several judges chuckled nonetheless.

“Richard, we’ll begin today’s session with you. What’s the latest news out of Sydney?”

Judge Lena rose from his chair. “Things are excellent, sir. She should be ready to open up by early 0012. We’re ahead of schedule.”

Australia had been pressing for the past two years for a major EDEN base on its continent. It was finally coming to fruition, and Torokin felt it was deserved. While its number of enrolled was smaller than most nations, every Australian he’d met had impressed him. EDEN owed them their own facility.

Lena continued. “The final schematics should be done by the end of next week. This is going to be one hell of a base, sir. To rival London.”

Judge Malcolm Blake, one of two black judges on the Council, spoke up. “Should I take that personally, Richard?”

“Not at all, Malcolm. Just admiring your British functionality.” He turned back to the president. “Like London, Sydney won’t be the largest. But she’ll pack a punch when we’re through. They’ll like what they’re getting, I assure you.”

Pauling rubbed the back of his neck. “As soon as those schematics get in, let me know. This is a big deal. I don’t want to be a single day behind schedule.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Pauling’s focus switched to Rath. “Moving to our next topic, then…Jason, what’s the state of Novosibirsk?”

Torokin and Grinkov simultaneously leaned forward as Judge Rath rose to his feet. Novosibirsk always sparked a debate.

Rath cleared his throat and began. “Repairs are going well. The new infirmary is up and running. The last thing we’re obligated to do is restock the base as a whole.”

“And how is that coming?”

Rath’s gaze drifted across the other judges before settling back on Pauling. “They’re getting a fair share from Philadelphia…but Thoor’s not making it simple.” Pauling remained silent. “Novosibirsk lost over three thousand EDEN operatives in the assault. They’ve been reinforced with under six hundred.”

Judge Javier Castellnou, the lone Spaniard on the High Command, entered the discussion. “Then how is Novosibirsk being fully restocked?”

“Nightmen. They lost about eighty Nightmen in the assault. Over five hundred have replaced them.”

“Where are they coming from?”

The room fell silent as every gaze turned to Torokin and Grinkov. It never failed. Every time Nightmen were mentioned, the Russians were asked for their opinions. It was as if they were supposed to have inside information. This time was apparently no exception.

Torokin leaned forward, propped his elbows on the table, and cleared his throat. “Not all Nightmen are at Novosibirsk. There are many in all of Russia. There are enough Nightmen to stock that facility, and more so if Thoor chooses.”

Castellnou stared. “And you tell us this now?” His eyes danced wildly around the table.

“Shut up, Javier.” Castellnou was an idiot. “We have discussed this a thousand times. This is not new information.” He turned to Judge Rath. “Thoor wants to strengthen his ranks. I do not see why that is a problem now. It never was before.”

“It’s a problem because he’s taking over that base,” Rath said. “And we are continuing to ignore it.”

“Thoor is too valuable to lose,” Pauling said, his voice tired from repetition. “We’ve gone over this already. No other facility could have mounted that attack in Siberia with just three units. And there may not be another base that could have survived a full-fledged Bakma assault.”

Castellnou’s nostrils flared excessively. “At what point is enough, enough? Don’t see you see that he is stealing Novosibirsk from us?”

“If we press him, we may lose Novosibirsk. This is a rare case when bending is acceptable.”

“Then what if Leningrad wants the same? Or Berlin? Or Nagoya? Let’s just give every base the power to do what it wants!”

“You know this situation is different,” Pauling said.

“It is not different!”

Pauling sighed. “Javier…”

“It’s ridiculous,” Castellnou replied. “We cannot allow him to run Novosibirsk as if it were his own little kingdom!”

“I know he’s a drama queen,” said Lena, referring to Castellnou’s outbursts, “but he does have a point.”

Torokin couldn’t help but smirk.

“I’m not going to challenge our strongest asset,” said Pauling.

“The president’s right,” added Blake.

Not surprisingly, Castellnou flipped out. “He is stealing Novosibirsk! This cannot be allowed to go on!”

“For God’s sake, Javier, calm down!”

“I will not be calm!”

The volume of the argument intensified. The usual judges chimed in. Blake backed the president. Rath stayed on the fence. Lena and Castellnou challenged them—while still managing to challenge each other. Even Grinkov was getting involved.

Torokin looked at Archer. He wondered how the newcomer would react to this one. He wondered what side he would take. The Novosibirsk debate was a heated one—the most heated one High Command ever had. And at each meeting, no progress was made. Only shouting.

Archer’s eyes danced between them all. First to Pauling, then to Castellnou, then to Rath. Then to the others.

Then down to his own notebook.

At that moment Torokin’s expression changed, as he continued to watch the new judge. His expression changed, because Archer’s changed first. There was a look in Archer’s eyes—one the Russian hadn’t expected to see. There was a thoughtful look. A calculating look. A knowing one. It caught Torokin off guard because for a split second it didn’t look like the gaze of a judge. It looked like the gaze of a president. And it was right then, in the height of the verbal fistfight, that Benjamin Archer rose to his feet.

“Everyone, please,” he said, his eyes still fixed on his notebook. Despite the passiveness in his voice, the conference room hushed into silence. Every head turned in his direction. “Judge Rath, can you restate the death count for me, please?”

Rath watched him for a moment, then quizzically angled his head. “From the Assault on Novosibirsk?”

“Yes, please.”

Rath exchanged a glance with the president, then read the official numbers aloud. “The exact tally is 3,291 EDEN and eighty-six Nightmen. That comes to a total of 3,377.”

The room fell quiet as Archer closed his eyes. Torokin leaned forward in his chair. Archer was thinking. But about what?

“3,377,” the new judge finally said. “Listen to that number. 3,377. Of 3,377 losses, eighty-six were Nightmen.” His gaze returned to Rath. “What is the EDEN-to-Nightman ratio in Novosibirsk?”

“About a third. Almost ten thousand to three thousand. Or it was before the assault.”

“Listen to that,” Archer resumed. “Fathom that for a moment. EDEN suffered a mortality rate close to forty percent. The Nightmen lost less than five percent.”

Several of the other judges raised their eyebrows.

“Are the Nightmen really that superior? We all know the tales of Thoor’s army, but forty percent to five? Are they forty-percent-to-five-percent superior?”

Torokin narrowed his eyes.

Archer turned to the wall monitor. “Can we view the official log of the assault, please?” After several seconds, the monitor came to life. Archer observed it for a moment, before he moved beside it and pointed at the screen. “Look here. The attack began at 0136 hours. At what time did the Nightmen charge the airstrip?”

The battle log scrolled for several seconds. Then it stopped. 0225.

Archer panned his gaze across the table. “Fifty minutes. It took fifty minutes for the Nightmen to muster their forces.” Nobody in the room said a word. “These are the Nightmen we’re speaking of. It took the Nightmen fifty minutes to muster an offensive. Why so long?” When no one answered, he turned to the monitor again. “How many Nightmen were killed before they made their charge?”

The log scrolled to its end. When the precharge tally stopped, several of the judges drew hushed gasps.

“Ten on record,” Archer read. “Prior to the charge…the Nightmen lost ten. I understand their superiority, but in the midst of a total invasion, how could they lose only ten?”

Silence captured the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Archer said, “I present to you a new hypothesis. It didn’t take General Thoor fifty minutes to muster his forces because he needed it to take fifty minutes. It took him fifty minutes because he wanted it to.” He swiveled to face Rath. “He gave the Bakma fifty minutes to slaughter us. Then he stepped in, and he saved the day. He allowed the Bakma to pick EDEN apart, so that the Bakma could dwindle our numbers. And they did. We lost forty percent of our operatives. And guess who’s come in to replace them?”

Torokin couldn’t believe it. The math was there. The answer was there. And none of them had caught it.

“How did we not see this?” asked Castellnou. For the first time, his tone was repressed.

“He allowed us to die,” said Archer, “so he could restock Novosibirsk with his own.”

Rath leaned back speechless in his chair.

Castellnou turned to Pauling. “We are here for months, and we don’t figure this out? And now Archer is here for ten minutes, and he puts it all together?”

Pauling, deep in thought, waved him away. “Javier, please, for one moment.”

Castellnou’s nostrils flared. “Are we really that incompetent?”

“Javier,” Rath said, “please calm down.”

“I’m sorry,” said Archer, “I didn’t intend to cause disagreement. This could have easily been missed. I just so happen to excel at detail.”

“This is on you,” Castellnou said, pointing to the president. “You let Thoor get away with too much. Now he is killing us!”

Blake looked at Castellnou disapprovingly. “Please, Javier, you know this is a complex situation.”

“How complicated can it be?”

Pauling’s eyes remained disjointed. He stared blankly at the table.

Grinkov leaned close to Torokin. “He is losing it.”

Torokin said nothing.

“How did we miss this?” Pauling whispered to no one.

“It wasn’t your fault, sir,” Blake said.

Castellnou pointed at the president. “You are too scared to stand up to him! You are too afraid he will want to fight you!”

Pauling flinched as Castellnou fired on.

“We have told you time and time again, yet you do not listen! These deaths are on you!”

Blake pounded his fist on the table. “Veck, Javier! Bloody shut up!”

Castellnou finally went silent.

An eerie lull took over the conference room. The eyes of the High Command lingered on the president.

Torokin watched Pauling as he sat there, eyes glossed over as he stared at the table in disbelief. Torokin himself found this hard to believe. For the president, it had to be worse.

“Benjamin,” Pauling said, his gaze shifting to Archer. His voice was different. It was old. “Will you take charge of this new investigation?”

Archer bowed his head submissively. “However I can be of assistance, Mr. President.”

Pauling sat back. The room fell quiet again.

“It wasn’t your fault, Mr. President,” said Blake. “Most of us had thought just as you.”

Pauling failed to acknowledge them. His stare remained blank as the wall monitor behind him flickered. The death toll was replaced by the EDEN logo.

The president was hurting—Torokin knew it. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Carl Pauling looked like his age. He looked like a defeated man.

“We’re going to dismiss for the time being,” the president finally said. “We’ll reconvene when Ben’s report is finished. And we’ll address this situation. For real, this time.”

Castellnou glared.

“You’re all dismissed.”

There was a moment of reluctance before a quiet round of yes sirs filtered his way. As Torokin and Grinkov rose, they exchanged a brief but knowing glance. In a single session, the confidence of their leader had been shattered. In a single session, they had all been shown as fools.

Benjamin Archer.

Within a minute, the conference room was abandoned. Only the EDEN logo orbited in the background as President Carl Pauling sat alone.

He crossed his arms on the table and cried.

11

Sunday, August 7, 0011 NE

0944 hours

Novosibirsk, Russia

The morning after her death

Scott wasn’t sure at what time he had awoken. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been asleep. The line between conscious and unconscious was nothing but a blur. He had no idea what time it was. He didn’t care.

Nicole hadn’t been on his mind. Nicole was his mind. She was his heart. She was everything he had ever known. The moment he realized he was awake, denial began to set in.

She wasn’t dead. She was right there beside him, wrapped in his arms beneath the covers of the very bed they had lain in yesterday. He could feel her. He could reach out and touch her skin, run his hands through her hair. He could see the sparkle in her eyes.

He could hear her say that she loved him.

Tears welled beneath his lids, as the truth once again wrestled out. Her skin wasn’t there to be felt. There were no eyes to sparkle. There was no girl to love him. There was only the scent of her ghost.

How could You? How could You take her away? I did everything You ever asked of me. His fingers curled around his pillowcase. Saline shimmered in his eyes. Everything was fine. I was here. She came. You brought us together.

He curled his legs up to his chest as his neck muscles strained. He couldn’t hold back the tears. As hard as he forced them back, they broke forth in liquefied grief.

How could You do this? How could You kill her? How could You feed us this lie?

Was this destiny? What was destiny? It was a joke. It was a joke from a cruel-hearted God. Destiny had brought him to EDEN. Destiny had brought him to Russia. What had destiny done for her?

I only wanted one thing. I never asked for anything else. Only that one thing that You said I could have. That You told me I could have. And You had to take it away…just to prove that You could.

Damn You.

He had never thought about suicide before. The thought had never crossed his mind. But what reason did he have to live now? Not her. Not himself. Surely not God.

He knew the risk of self-murder: Scripture’s ultimate unanswered mystery. Eternal loss? Separation forever? He could live with that.

“Scott?”

The voice startled him. It spoke beside his bed. As his eyes opened and his ears perked, he focused to register it again.

“Scott…are you awake?”

It was Galina. She had stayed with him. She had stayed in his chamber throughout the night. It was a pathetic irony. In all their years together, Nicole and he had never slept in the same room. That rule had now been broken on the day of her death. Broken with some other woman.

He knew he would see Galina if he turned around. She would be there, with her butch haircut and her pointed face, staring at him as if he were some bug under a microscope. But at least she’d stayed with him. At least she hadn’t forsaken him.

And yet Galina hadn’t been able to do anything either. She’d sat alongside Nicole’s body like a helpless fool. With all of her knowledge, with all of her science, she hadn’t been able to do a thing. Not one single thing. She was at the mercy of the Silent Fever.

The phrase repeated in his mind.

The Silent Fever. It had killed Nicole. Just like it had Joe Janson. Except she was nothing like Joe Janson. She was a white female, Joe was a black male. She was a civilian, he was a soldier. She’d just arrived, he’d been there for weeks. Where was the connection?

Something wasn’t right. Something didn’t add up. She had been at Novosibirsk for barely a day. How could she have become infected? Barely a day. Scott had been there for months. Everyone else had been there for months. The civilian airbus? No, she couldn’t have caught anything on that. The Silent Fever was only in Novosibirsk. Only in Novosibirsk.

A disease. A virus. An unknown sickness that struck without warning. That struck completely at random. That struck her in one day when it had avoided the rest of them for months, and for some even years.

No.

Something wasn’t right at all.

There was a knock at the door. It was barely a knock at all. He listened as Galina answered it.

One day. That was all it had taken to kill his fiancee. To rip her life away as if it was nothing at all. To destroy six years of purpose.

One single day.

It was more than wrong. It was foul. Joe Janson had been perfectly healthy, and so had Nicole. Full of life to total death, in thirty minutes. What could do that? Venom. A bite. But there was no bite on Nicole. There were no marks at all. Full of life to total death, in thirty minutes. How could that be? How could no one have figured it out yet? How could no one have a cure?

His thoughts were interrupted as Galina leaned closer to whisper. “Scott…someone is here to visit you.”

Still, his thoughts stormed ahead. What could take a perfectly healthy girl from living to dead in thirty minutes? He rolled his head around, where Galina’s form came into view. Esther stood right beside her. Her dark hair was damp from a morning shower. He recognized her musk nonetheless.

Galina said apologetically, “I am sorry if I woke you…I thought you might already be awake…”

Esther hesitated, the corner of her mouth teetering between a smile and a frown. “Good morning, sir…”

Nothing natural could kill a girl like Nicole in thirty minutes. Not like that. Not that unexpectedly.

Esther looked back at Galina, who placed a hand on the younger woman’s back.

If it wasn’t something natural, then it was something unnatural. It was something intended. There was no Silent Fever. Not like everyone thought there was. There had to be something else to it. There had to be something different.

He watched as Galina and Esther moved away. He listened as they whispered to one another. They thought he was crazy. They thought he had lost his mind. That he was somewhere far away.

He wasn’t gone. He was more there than they knew.

The Silent Fever. The selective plague of Novosibirsk. Something was doing the selecting.

Esther sighed in apology and stepped from Scott’s bed. He hadn’t responded to her introduction. He watched as Esther turned to the door.

Something was doing the selecting. Something far beyond the realm of the natural world. Something had hidden itself from explanation. Nobody knew what the Silent Fever was. That in itself was unacceptable.

Completely unacceptable.

He had to find it. Whatever it was, he had to find it. Whether it was a cause, a thing, a person. He had to uncover its purpose. But how? He was nothing but a soldier.

He watched as Esther eased open the door and slipped out into the hallway. Esther. Esther Brooking, their scout from Philadelphia, had come to visit him. Their scout from Philadelphia.

Tactical observations.

She was the one that he needed.

His mouth was in tune with his thoughts. “Stop.” Esther and Galina froze. They started around to face him. Scott’s eyes fixated on Esther as she stood motionless in the doorway. “Stay here.”

Esther turned her head, releasing her hand from the knob.

Galina tried to smile. “I am sorry, Scott. I did not know you were—”

“You can leave.”

Galina blinked.

Scott repeated as he stared at the medic, “You can leave.”

Galina reached out to him. “Maybe we should get you something to eat—”

“Get out, now!”

Both women flinched back. Galina stuttered then nodded her head. “Da, lieutenant.”

As Galina abandoned the room, Esther eased her way in. She stared with nervous uncertainty.

“Close the door.”

“Yes sir.” Esther clicked the door shut. Galina was left in the hall.

Scott flung the sheets from atop him; he sat upright on his bedside. He gave no mind to the fact that he was shirtless. Her comfort was not his concern.

Esther swallowed as she maintained her distance. “I’m sorry, sir, I just came to see how you were doing. We’re all very worried…”

His arm muscles flexed as he pushed himself up. His EDEN-issue sweatpants were wrinkled. “The Silent Fever. What is it?”

She stared in bewildered silence. “Sir, I don’t know—”

“I know you don’t know.” He began to track toward her. “But that’s what you’re going to find out.”

She backed into the wall. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t think I understand…”

There was nothing to misunderstand. His intentions were simple and plain. “The Silent Fever killed my fiancee. You’re going to find out what it is.”

She raised her arms to cover her chest as he leaned forward and invaded her personal space. She quivered for the first time, finding herself forced back against the brick. “But sir, I don’t know what I can—”

“You’re a Type-2 scout! Tactically observe!”

She started at his volume, as her teeth clenched in fear.

“I don’t care how you find out. I don’t care what you have to do. I don’t care who you have to kill. But you’re going to find out. And then, you’re going to tell me.” There was no room left for discussion. “Is that understood?”

She stood there, her body shaking as her hands protected her chest from the unbridled force of his presence. When she finally spoke, her trembling covered her words. “Yes, sir…”

Scott stepped backward. Her personal space was released. “Get it done.”

She stayed against the wall for several seconds before nodding and facing the door. Her fingers searched for its knob. She was emotional. When she finally found the handle, she gave it a turn.

Galina glanced in from the hallway. As soon as Esther slipped out, the medic hurried into the room. “Scott?”

Scott was already by his closet. His time for mourning had passed. His lust for the truth had taken its place. “I no longer require supervision,” he said, grabbing his jersey.

“I…are you sure? We do not mind staying with you—”

“If you make it a habit to question me, I will make it a habit to punish you.”

Galina’s mouth hung open.

“Inform the captain that I am returning to active duty. I expect a private memorial for Nicole before she’s sent back.”

“Yes, lieutenant.”

“Tonight.”

She nodded again.

He zipped up his jersey and laced up his boots. “That’s all I need from you. You can leave.”

She stood in the doorway for a moment before bowing her head in submission. Without a word, she back-stepped into the hallway and softly shut the door behind her.

Scott finished his lacing, rose, and turned to the mirror by his sink. For the first time since Nicole’s death, he looked at his face. His eyes were shadowed by circles. His glare burned clear through the glass. Tiredness screamed from his face, as it hardened the skin around his mouth. No…it wasn’t tiredness at all. It was wrath.

The lion was mad.

* * *

Becan shook his head beneath the hot rush of water. With the Fourteenth’s morning workout then finished, the customary assault of the shower stalls was in full swing. As courtesy stated, the women were allowed to go first. Now, it was Becan, Travis, and Oleg who stood behind the curtains. Most of the others had already left.

Becan sputtered as water cascaded down his face, then he stepped from beneath the flow to slick back his brown locks. “I hate Dostoevsky week.” He reached beneath the spray to grab his soap.

Travis grimaced from behind the adjacent stall. “The only thing worse than Dostoevsky week is an extra day of Dostoevsky week.”

“Bleedin’ righ’,” said Becan. With Scott temporarily relieved, the commander had taken his place that morning for the workout session, one day earlier than he was scheduled. “So much for a mournin’ period.”

“When do you think Scott’ll be back?”

“I don’t know. Remmy’s a tough one, he is. But I can’t imagine wha’ he must be goin’ through.”

“I hope he comes back soon.”

“Me, too.”

Oleg bathed in silence.

As Becan lathered the soap in his hands, the door to Room 14 swung open. “Didn’t know annyone was still ou’ there,” he said at the sound.

“I don’t think anyone was,” said Travis.

From the silence of the unseen bunk area, a timid voice quivered forth. “Becan?”

Becan’s hands stopped in mid-lather. “Esty?”

Esther exhaled a breath. “I need to talk to you.”

“Righ’,” Becan said, rinsing the soap from his arms. “Is somethin’ wrong?”

“Yes. Please, come and find me in the lounge.”

“I will, righ’ away.”

Within a minute, all three men—Becan, Travis, and Oleg—were out of the showers and in front of their closets. They pulled on their jerseys over their still-damp bodies and quickly made their way to the lounge. Esther sat alone at a table in the back corner—there was no one else there.

“Wha’s wrong, Esty?” Becan asked, lowering into the chair beside her.

Esther’s face was flushed, and she drew in a calming breath. Her eyes flitted between the three men, before they settled on the Irishman. Her fingers played in nervousness. “It’s about Lieutenant Remington.”

Becan and Travis swapped a look. “How is he?” Travis asked.

Her eyes darted between them and the door. Only when she was sure no one else would walk in did she take a breath and speak. “He’s gone mad. He…” Her words trailed off.

“Esty, wha’ is it?”

“He came upon me, and he ordered me to find out about the Silent Fever. I think he suspects something.”

“Righ’, I think most o’ us do.”

“But that’s not all he said. He was steaming. He told me that he didn’t care what I had to do to find out. And he didn’t care who I had to kill.”

Travis’ eyes widened. “Scott said that?”

“He did.”

Becan shook his head and leaned back. “It’s not like him to say somethin’ like tha’.”

“He told me to find out, then to report what I’d found to him.”

Travis turned to look at Becan. “Do you think Scott would do something? I mean like…something bad?”

“He just lost the love o’ his life. Wouldn’t you do somethin’?”

“I don’t know what to do,” Esther said. “I only went to see if he was well.”

“Righ’, well yeh got your answer.”

The door to Room 14 opened again. They regarded the lounge entrance, where two voices made their approach. It was David and Galina. As soon as Galina stepped in the lounge, her eyes found the table. David entered right behind her.

“We have a problem,” he said.

“Yeah, I think we migh’ be talkin’ abou’ it.”

“Scott?”

“Yeah.”

David stepped to the table. “Do you know what he told Galya?”

No one at the table answered.

“He is returning to active duty,” Galina said. “He no longer wants supervision.”

“Wha’?” asked Becan.

David leaned against the counter. “He also told her that if she questions him about it, he’ll punish her.”

“Punish?” asked Travis. “Punish like how?”

“He did not say,” answered Galina. “But I dared not ask. He looked like he would strike me if I did.”

“That’s not like Scott at all.”

“I have never seen him like this. In all my time with him, he has never looked like he does now. He looks like different person.”

“Do yeh think he’s gone loopers?”

“That is the thing that worries me. He does not look crazy. Not in that way.” Galina paused and frowned. “He looks focused. He looks like a man with a mission.”

“That’s exactly how he came across to me, as well,” said Esther.

“What did he say to you?”

“He ordered me to find out what the Silent Fever was. He said he didn’t care who I had to kill to do it.”

“Scott said that?” asked David, arching his eyebrows.

“That’s the same reaction we had,” said Travis.

“He hollered,” Esther said. “Several times. He said I was a Type-2 scout. He told me to tactically observe.”

“Well, wha’ does he expect yeh to do? Wave your hands an’ make the answer appear?”

“I don’t know, Becan!”

“The bottom line,” Galina said, “is that he suspects something. He does not think her death was an accident.”

Becan’s nostrils flared. “Yeh know, I said tha’ before, an’ nobody listened. There’s somethin’ not righ’ abou’ this at all.”

“Just because Scott suggests foul play, doesn’t mean there is,” said David.

“Dave, wha’s your bloody problem? This is Remmy we’re talkin’ abou’.”

“I don’t have a problem. I’m only saying he’s unstable.”

“He didn’t sound unstable,” Esther said.

“Wha’ if Remmy has a point?”

“If he does,” David said, “we’ll find it. But let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“I can’t bloody believe I’m hearin’ this. It sounds like you’re defendin’ this God-awful place.”

David scoffed. “I’m not defending anything. The only thing I’m saying is to study the situation. Study it, and if there’s something to conclude, do something. But veck, let’s keep our heads on here.”

“He wants a memorial,” Galina said. “Tonight, for Nicole. Before she goes back to America.”

“He wants to see her again,” Esther said.

“How can he even be thinking straight?” Travis asked. “I mean…his fiancee just died.”

“He’s finding something to blame,” said David. “I know. I lost friends in the force. If you can’t deal with it, you find something to get mad about. You can cope with that just fine.”

“Then who’s his bloody target?”

“The Silent Fever. Whatever it is.”

Esther folded her arms against the table. “Please, someone tell me what I’m supposed to do. He expects an answer from me, but I haven’t the slightest idea where to go. Does anyone even know what the Silent Fever is?”

“No,” said Galina. “It is unknown disease.”

“Have yeh ever studied it?”

“Nyet.”

“Could she have caught it from one of us?” asked Travis. “We were the only ones around her.”

“If she caught it from one of us, one of us would be dead,” said David.

“But what if some people have natural immunity?”

Becan turned to Galina again. “Wha’ would yeh have to do to study it? To get a sample?”

“I am a combat medic,” she answered. “I am not medical researcher.”

“Well I’m no technician, but I can un-jam a bloody rifle.”

“Do you even know what a medical researcher is?”

“Maybe it was something in the food,” David said. “She got sick right after she ate.”

“Wouldn’t we be sick as well?” Esther asked.

“I don’t know.”

“She had a shoulder ache before she ate anything. Big Willie said tha’ was one o’ the symptoms.”

Galina turned to David. “Scott saw her that morning, before he came into the lounge. Whatever it was, it happened between then and when she sat down in the cafeteria.”

“Maybe after Scott left,” Travis said. “When she was by herself in his room.”

“I wonder if Joe was by himself when he got it?” David asked.

“We could ask Will,” Becan answered. “Annyone seen him lately?”

“He’s probably in Room 8,” said Travis. “Or the weight room.”

Becan and David exchanged a glance. Becan rose to his feet. “I’ll go find him.”

“Do that. Anyone else know anyone who died of the Silent Fever?”

Galina shook her head. “Many have died, but none that I knew personally. I could ask some people I know in R&D.”

“Good idea.”

Galina stood to join them.

“All right everyone,” said David, “my gut says not to mention this to anyone else. Let’s see what we can find out ourselves.”

“What about me?” Esther asked. “What should I do?”

“We’re doing it now,” David answered. “If Scott asks you anything, tell him you’re working on it.”

“All righ’,” Becan said. “I’m goin’.”

“Me too,” said Galina. They headed for the lounge door.

Before they could reach it, a new voice broke the newly formed silence. It was from someone who had been there all along. It was the first time he had spoken aloud.

“Everyone, wait.”

Becan and Galina stopped. David, Travis, and Esther turned around.

It was Oleg. The soldier leaned forward over the table, where his eyes bored into the empty space in front of him. His fists cupped anxiously together.

David swapped a look with Becan, and the Irishman inched to the table.

“Oleg?” Galina asked. She scrutinized him uncertainly.

“Please, everyone,” Oleg said, holding out a tense hand. “Do not go yet.”

No one moved. The entire room’s attention zeroed upon him.

“Oleg,” David said, “is there something you think we should know?”

For several moments, Oleg didn’t answer. He simply stared down at the tabletop, as David and the others cautiously neared him. When he finally spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically low. “Please. Sit down. Please.”

“You know,” accused Becan. “You know, don’t yeh?”

“Oleg…” breathed Galina.

Oleg’s gaze lifted only to regard the lounge door. “Please, lock the door.”

David did as requested.

“Everything in me tells me, Oleg, be quiet,” Oleg said. “This is not for me to speak. It is not even for me to know. But I cannot say nothing.”

David lowered into a chair across from him. Galina sat beside him, as Becan, Travis, and Esther watched from their feet.

“I will tell you something now, but you must swear. You must swear to your grave that you did not hear this from me. That you did not hear it from anyone.”

“What?” asked David.

“You must swear it. All of you.”

David and Becan exchanged a hesitant look, before David sighed. “All right, Oleg. I swear.”

“I swear,” Galina said. Travis and Esther said the same.

Oleg’s eyes turned to Becan, who stood before him with arms folded across his chest. “Becan?”

Becan said nothing.

David turned to him. “Come on, Becan.”

“I swear.”

Oleg nodded and prepared his words. His eyes returned to the tabletop for several seconds, then he breathed hesitantly. “I came to you from the First. You all know this, it is not secret. But do you know what the First is?”

None of them answered.

“The First is one of most Nightman-occupied units. The captain, the commander, both lieutenants, and half of the soldiers, they are all Nightmen. The captain and commander are fulcrums. The others are all slayers.” His fingers played together. “I was never one of them, but I lived among them. I slept next to them. I ate with them.

“There are few whom I became good friends with. I will not tell you their names, but…after missions, I would converse with them in the lounge. We would joke and laugh. It became like I was no different. They treated me the same as their own.”

David’s eyes remained fixed on Oleg.

The Russian checked the lounge door, then he continued. “One night it was late, very late. I could not sleep. So I got out of bed and walked to the lounge.” His fingers continued to fiddle. “When I walked in, there were three Nightmen around the table—one of them was my good friend. This was not unusual, because on many nights operatives who cannot sleep talk in the lounge. But as soon as I walked in, they stopped talking. It was odd how it happened. It was as if I stepped into secret meeting, but…it was not secret meeting. It was just talking in the lounge.

“They invited me in, and we talked for a while. It was about nothing, just weather, and girls, and Novosibirsk. We always talk about these things.

“I went back to my bed to sleep quickly, because I knew that even though they were talking to me, they did not want me there. It is foolish to stay where you are not wanted, but it is double foolish to do this with Nightmen. So I did not want to trouble them and make enemies.”

“Get to the bleedin’ point,” Becan said.

“Becan, can it,” said David.

Oleg sighed. “That night, I lay wondering what they were talking about. For hours, I could not sleep. I was curious, but I was also afraid. I was afraid that they thought I heard something, and they would try to silence me.” His eyes lifted to meet them. “But the days passed, and they said nothing to me. So I knew it must have been okay.

“But still, I kept wondering…what were they talking about? Why was it big secret? I was afraid, yes, but more than I was afraid, I wanted to know. So one day, me and the Nightman who was my good friend, we went for a walk outside. We did this every now and then, when one of us has problem. About work, about girls, about anything. That was when I asked him. I asked him if they were upset with me for walking into the lounge.

“He said they were not, and we continued to walk. I thought maybe he would say more, but he did not. That was when I decided, I must ask him what it was they were talking about.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I do not know why I asked this. It was stupid. It is stupid to ask Nightmen such things. But I thought, ‘this is my friend, he will not hurt me.’

“So I did it. I asked him what it was they were talking about. As soon as I asked the question, I thought, ‘Oleg, you are fool.’ I wished I had said nothing. But my friend did not get angry. We walked on for a moment longer, until he asked me, could I keep a secret?”

At that moment, Oleg stopped. He shut his eyes, casting them down at the table. His teeth gritted together.

“Oleg?” asked Galina.

“I don’t want to say it,” he said to her in Russian. “I wish I had not said anything.”

“You must,” she replied, also in Russian. “If you know something, you must tell us.”

The others listened, the meaning of the conversation lost to them.

“If they know I told you, they will kill me.”

“Oleg, please. This is for Scott. He must know the truth.”

“He told me,” Oleg answered in English, his frightened eyes opening to them. “He told me what it was. They were talking about the Silent Fever. When I asked him if they knew what the cause of the virus was, he smiled. And he said, ‘You talk to it now.’”

David felt a horrible chill grip him. Behind him, Becan and Travis felt the same. They were paralyzed. Galina sat upright.

“It was what they use,” Oleg said. “It is what they kill with.” His gaze focused on them. “It is how they fulfill the Rule.”

Galina gasped. “The Murder Rule?”

“Da.”

“Oh my God,” said David.

The others stood stunned in silence.

“It is disease that they made,” Oleg went on. “There is no cure, there does not need to be. It is not disease that can spread.”

“But how did she catch it?” asked David.

“I do not know. It must be some kind of injection.”

“But she would have felt it,” said Becan. “Wouldn’t she?”

Oleg shook his head. “I do not know.”

“It could have numbed her,” Travis said. “Some spiders are like that, I think some other animals too. The victim doesn’t know they’ve been stung.”

“So that’s how they do it?” asked David. “They use the Silent Fever?”

“That is not only way,” said Oleg. “I asked him that very question. He told me that there are many ways they murder. The Silent Fever is just one of them.”

“So some dregg hopper just became a Nightman,” growled Becan. “An’ murdered Nicole to do it.”

“If she died of Silent Fever,” Oleg said, “then that is what happened.”

“We have to tell him,” Becan said. “We have to tell Remmy.”

“If we tell him, he’ll kill the guy,” said David.

“Grand, maybe he should!”

Galina rubbed her forehead. “Scott does not even know who did it. We do not even know.”

“He’s going to want to find out,” said Travis, turning to Esther. “Don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” she said, nodding.

Oleg pleaded. “Please, do not say that I told you this. Do not tell him my name.”

“We don’t have to,” answered David. “He told Esther to find out what the Silent Fever was. She found out. I don’t think he really cares how.”

“We have to tell him,” said Becan. “Nicole’s dead, for cryin’ ou’ loud.”

“Becan, think about this for a minute.”

“Wha’s there to think abou’, Dave? She’s dead. His fiancee is dead. Wouldn’t you want to know if tha’ was your wife?”

“Yeah, I would. And my motivation would be to strangle the guy who did it.”

“He will kill him,” said Esther. “I saw that in his eyes.”

“I think we should wait,” David said. “I don’t think he has to know about this right now.”

“If not now,” Travis asked, “when?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not at all.”

“That’s not fair to Scott, though.”

“I’m saying this in Scott’s best interests.”

Travis shook his head. “I just think he would tell me, if the roles were reversed. He’d tell you. He wouldn’t lie and keep it from you.”

“Let’s hold a vote,” said Becan.

“No,” the others answered simultaneously.

“Wonderful, thanks.”

Galina sighed and leaned against the table. “Here is the problem with not telling him. The longer we do not tell him, the longer he will be angry at Esther.”

Esther looked at Galina as her name was mentioned.

“He told Esther to find out the truth. I saw in his face, he is serious right now. If she does not find out what Silent Fever is, he will get angry with her. I do not know what he will do.”

David frowned. “So you think we should tell him?”

“I do not know what to think. This is not normal situation. But I know that this is just as important to Esther as it is to Scott. The longer he does not know, the worse it will be for her.”

David turned to face Esther. “You said he was forceful with you, wasn’t he?”

“Yes sir. I thought for a moment he’d strike me.”

“Even if we tell him,” Galina said, “he will not know who did it. He will not have a face for his anger.”

“He might take it out on Dostoevsky,” David said.

“Bloody grand!” said Becan. “I’ll help him ou’.”

David shot him a look. “And Dostoevsky will kill him. Happy?”

“Here is what we should do,” said Galina. “When he asks, we will tell him. The longer he does not know, the worse it will be for him. This is certainty. Will it be worse for him if he does know? I do not know. But unless he has a name, it does not matter. We do not tell him anything, until he asks us for it.”

“What if that’s the next time we see him?”

“He should not ask most of us anything. The only one he spoke to about this was Esther. If he asks you, Esther, you have to tell him.”

She swallowed. “I will if I must, but I’m not sure how he’ll react.”

“Refer him to me,” David said. “If he asks you, tell him to come to me. I’ll talk to him.”

“This is best thing for us to do,” Galina said. “Is it what we all want to do? No. But what we all want to do is go back in time and save Nicole, and that is not possible. This has been done. We cannot pretend it has not.”

“We’ll tell him because it’s the right thing to do,” David finally agreed. “I don’t like it, but I concede to your point. Now what about this memorial? Is this something we can do?”

“I will talk to the captain,” Galina said. “It is not normal to have such a thing, but I believe he will make an exception.”

“What should I do?” asked Esther. “Until he asks me for information?”

“Disappear,” David answered. “Go running, go swimming, go off reading somewhere…do something to make yourself invisible. He’s got to think you’re out there looking for answers. The last thing Scott needs is to think he’s not being adhered to.”

“Yes sir.”

“Everyone else, do what you would normally do. If you see him, treat him like you always did. Let’s try to get him back to normal. Maybe that will calm him down. Who knows?”

“I think we should tell the captain,” Galina said. “I think he should know what we know.”

Oleg’s eyes widened. “Galya, please.”

“I think she’s right,” said David. “Clarke’s not going to say anything. He’s someone who needs to know. Trust us, he’s okay to tell.”

“He is a good man,” Galina affirmed. “And everyone in the unit will come to know anyway. Scott asked Esther to find out. It is expected for the truth to be discovered.”

“We don’t even have to mention your name to Clarke, Oleg. We’ll tell him we found out from Esther. You’ll be clean.”

Oleg sighed and said nothing.

“All right, everyone,” David said as he rose from his chair. “Go about your business as you normally would. Esther, disappear until the memorial. We’ll let you know what time it’ll be held at. I’m going to go talk to Clarke.”

“I will go with you,” said Galina. “It would be good for us both to be there.”

“Good idea.”

“Wha’ a draggin’ heavy week,” Becan said, heading toward the lounge door.

“No kidding,” said Travis, who trailed behind him.

David, Galina, and Esther followed them out of the lounge and within moments, they were all dispersed down the halls. Room 14 was left empty.

Except for one person.

As soon as the others had disappeared from earshot, Oleg Strakhov pushed back in his chair. Groaning with mouth closed, he stretched his neck and ran a hand over his head. Giving his head a quick shake, he blew out a breath and stood up.

He stepped to the counter, where he began to brew a fresh pot of tea—whistling the whole while he did.

* * *

“That’s wonderful, empress,” Clarke said, smiling as he listened to the little girl on the other end of the phone line. “Let me talk to your mum, now.” He eased his mouth away from the receiver and sighed. A moment later, when his wife’s voice emerged on the other side, he spoke again. “Hello again, love.” His fingers traced along the edge of his nightstand. He chuckled. “Yes, she’s told me all about it. She deserved to win.” As he listened, his smile softened, and he leaned back on his bed. Aside from the indentation of his body, the bed was spotlessly made. Everything in the room was immaculate. “I miss you as well.” He lowered his eyes and exhaled. “I know.”

There was a sudden knock at the door. Clarke stood at attention, still holding the phone.

“Yes, it was,” he said into the receiver. “Yes, I’m afraid I’ll have to. Business as usual, I suppose.” As he moved from the bed, his gentle smile once again returned. “I love you as well. So very much.” His fingers lingered on the nightstand. “Goodbye.”

He placed the phone down and straightened out his uniform. After a glance into the mirror, he cleared his throat and paced for the door. He paused as soon as he opened it. “Galya, David…good morning, again.”

David smiled weakly. “Sir.”

“Is there something I can do for the two of you?”

“Yes sir, actually there is. Could we…?” David angled his head toward the room.

Clarke watched him, then stepped back and smiled. “Yes, please. Come in.”

David and Galina stepped inside, and Clarke eased the door shut. He clicked the lock into place.

The captain’s room was well lit by fluorescent bulbs. Its walls were beige, and ornate decorations were strategically placed on the room’s various shelf spaces. It was spacious—a contrast to the tightness of Room 14.

“Nice room,” David said as he glanced about. His eyes scanned the shelf and its ornaments.

Clarke smiled as he motioned to a table in the corner. “Thank you, very much. I do try to maintain a certain amount of decorative dignity. Please, have a seat.”

The room was larger than Scott’s, but that wasn’t unusual. Clarke’s higher rank afforded him a top-of-the-line personal dwelling. It was like a den with a bed.

“What seems to be the concern?” Clarke asked as David and Galina sat beside one another. Clarke lowered himself across from them.

David and Galina swapped a glance, then Galina leaned forward. After a moment of hesitation, she spoke. “Scott wishes to inform you that he is returning to active duty.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

“Yes, captain. He is…” she bit her lip, “passionate about it.”

“Fancy that.”

“He also requests a memorial for his fiancee. He wants it tonight, before she goes home.”

He offered her a nod. “We’ll accommodate him. It’s not protocol, but it can be done.”

Galina sat solemnly.

The room fell completely silent—almost deafeningly so. Clarke’s gaze flicked back and forth between David and Galina expectantly, but when neither of them spoke again, he gave them a curious stare. “I have the distinct feeling we’re about to have an awkward conversation.”

David sighed and assumed a knowing look. As Galina lowered her head, David spoke up. “There’s something else about Scott that we need to talk about. I guess I should start by saying he’s very angry.”

“Completely understandable,” Clarke said.

“He’s very angry. I’ll spare the unnecessary details about what he told Galina, but I can sum it up with this. He wants to know what the Silent Fever is.”

“I’d imagine he does. I’d also love to know.”

“He ordered Esther to find out.”

Clarke smiled sarcastically. “Best of British to her.”

“She found out.”

At those words, Clarke’s expression changed. The mirthful grin of impossibility drooped away. It was replaced by a stare of disbelief. “What?”

“She found out. She found out what it is.”

For a moment, Clarke turned to Galina. When she didn’t meet his eyes with her own, he returned them to David. “How?”

“She came across someone privy to the information. Someone with the right sources, who told her what it was.” The room fell into awkwardness. “Do you want to know what it is?”

“Abso-bloody-lutely.”

“It’s the Nightmen.”

“The Nightmen?”

“Yes sir. It’s how they fulfill their Murder Rule. We’re not sure how, but we’re sure it’s by them.”

Clarke was completely dumbstruck. It took several moments for him to reply. “By God…is Esther sure?”

“Yes sir. Her source was close to the Nightmen. He asked that his identity remain secret. For his own sake.”

“Galina?”

“Yes, captain,” she answered, looking at him for the first time. “The explanation makes total sense. It makes sense that we have not found a cure, or even a cause for the virus. This explains very much.”

“There’s always been speculation that the Nightmen were behind it, but I don’t think anyone actually believed it. I’m astonished.”

“Captain,” said David, “Scott implored Esther to find out what it was. He’s going to want to know.” David watched as Clarke’s face fell. “I don’t know what he’s going to do when he finds out.”

“Do you think it’s wise to tell him?”

“I don’t think we have a choice. We didn’t uncover this on our own. We uncovered it because he told us to. At some point he’s going to ask us—or more specifically, he’s going to ask Esther.”

Galina sighed. “That is the problem,” she said, looking at Clarke. “He will ask Esther. If she says she does not know, he will be angry. He will feel that he is not being listened to. He expects her to find out, so he wants to get his answer.” She frowned. “I have never seen Scott so angry as he is now. It is for reason we all understand. But nonetheless—he will have to know.”

Clarke pondered both of them for several moments, saying nothing. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, his tone was subdued. “When were you planning on telling him?”

“When he asks,” David answered. “Trust me, I don’t like it. This is strange for me, because I usually know what side I’m taking. But even I’m on the fence with this one. Part of me doesn’t want to tell him at all. Or wants to make something up, something that’s not going to make him go crazy. But then there’s that part of me that looks at Scott like a son. I want him to know the truth, even though I don’t want him to. If that makes sense to you at all.”

“It does,” said Clarke. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“So we’ll wait until he asks. When he asks, we’ll tell him. The rest is up to him.”

“There is one thing,” said Galina. “We do not know who the Nightman was who killed her. So even if he does find out, he will not know who to go after.”

“I suppose that answers my next question,” said Clarke. “You do think Remington will go after him.”

“Why else would he want to know?”

Clarke sighed. He ran his hand over the top of his head, then he leaned back further in his chair. “Blast. The last thing we need is a renegade lieutenant.”

David frowned at Clarke’s response.

“Very well,” the captain said. “He’ll have his memorial tonight, as he’s requested, and I’ll allow him to return to active duty. And if he asks you what you’ve learnt…” his words trailed off for a moment. “I’ll leave that decision to you, Jurgen. You’re his friend. I’m just his bloody commanding officer.” The words were laced with irony. “Speaking of officers, let’s do our best to keep Remington and Dostoevsky separated. Scott may not know who’s done this, but a Nightman is a Nightman. It’s in Scott’s best interest not to pick a fight with the commander. I think we can all agree to that.”

David and Galina both nodded.

“Well,” said Clarke, “I suppose I should start making phone calls. If there’s going to be a memorial tonight, Novosibirsk Command will need to know about it.” He pushed up from his chair. “Thank you both for bringing this to my attention. Let’s try to manage this situation as best we can.”

“I will tell the lieutenant he may return to duty,” said Galina. “So he knows he has your permission.”

“And I’ll spread the word about tonight,” David said.

“Very good,” Clarke said, as David and Galina moved to the door. “I’ll see you both tonight, then. I’ll give you a time as soon as I clear one.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you. Both of you.”

With no more words said, David and Galina stepped into the hall. The door was eased shut behind them.

As soon as the captain’s room was out of earshot, Galina turned to David. “What do you think?”

David shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t either.”

“There’s still a part of me that feels like telling Scott the truth is the right thing to do. But there’s a big part of me that thinks nothing good will come out of it.”

After several seconds of silence, Galina forced a smile. “Maybe both parts are right.”

“Yeah,” David said. “Maybe so.”

For the next several hours, the odd task of spreading the news was attended to. Galina told Scott that he was allowed to return to duty, to which Scott made no reply. David told the others about the memorial, learning from Clarke during the task that it would be held at 2000 hours in the hangar.

Nothing about the rest of the day felt normal or pleasant in any way. Conversations were hushed, and appetites were curbed. A dark cloud pervaded the unit, only personified by the literal clouds that brewed over the base. By the time 2000 hours came, rain was once again crashing down everywhere. But no one complained about the weather.

No one said a word.

12

Sunday, August 7, 0011 NE

2010 hours

That night

Thunder boomed beyond the doors of the hangar, as nature rained down its watery fury. The stink of the monsoon was all encompassing. For Scott, the weather fit well. It matched his emotions to the core.

The casket was right there in front of him, perched at the bottom of an airbus ramp.

She was ready for her final flight.

The casket wasn’t even open. It wasn’t allowed to be. Victims of the Silent Fever weren’t supposed to be exposed to the living, or so he had learned from the technician in charge of putting her on board. Thus, Scott’s last look at her was not a look at all. It was a look at a black cylinder. He could only take their word that she was inside.

The day passed with a mix of despair and darkness. His tears ceased only when his scowl prevented them. His scowl ceased when his tears became too heavy. It was a constant ebb and flow.

The entire crew of the Fourteenth was behind him—even Dostoevsky. The commander’s disappearing act had finally come to a close. But frankly, Scott couldn’t care less.

He hadn’t talked to God since that morning. He didn’t have the desire to. God had led him to Novosibirsk, and God had taken her away. What more was there to discuss? Had his Scripture been in his hands, he would have thrown it into the storm, for nothing more than the satisfaction of doing so.

Minutes passed with nothing but silence. Scott hadn’t planned on saying anything, nor had he asked someone else to. It was far too ordinary to request final words. Final words were for the sickly. For the old in age. For the ones expected to die. Final words were meant to help others move on.

He wasn’t ready for that.

She’d been ripped away too soon. Her life was like a sentence without a period. Unfinished. Destined to leave those around her wondering what was supposed to happen next, but never coming forth to reveal it. There was no ‘next.’ There was only the cutoff. Her story had been stopped in mid-chapter.

Why? Why had it happened? How could it have happened? There were too many uncertainties in his mind to write her death off as chance. He knew better.

He turned to seek his comrades; every stare lingered on him. They were waiting for him. To do something. To say something. What was he supposed to say? What was appropriate? There was nothing he could think of. Nothing he wanted to think of. His eyes returned to her casket.

Life became worthless the moment she was gone. Everything he’d looked forward to was gone. Everything he’d hoped to do with her, stolen. Killed. Taken away.

He was alone.

The first hand on his shoulder was Becan’s. He recognized the Irishman’s wiry fingers. The other was softer. Feminine. Varvara. He could feel the presence of the rest of the crew behind him.

“We’re here for yeh, Remmy,” Becan whispered. “Please know tha’.” The Irishman’s voice trembled as he spoke. “We’re goin’ to look after yeh.”

Varvara squeezed his shoulder. Several hands touched his back.

“Don’t be sad, Remmy,” Becan said. “Please don’t…”

He wasn’t sad. He was lost. He was abandoned. She’d been the rest of his life, and she was gone. He could hear their voices behind him. We’re here, man. David said it. Travis said it. Max said it. It was a chorus of compassion, and none of it helped.

One minute became five. Five minutes became ten. With every word he heard, with every hand he felt, he felt his own body growing tired. Beyond tired. Exhausted beyond the will to exist.

That all changed the moment the technician appeared to take the casket away.

Scott grew frantic as the curly-haired technician placed his hand on the casket. “I am sorry,” the technician said. “I have to take her.”

Scott’s heart jumped. “Wait.” His hand slammed against the casket’s top. “Not yet, please.” She couldn’t go yet. She couldn’t. “I have to see her, please.”

The technician’s mouth hung open.

“Please,” Scott pleaded. “Just for a second, please.”

“But…she is Silent Fever…”

Scott shook his head with fervency. “I know, I know she is, but please…please, you have to.”

“Open the casket,” ordered Clarke.

The technician gaped. “But sir, she is Silent—”

“I said open the bloody casket, now.”

The technician stared at Clarke for several seconds, before offering a hesitant nod.

Scott watched as the man got behind the casket, unstrapped it, and released its latches. In the very next instant, it was opened. Opened faster than he could comprehend. Opened so fast that it shocked him.

She was there. She was there, lying still like the last time he’d seen her. Her face was colorless. Like the shell of an egg. Her eyes were shut, but not how they’d always been. She didn’t look like an angel. She looked like a corpse.

Nicole… His eyes glistened. His knees buckled. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t go with you. She had died alone. On the floor of his room. Without him. Tears broke down his face as he reached out a trembling hand. He flinched as he touched her skin. It was like she wasn’t even real.

The technician lowered his head. “I am so sorry…we have to go…”

Clarke shot the technician a glare.

Scott opened his eyes, trailing his fingers through her hair. He had longed to feel it again.

David eased his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Scott…”

Lowering his forehead against the casket, Scott reached out his hand to touch hers. I love you. His fingers curled. I will always love you.

Becan’s hand touched his back.

Always.

The technician watched in silence while Scott slid his fingers from Nicole’s. Scott felt himself slowly rising.

The technician placed his hands on the lid of the casket, then hesitated as he looked at Scott.

“It’s okay,” Scott whispered. “I know.”

The man nodded silently, and the casket was once again shut.

Scott wanted it opened again the moment it closed. He wanted to see her face. Touch her hair. Take her in his arms and hold her against his chest, just as he’d done so many times before.

The technician latched the casket and set the carriage straps in place.

Every memory floated past him. His last words to her in Michigan. His conversation with her after Chicago. The desperation in her voice when he moved to Novosibirsk. The smile on her face when he proposed.

Her smile when she last said she loved him.

The casket was rolled into the airbus, where it was fastened against the inner wall. And just like that, the rear door was closed.

He never saw the airbus taxi onto the runway. He never saw it lift off into the sky and rocket into the horizon. His eyes were open; his gaze was steady. But all he saw was her. By the time he remembered where he was, she was already gone.

She was already gone.

…goodbye…

He felt his muscles weaken. Then he felt hands on his back. He couldn’t count them all, but he knew who they were. They were Galina’s. They were Varvara’s. They were David’s, Becan’s, Jayden’s, and Travis’s. They were even Max’s.

“I’m sorry, Scott,” Max whispered.

They all repeated the same words. From one to the other, then to the other, then to the other. There was warmth in their intent, but he couldn’t feel it.

“I’m sorry, Scott,” said Clarke.

A million apologies wouldn’t bring her back. A million more wouldn’t ease him.

“I’m sorry, lieutenant,” said Esther.

She was gone. She wasn’t even a dot on the horizon. She was completely gone. She would never love him again. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. But he couldn’t. There was something holding it all back, relegating his sadness to silence. Overpowering it like a predator to prey. It was a question. One single question—and his burning desire for an answer.

What was the Silent Fever?

His eyes opened as he registered Esther’s voice. It was the very last voice he’d heard. She was the one he had tasked. She was the door to his answers. As soon as he turned to face her, she froze in place. “Esther…what do you know?”

A tear dripped down her cheek. She shook her head in silence.

She knew something. She was fighting to keep it away. “What do you know?”

She couldn’t say a thing. But she didn’t have to. In a fleeting moment—one that Scott wasn’t meant to notice—she glanced purposefully at David. But Scott did notice. And in the next second, his own gaze turned to his friend.

“Dave?”

“Not now, Scott,” David whispered. “Not here.”

“Tell me something.”

“Please, Scott. Don’t do this to yourself right now.”

“…I’m not doing this for myself.”

David’s stare locked with Scott’s. On the runway, just meters from where they stood beneath the hangar, rain continued to slam to the ground. Lightning reflected in the puddles. But David still didn’t say a thing.

“For her,” Scott uttered. “For her.”

David lowered his eyes in hesitation, then rose them to meet Scott again. The look they exchanged was mutual. It was understanding. There was something Scott needed to be told. And Scott wouldn’t find rest till he was told it. David’s lips parted, and he mouthed a single, silent phrase.

The Murder Rule.

Scott’s eyes squeezed shut. His fists clenched. Every emotion in his body evolved. The sadness was immediately gone, replaced by something much darker.

The Murder Rule. The rule they used to christen their recruits. The Nightmen.

He had known it. The second her death was identified as the Silent Fever, he had known it. He had known it was something else. And now he knew what that something else was. It was a brand new Nightman, clad in his new armor as he marched proudly through the halls of The Machine. Oblivious to the life he’d taken away.

It was a trashing Nightman.

He glared at Dostoevsky. The commander turned to match him. For a fleeting moment, amid their exchange of vehement silence, Scott saw Dostoevsky do something he had never done before. He saw Commander Yuri Dostoevsky wince.

In that moment, rank disappeared. The line between lieutenant and commander was gone as the whole of the group fell subordinate to Scott. He commanded their fear without a word. He commanded their fear like a monster.

Scott turned away from the airstrip, and stormed through the crowd. He made no attempt to say goodbye.

David watched as Scott disappeared through the hangar’s side door, leaving the unit awkwardly quiet.

Scott…what are you about to do?

David had posed the question to himself all day. Now it found him again.

What are you about to do?

He knew what he would have done, had it been him. He knew how he would have responded to Sharon’s murder. He would have found the man who killed her and squeezed his neck until he was dead. He would have squeezed it without a drop of remorse.

Without shedding a tear.

13

Monday, August 8, 0011 NE

0441 hours

The next morning

The comms beeped at 4:41. Their echoes bounced off the walls of Room 14. For the first time in a long time, bed sheets weren’t torn off at their call. There was no stomp of boots, no rush to the closets. There was not even a groan of disdain.

All of the operatives were present except for Scott and Dostoevsky, both of whom slept in their respective quarters. Neither had been heard from since the memorial. All efforts to knock on Scott’s door had been met with silence. No effort was made to knock on Dostoevsky’s.

Still the comms cried out. Their unbridled urgency was hit with the lethargic numbness of an emotionally drained unit. As Clarke, who’d slept in the barracks that night, slid the covers from his body and leaned upright, the rest of the unit listened. They listened as he stepped barefoot onto the icy concrete and carried his comm into the lounge. They listened until the beeping wails ceased, and after a minute of distant conversation, the captain padded back into the bunk room. He stood still by the lounge door. His silhouette was barely visible in the darkness.

“We’ve got a mission,” he said. “In the town of Khatanga.” His voice sagged even more than his shoulders. The cots crinkled as the operatives propped upright. “Ceratopians.”

Not one of them spoke. Not one of them groaned. The captain had said enough for all of them.

Max sighed and edged off his cot. “I’ll call Scott and Yuri.”

“They’re already coming,” Clarke said.

From the discomfort of his mattress, David felt his stomach twist.

“Scott’s coming?” Max asked.

“Yes. They both are.” The room hung in silence for several more seconds before the captain stood and flicked on the light. Everyone winced. “We can’t delay any longer. Don your armor and grab your weapons. You know the procedure.”

A chorus of dampened acknowledgments answered him. The operatives fumbled out of their beds, dragged themselves to their closets, and put on their gear.

The walk to the hangar was unlike any preparatory trek the unit had ever undertaken. Every step screamed of apprehension. It wasn’t until they arrived there that someone spoke—it was Jayden. His words were addressed to David, and they were as dimly subdued as his countenance.

“I don’t like Ceratopians, man.”

David hesitated. “I don’t either.”

“Remember what happened last time?”

“…yeah.”

Esther turned her head as she quickened her step to keep up. “You’ve fought them before?”

“Yeah, once,” Jayden answered. “It was the worst thing ever. I got shot, Dave almost got blown up. Clarke and Scott almost got their heads bashed in….”

“Max got knocked out,” David said. “Twice.”

“Get away,” Esther said in disbelief.

“Yep,” Jayden said. “And that was a win.”

Dostoevsky was already in the hangar when they arrived. The dark horns of his fulcrum armor gleamed in the Pariah‘s bay door.

Becan stared at him for a moment, then turned back to the others. “Yeh think Remmy’s goin’ to be all righ’?”

David continued to walk. He knew the answer; he lied anyway. “I don’t know. Would you be?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m worried about him, man,” Jayden said. “I’m surprised he’s gonna come.”

David boarded the transport. He did not look at Dostoevsky as he passed. “I’m not.”

“Why?”

“Because more than anything, he wants to kill something.” He turned to Jayden. “And that’s exactly what he gets to do now.”

“Everyone aboard!” Clarke said behind them. “We launch as soon as…” his words drew to a halt, as his gaze focused on the hangar’s entrance, “…Lieutenant Remington arrives…”

David turned to the hangar’s entrance. The others did the same. They barely recognized the man they saw.

His golden collar was unmistakable. It was everything else that was different. His posture, his stride, his fingers as they grasped his assault rifle. Everything. Even in the distance, the coldness of his eyes burned through his visor in a way that none of them recognized. It wasn’t Scott James Remington.

It was someone much worse.

“Blarney,” Becan muttered as he watched Scott’s brooding approach.

Esther turned to him. “What? What’s the matter?”

“Look at him. We’re vexed.”

Clarke watched as Scott neared the Pariah. When the Golden Lion drew close, Clarke gave him his attention. “Lieutenant. Are you sure you’re prepared for this?”

Scott almost cut him off. “Yes sir.” He passed by the captain without stopping.

Clarke watched as Scott strode through the troop bay and took a seat at the far end. None of the operatives looked at him until he had stepped past them, at which point they stared with blatant curiosity.

As Scott leaned against the wall, assault rifle propped against his shoulder, Galina placed her hand upon his leg. She offered a desperate smile. “Did you rest okay?”

Scott sat without saying a thing.

Clarke stepped through the troop bay and grabbed the support rail. “Travis, close the door and take us up. You should have the coordinates.”

“Yes sir.”

“Everyone else, listen carefully.” The operatives’ attention turned undividedly to the captain. “A Ceratopian Cruiser was intercepted over the town of Khatanga. Is anyone familiar with this area?”

Maksim lifted a hand. “I am, captain. It is in northern Siberia. Near the Laptev.”

“That’s correct,” Clarke said to the rookie demolitionist. “It’s a fishing town with a small population, on the banks of the Khatanga River.” He glanced from Maksim to the others. “It’s daylight there now, almost around the clock by this time of year. Boris, bring up a schematic, please.”

The display panel above the troop bay flickered, and a map of the town appeared.

Clarke approached it and pointed. “As you can see, the crash site is on the eastern side of the river. Temperatures will be cold, but above freezing. Bring up tactical, please.”

Two green triangles appeared, as did a single red one next to the river. Clarke pointed to it. “This is where the Cruiser was shot down. It’d destroyed our Vindicators before it was forced to land. It’s damaged, but by no means should we expect its crew to be helpless.”

He pointed to the two green triangles. “These represent ourselves and the Eighth. They’ve already been dispatched.”

David and Becan glanced at one another. “Will an’ Derrick,” said Becan under his breath.

“We are to land on the southwest corner of the town,” Clarke said. “The Eighth will land northeast. We shall converge at the center of town, where reports have the highest concentration of Ceratopian activity. The citizens have already been ordered into their homes, but that’s no guarantee they’ll remain there.”

He touched the screen and a second layer appeared—two smaller green triangles beside the red one. “Two teams from ourselves and the Eighth will strike the Cruiser while the rest of us liberate the town.” He turned to Dostoevsky. “Commander, you will lead Max, Oleg, and Varvara to the Cruiser. There should be seven from the Eighth prepared to meet you.” He returned his attention to the others. “As you all know, the Eighth are a demolitionist unit. They’ll be doing a majority of the grunt work. Our job shall be to assist, support, and direct. Don’t let that fool you into thinking we’ll have it easy. We’ve got the task of twenty men.”

Clarke brought his attention to Scott. “Lieutenant Remington and myself shall oversee the town side of the operation. If our tactical information is correct, we’ll be converging on the Ceratopians in a warehouse district with minimal habitation. Our orders are to terminate with extreme prejudice.

“Travis,” he said, “what’s our time to Khatanga?”

“Twenty minutes,” Travis answered.

Clarke turned back to the troop bay. “Those of you who have fought Ceratopians before know what to expect.” He eyed Esther and Maksim. “For the rest of you…you’re in for one hell of an initiation.”

During the span of time it took for the unit to arrive at Khatanga, few words were spoken in the troop bay. It was the most awkwardly uncomfortable silence the unit had experienced since their return trip from the Bakma outpost in Siberia. Except this time, it wasn’t remorse that kept them somber. It was fear.

As the Pariah began its downward descent, David reached up to grab a support rail. “Watch out for necrilids, just in case. Canrassis, too.”

“If I see any, I’ll get ‘em quick,” Jayden said.

“Especially the necrilids,” Becan said. “I can see canrassis comin’ from a kilometer away.”

“What should I do?” Esther asked.

“Stay next to us,” David said. “Do what they ask you to do.”

“An’ shoot,” Becan said.

“Yes,” David said. “Shooting is good.” He looked past them to Scott, who sat motionless beside Galina. Galina might as well have not been there, as Scott gave no indication of her presence. David watched as Scott lowered his head and closed his eyes, his fingers firm around his assault rifle.

Jayden sighed. “At least he’s still prayin’.”

“I don’t think he’s praying.”

“Then what’s he doin’?”

David watched as Scott’s eyes remained closed. Scott’s knuckles were white from clutching the barrel of his gun. “Getting ready to kill.”

The Pariah‘s nose was raised; its ventral thrusters blew to life.

“We’re comin’ down by the river,” Travis said.

Clarke held the support bars. “Yuri!”

Dostoevsky strode to the troop bay. “Axen, Strakhov, Yudina. We drop here.” The rear door whined open as the transport hovered in place. The Nightman commander stood by the exit. “Where is the strike team from the Eighth?”

“They’re in position,” Travis said. “Waiting for you, sir.”

As the Pariah drifted just above the ground, Dostoevsky leapt out from the bay. Max, Oleg, and Varvara followed. The whole while, far in the back of the bay, Scott glared at the commander through his visor.

The Pariah lifted up again, and its nose pivoted to the warehouse district.

“Everyone get ready,” Clarke said. “Focus on the task at hand. Watch everything, and do not hesitate to use maximum firepower. Rest assured that the Ceratopians won’t hesitate.”

“I’m about to bring us down!” yelled Travis moments later.

“Scott,” David said as he dodged through the bay to Scott’s side. “You ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“How do you want to do this?” David really wasn’t interested in how Scott wanted to fight. He was more interested in keeping Scott’s mind on the mission—instead of on the prospect of revenge.

Scott stood up and grabbed the support rail. “I know what you’re trying to do.” He spun around to face the older man. “You don’t have to be my father.”

David stared back in silence.

“Just let me go.”

Let him go. That was what David was afraid of. He inhaled deeply and turned his attention to the rest of the troop bay. “All right, Scott. I’m behind you.”

Travis placed his hand on the controls. The Pariah touched down on the earth. “Opening in three…two…one!” He pulled the lever. The bay door whirred.

The streets of Khatanga came into view.

The instant the door opened, the red flash of a neutron beam zapped into the troop bay. The Fourteenth scattered as the ray shattered against Maksim’s chest. The rookie demolitionist flew off his feet and careened against the back wall.

Galina leapt to cover the demolitionist, as Clarke snarled and ducked down. “Travis, you landed us backwards? You bleeding idiot!” The operatives dove from the ship into the street as neutron blasts followed in their wake.

Travis swallowed and lifted the rear door.

David tucked and rolled as enemy fire erupted around him. When he came to a knee, his assault rifle was propped up and ready. Only Scott was faster. They released suppression fire as the rest of the operatives scrambled for cover—on the opposite side of the street. The only one who stayed with him and Scott was Esther.

Neutron blasters were completely different from the plasma weapons used by the Bakma. As opposed to white bolts of searing heat, neutron blasters unleashed neon rays of pure energy. Their potency didn’t come from burn damage. It came from sheer force of impact. A neutron ray hit like a train.

As the Pariah‘s bay door finished closing, Galina removed her helmet and knelt by Maksim. The armor on Maksim’s chest was crushed inward. As she struggled to remove his chest plate, she glared at Travis in the cockpit. “Lift us up and turn us around! Now!”

Travis wiped the sweat from his brow. “Yes ma’am.”

“Captain,” she said through the comm, “we are turning the nose to the fight.”

Clarke rose from his knee. “Thank you, Galina!” His attention returned to the strike team. He, Becan, and Jayden had split to the left side of the street, into the worn cover of an abandoned shack. Across the street—on the far right—Scott, David, and Esther were running for the cover of two dumpsters.

The Ceratopians were also split between the two sides of the street, with one group taking cover behind a dilapidated building farther down on the left, and another mirroring them on the right.

Scott found cover behind one of the dumpsters, then leaned around its corner to open fire. David and Esther skidded behind him.

“I don’t think this is how we were supposed to start!” David said.

Ceratopians. They had only fought them once before, but the aliens had left them with permanent impressions. The average Ceratopian stood at just over eight feet tall. Some were taller than that. What their weapons didn’t crush, they crushed themselves. They were brutes. A close encounter with a Ceratopian was like a close encounter with an avalanche—an avalanche that wanted to gore you.

Ceratopians were protected to the core. They were covered with metallic gray armor, and the horned frills that crested over their heads served as natural barricades to EDEN snipers. They could be taken down conventionally, but their most vulnerable spot was the tan-colored skin just beneath their necklines.

Easier said than done.

As a neon-red beam zapped his way, David ducked behind the dumpster again.

“They have us outnumbered at least three to one,” Scott said. “Work on suppression until the Eighth gets here.”

“Yes sir,” David said as he leaned out to fire. Esther stood rigid behind them.

As Becan suppressed from the shack’s window, Jayden slipped out the back door and scurried up a ladder. As soon as he was on the roof, he laid down and attempted to aim.

Clarke adjusted his comm from below. “Captain Ulrich, this is Captain Clarke of the Fourteenth.”

Ulrich’s voice emerged through the static. “I read you, captain.”

“We’re at our position on the southwestern end of the town. We’re suppressed at the moment, but our beach team are en route to the Cruiser.”

“Understood, captain. My team will be in position to assist you at your position momentarily. We already have a team dispatched to the Cruiser.”

“Thank you, captain,” Clarke answered, adjusting his comm thereafter. “What’s the view, Timmons?”

Jayden shook his head from the roof. “I can’t get a clean shot, sir. Not on any of ‘em.”

Back in the Pariah, Galina removed Maksim’s chest plate and shoved it against the wall. Maksim was unresponsive. She placed her med sensor against his chest, where it showed three broken ribs and a cardiac contusion.

Galina injected him with stabilizer and got on the comm. “Captain, Maksim is suffering from serious heart and rib damage. We must get him to Novosibirsk soon.”

Clarke growled then answered. “Is he okay for now?”

“He is stable, captain,” Galina answered, “but the sooner he returns, the better.”

“Has Travis repositioned the ship?”

“Yes, we are landing now.”

Clarke shouldered his assault rifle and leaned against the inner wall of the shack. “Tell him to fire the blasted nose mount.”

“Da, captain.”

“And make himself bloody useful,” he muttered off-comm.

Scott and David hadn’t slowed their firing since they’d taken shelter behind the dumpster. Between the two of them, only one Ceratopian had been felled. They weren’t even sure it was dead.

Suddenly, a shatter of neon caused David to cut a spin in midair as a neutron ray slammed into his shoulder. His gun flew from his hands.

Scott spun to find him.

David landed with a thud. He kicked and propelled himself back behind the dumpsters. The armor of his shoulder was blown off.

“You all right?”

“Yeah,” David grimaced as he grabbed his shoulder. “It’s dislocated.” His eyes watered as he looked past the dumpsters. “My rifle’s in the street.”

Scott turned to Esther. The alpha scout had been frozen behind the dumpster since the battle began. “Pop his shoulder back and get his gun,” Scott ordered her. His focus returned to the battlefield.

Esther made no response. She stared at David open-mouthed, her arms locked at her sides.

“Esther,” David said. She only stared. “Esther!” A moment passed, and he shot a look back to Scott. “She’s shocked.”

Scott growled and ducked from the fight. He shouldered his assault rifle and stepped to David. “Give me your arm.” David held it out, and Scott gave it a violent yank.

David howled as it slid into place. “Veck!” He bit his lip and looked at his rifle as it lay in the open. “Cover me?”

Scott crouched and leaned into the open. He trained his rifle on the clustered Ceratopians and opened fire. “Go.”

David scrambled into the street, grabbed his rifle, and slid back into cover. He checked the stock. It was undamaged. “Lizard barely even hit me.” He shouldered the rifle and engaged again. Several of his bullets hit a Ceratopian in its frill, and it ducked out of sight into an alley. He glanced back to check up on Esther, but Scott was already upon her.

What David saw next completely stunned him. Scott grabbed Esther by the collar, ripped off her helmet, and slapped her dead in the face. The force of the blow was so hard it almost knocked her off her feet.

David started back as Esther’s mouth fell.

“Wake up!” Scott roared, slamming her helmet back in her hands. “And get in the game!”

David stared slack-jawed at the scene.

Esther stuttered a terrified whimper, then clumsily adjusted her helmet back on her head. “Sir, yes sir, I’m so sorry!”

Scott readied his assault rifle and edged to the rim of the dumpster. He swung around, aimed at a Ceratopian, and gunned it to the ground.

David never said a word.

Jayden squinted and rolled as a neutron ray zapped past his head. It missed him by inches, and he exhaled.

“Veck, tha’ looked close to me,” Becan whistled from below. “Yeh all righ’ up there, Jay?”

“I felt it!” Jayden said, shifting back into position.

“We need air support!” Clarke screamed through the comm. He shot a glance to the Pariah, which sat motionless in the street. “Why aren’t you firing the bloody cannon?”

Seconds later, Boris’s voice crackled through. “Captain, she will not fire. We are trying.”

Clarke’s mouth fell open. “She won’t bloody fire?”

“Nyet, captain. The cannon is jammed.”

“Brilliant,” Clarke said. “That’s just brilliant.”

Travis grunted from beneath the cockpit, where he fiddled furiously with the cannon mount. “Veck, veck, veck! Come on, Pariah!”

Boris’s eyes widened from the co-pilot’s seat. “Travis! Grenade! Grenade!”

Travis banged his head on the console, then scrambled into his seat. When he glanced out the window, his mouth hung open. The red glow of a Ceratopian pulse grenade was in mid-flight, heading straight for the nose of the ship. Travis’s muscles tensed, and he and Boris ducked down. “Hold on!”

As soon as the grenade touched the Vulture’s nose, a burst of invisible energy exploded. The Pariah was rocked upward as its nose left the ground. Galina screamed from the bay.

The ship landed with a crash, cockeyed from its previous perch. Travis wrestled into his seat and grabbed the controls. “We’re dustin’ off!”

Boris fell back into the co-pilot’s chair.

“Captain,” Travis said through the comm, “we’re moving to a safer location—”

Clarke cut him off. “I know, I know! Go!”

As Travis pulled back the stick, Galina emerged from the cockpit door. Blood dripped from her hairline. Her eyes gleamed with rage, as a slew of Russian hatred poured from her mouth.

“Do I wanna know what that means?” Travis asked.

“No,” Boris answered. “You do not.”

As Clarke fired from the window of the shack, Dostoevsky’s voice crackled through the comm. “We have converged with the Eighth by the Cruiser. We are beginning our assault now.”

Clarke reloaded his gun. “Good luck, Yuri.”

“Yes, captain.”

All of a sudden, a neutron ray burst through the window. It slammed straight into Clarke’s breastplate. He flew airborne through the shack, where he nearly crashed through the back wall.

“Captain!” Becan said, whipping around.

Clarke squirmed on the floor. “Help me get this bloody thing off!” His armor was dented completely inward, pressing into his chest. He fell back and screamed.

Becan scrambled to the back of the shack. He skidded beside the captain and hustled to unclamp the damaging breastplate.

As soon as the armor was loosened, Clarke shoved it off of his body and buckled over. “Bloody hell!”

“Yeh all righ’?”

Clarke ripped off his shirt, revealing bruised and bloodied skin. He pounded his head back against the wall.

Becan was on the comm immediately. “Galya, we need yeh down here. Clarke’s been—”

“No,” said Clarke into the comm, cutting the Irishman off. “I’m fine. Travis, stay up there and fix that cannon!”

“Are yeh sure, captain?” Becan asked.

“Yes, I’m sure.” He clenched his teeth. “Get to the window and help Timmons.”

“Yes sir.”

Clarke pounded the ground and leaned his head back. His armor, creased inward beyond use, lay abandoned at his side. He mustered his endurance and pushed up.

Scott was about to reload when Clarke’s strained voice addressed him through the comm. “Remington, I’ve been hit for six over here. What’s your situation?”

“We’re accomplishing nothing,” Scott said, frustration brewing in his voice as he reloaded a fresh clip. “We’re just here.”

“I’m open to any suggestions you might have.”

Scott fired a volley around the corner, then ducked back. Esther was by his side taking shots on occasion. For the most part, the scout was ineffective. “What’s Ulrich’s status?” Scott asked.

“He should be here momentarily,” answered Clarke.

A neutron ray exploded against the corner of Scott’s dumpster. He closed his eyes and jumped back as a wave of shrapnel struck him, tattering against his armor. A small gash was sliced through his cheek, spackling his visor with blood. Grinding his teeth together, he felt the cut. When he pulled back his fingers, they were soaked. His eyes burned, and he snarled back into his comm.

“I’m sending Esther ahead to overlook the streets.” At the sound of her name, Esther froze. “I’ll have her coordinate attack orders back and forth between us and the Eighth, based on whoever the Ceratopians are focusing on. When they’re gunning for us, the Eighth will attack. When they’re gunning for the Eighth, we’ll step forward. We’ll constantly hit their weak side. Let’s end this stalemate now.”

“Let’s, then,” Clarke answered. “That sounds better than anything else we’ve accomplished. I’ll get you in touch with Ulrich.”

Scott turned to the alpha scout. “Move ahead and find a high vantage point. I’ll have the Eighth fortify a position further down the street. They’ll be impossible for the Ceratopians to miss.” He stared her straight in the eyes. “As soon as the Ceratopians avert their attention to the Eighth, give us the word to attack. We’ll press forward, and the Eighth will fall back. When the Ceratopians shift their focus to us, relay it to the Eighth. They’ll press forward while we fall back. We’ll alternate our attacks based on the enemy’s weak side.”

“Yes, sir,” Esther said. Her voice wavered.

“We’ll notify the Eighth of our plan and wait for your signal. Tell us as soon as the Ceratopians take sight of them. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“Go.”

As Esther turned to make her way through the back streets, David placed his hand on her shoulder to stop her. She flinched and turned his way.

David could see it in her eyes. She was terrified. “Esther,” he said. “You’re going to be okay. You can do this.”

“Yes, sir,” she stammered.

He slapped her shoulder. “Go get ‘em, girl.”

She disappeared into the back streets.

Scott was on the comm with Captain Ulrich a moment later, where he relayed the details of the plan.

“Understood, lieutenant,” answered Ulrich. “We will take their attention and open their flank to you. We will not attack until you instruct us.”

“We’ll let you know when we engage.”

“We will wait for you. Good luck, Remington.”

Scott closed the comm channel and knelt to fire.

Every move Esther made was in silence. Her feet flitted along the ground like a ballerina’s as she traveled down Khatanga’s back streets.

Scout armor was different from standard EDEN armor. It was lightweight and minimal. It was designed for stealth. As she passed beneath the windows of the warehouse walls, she listened to the exchange of gunfire. Everything was distinct to her ears. The swapping of projectile and neutron. The double-pop of a hit. The vocal cries of the fighters—both human and alien. She was trained for the discrepancies of each.

The mission had shocked her. It was nothing like the Academy simulations. If she lost in the simulations, it didn’t matter. But here, everything did. And so far, she’d completely blown it.

Stop messing around, Esther, she thought. You can still do a good job. You can still turn this around. Just do what you were trained to do, just like David said you would. As she neared Ceratopian territory, she closed her brown eyes and listened.

She didn’t understand Ceratopian. Few people did, and they all worked in Intelligence. Nonetheless, she listened as they barked out their rich tones. She listened.

She listened.

Then she opened her eyes. Her analysis was complete. There were five on her side of the street. She heard their distinct voices. One was deep. A second was deep, too, but not quite as deep as the first. Two lingered in mid-range, and one was injured. The injured always sounded different. She heard nothing at all to indicate that necrilids or canrassis were present.

She scanned her immediate surroundings until she found a single metal pipe that ran up the wall of the nearest warehouse. If she could climb it and reach the roof, she could view the entire field—the Ceratopians below her and the ones on Clarke’s side of the street. The pipe was rusty and old, but she was lighter than anyone. She braced her hands and feet around it and began to scale her way up.

“Travis,” Clarke said through the comm, “where are you?”

The pilot’s voice emerged a moment later. “We’re orbiting the field. The ship got rocked a bit by that pulse grenade, but she’s okay.”

“What’s the status of the cannon?”

“Nothing, sir. We’re not getting anything, especially after that hit.”

“Stay in orbit until we give you further instruction. It’s too volatile down here at the moment.”

“Yes sir.”

Above the captain, on the roof, Jayden squinted his eyes and pulled the trigger. A Ceratopian stumbled backward and fell, as Jayden struck with a perfect neck shot. “Hell yeah,” the Texan said through the comm. “Finally nailed one.”

“Tha’s the way yeh do it,” said Becan. “Now just do it a dozen more times.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m workin’ on it.”

Esther’s feet padded against the warehouse roof as she crept to the height of its metal pitch. She could still hear the Ceratopians below, oblivious to her presence. But there was one less voice now. One of them must have been killed. As she eased her eyeline above the rooftop, the whole of the battlefield came into play. The first thing that she saw stunned her cold.

They were huge. Not just huge. They were gigantic. Their thighs were the size of tree trunks. Their arms were as thick as her body. Their horns could bludgeon a car.

She realized at that moment what they were up against. In a war of strength, humans didn’t stand a chance. Whatever they’d win, they’d win tactically.

Tactically.

She resumed her task.

The majority of the Ceratopians lurked on the opposite side of the street. Her eyes darted amid them as she performed a headcount. Eleven. There were eleven Ceratopians on the other side, swapping turns to fire around the corner. As she’d predicted, there were no necrilids or canrassis at all.

With the four remaining on her side, there were fifteen in total. Between the Fourteenth and Eighth, they could be stopped, especially if demolitions from the Eighth were involved. There was no doubt about it.

She scanned to the northeast. The Eighth came into view. They were grouped together between two buildings, out of visual range of the Fourteenth beyond the neon flashes of neutron. They crept steadily closer to the Ceratopians’ position. Soon their presence would be known.

Esther’s heart rate quickened as she waited for the Ceratopians to spot them. She knew her instructions well. As soon as the aliens saw the Eighth, she would tell the Fourteenth to attack. It had to be perfect timing. She waited for the Ceratopians to show any sign of averted attention, any momentary glance away from the Fourteenth at all. It would happen at any second.

She flinched as she watched the exchange of gunfire. Her fingers trembled. Her brow dripped. The right moment. Wait for the right moment. Wait for the right moment, when the battle would shift in their favor.

The right moment.

Then it happened.

The Ceratopians shifted around. Their horned heads turned as they held their fire and surveyed the Eighth. They were now aware of the newly arrived unit. Their weak side was exposed.

This time there was no hesitation.

She hurriedly adjusted her comm, and relayed her message to the Fourteenth. “Their attention’s away from you, engage now.”

Then, something happened. Something she didn’t expect. The Fourteenth questioned her—a voice she didn’t yet recognize. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!” she answered. “You have to engage now.”

“We are going,” the voice answered.

Her heart raced. Adrenaline pulsed through her veins. She had done it.

Scott dropped to his knees and reloaded a new clip into his rifle. When his comm crackled to life, the voice he heard made him go rigid.

It was Captain Ulrich of the Eighth. His voice was confident and clear.

“Eighth engaging!”

Before Scott could utter a word, Jayden’s voice blurted through the comm. “Holy hell! The Eighth is engaging!”

Scott froze. David spun to face him. The world was thrust into slow motion.

The Eighth was attacking. They were stepping into the open, right when the Ceratopians were aware of them, at exactly the wrong time.

They were engaging out of sync.

The Fourteenth watched in horror as the Ceratopians unleashed their fury.

Esther fought back a grin as tingles sparked through her body. She was redeemed. She was in the game. She had done what she was trained to do. And now she watched as the attack she’d called in began to take place. As soon as it did, her entire body went numb.

The Eighth. The Eighth was pressing forward. And the Ceratopians were firing on them. Her heart pounded. Her breathing stopped. What were they doing? Why were they on the offensive? They were doing exactly what she had told the Fourteenth to do. And the Fourteenth wasn’t doing anything at all. It was as though they had both gotten their orders confused.

All of a sudden, she froze. She froze colder than she’d ever frozen before. Her heart nearly died in her chest.

Her fingers trembled to the surface of her helmet, where they shivered against its cold metal frame. Her lower lip started to quiver.

…please no…please God, please no…

As soon as she felt the comm pad, she knew why the Eighth was attacking. They had no reason not to.

She had just commed the wrong unit.

Scott leapt to his feet as a tidal wave of neon swept over the Eighth. Everyone in the Fourteenth fired their weapons. “Captain Ulrich, what are you doing?” he screamed. “We haven’t made our attack!”

The situation immediately worsened. As the Eighth stumbled under the initial attack, the Ceratopians made their own charge. The alien warriors dwarfed their EDEN enemies as they physically overtook them. Demolitionists were thrown aside like rag dolls. They were bludgeoned and flung through midair. They were crushed by the Ceratopians’ sheer strength.

They were utterly dominated.

The Eighth’s channel screamed with chaos.

“Captain Ulrich!” shouted Scott again. “You have to fall back!”

Ulrich’s voice hollered through the fray. “You told us to engage!”

“Negative, sir, we did not! Fall back! Fall back!”

David’s mouth fell open as a pulse grenade flew amid the retreating members of the Eighth. “Oh my God!” When it detonated, EDEN operatives flew in all directions.

Clarke’s voice cried through the comm. “Ulrich! Fall back!”

Scott reloaded yet another clip into his rifle. “They were supposed to wait for our signal!” He and David unloaded their weapons, but the Ceratopians barely paid them mind. The Eighth was the easier prey. The Fourteenth watched helplessly as one demolitionist after another was blown away by the force of the Ceratopians and their weapons.

“Will an’ Derrick!” Becan screamed through the comm.

“Grenades!” Scott yelled as he pulled one from his belt. “Hit them with grenades!” He pressed in the activation button and flicked it toward the Ceratopians. Seconds after the orb landed amid the aliens, it exploded with a fiery, ear-shattering boom.

David followed suit, as did the team across the street.

The Ceratopians split for the cover of the warehouses. The remaining Eighth fled in retreat.

Clarke’s voice crackled over the open airwaves. “Captain Ulrich, how do you stand?”

“Damn you, Fourteenth! How do you think we stand?”

Scott shook his head as he took up his rifle again. “We never began our assault!”

“Why did you lie to us?” Ulrich screamed.

“I swear to you!” Clarke said. “We didn’t say a thing!”

“Captain Ulrich,” said Scott. “No one relayed the engagement order!”

Ulrich was livid. “We even asked you to confirm!”

“We didn’t confirm anything!”

“For the last time, yes she did!”

At exactly the same moment, Scott and David froze. Their gazes locked on the battle, as Ulrich’s words echoed through the air.

David fell backward. He fell backward, right on his rear, and dropped his gun to his side. “…oh no…”

Across the street, Becan lowered his head to the ground.

Esther was listening to the entire episode from the rooftop. Her hands were locked in front of her mouth; her fingers trembled like leaves in a hurricane. When Scott spoke her name, her entire body flinched.

“Esther Brooking…”

She had to answer. She had no choice. She wanted to run away—to run to the ends of the Earth, but the tone of his voice kept her frozen. Her stomach turned inside out, and her hand shook wildly over her comm.

She already knew she was gone.

“…I thought I was talking to you…”

Back at the dumpsters, David pulled off his helmet and covered his face.

Scott lost all control. “You thought you were talking to me?”

Tears streamed down Esther’s face. Her voice quivered beyond recognition. “Lieutenant, I’m sorry! God, please, I’m so—”

“Get back to the landing zone!”

Her panicked response was immediate. “Yes sir, I’m coming!”

Scott closed the channel and hurled down his rifle.

David reached out to grab him. “Scott, calm down.”

“She’s a trashing scout! And she doesn’t know how to work a trashing comm?”

Becan’s voice quivered over the channel. “Remmy, please, she didn’t mean it.”

“She just killed half the Eighth!”

“Travis,” Clarke said over the airwaves, “bring the Pariah down to pick us up. We’re going back to Novosibirsk.”

Scott snapped a glare across the street. “No!” he yelled through the comm. “It’s not too late to press on!”

“Lieutenant Remington!” Clarke hollered back. The captain’s patience was gone. “The Eighth are pulling out! Do you think Dostoevsky can capture the Cruiser by himself once they leave him? Do you think we can hold this street by ourselves?”

“We can defend this town!”

“No we cannot! Travis, bring down the Pariah at once!”

“Yes sir,” said Travis.

Clarke’s irate tone carried on. “Commander Dostoevsky, we will be picking you up at your drop point. Abandon your assault on the Cruiser.”

Dostoevsky snarled through the comm.

David was the first to see Esther when she stumbled back to the dumpsters. She hinged on the verge of hysteria. “It was my fault!” She could barely stay on her feet. “It was my fault!”

David grabbed her before she could fall. She hid her face in his chest. “It’s all right,” he said, resting his hand on her head. “Esther, it’s all right.”

As soon as Scott saw her, he ripped his helmet off. “What in the hell was that?”

Esther twitched at the sound of his voice.

David turned his head around. “Scott, leave her alone, she’s traumatized.”

“You think the Eighth’s not traumatized?”

“Scott, stop!”

Their attention was averted as the Pariah touched down. As soon as it did, the Ceratopians fired upon it.

Scott grabbed his rifle and knelt to the ground. His finger assaulted the trigger.

“Come on,” David said to Esther, “let’s get on board.”

She struggled back. “No! Please, I don’t want to go. Just leave me here, please!”

“Esther,” David said, as he lifted her chin to see her eyes. “You’re going to be okay. I won’t let anything happen.”

She could barely speak through her sobs. “I don’t…”

David grabbed her and pulled her close. His arms wrapped around her back as she fell against his chest again. “Esther,” he whispered, “we’re not going to leave you behind.” She didn’t have the strength to resist. All she could muster was a terrified whimper. As Scott ferociously covered them, David led her back to the ship.

Scott had had enough. He didn’t care what Captain Clarke had ordered. He could hold this town. Maybe they couldn’t, but he could. As his assault rifle ran out of ammunition, he unholstered his sidearm. Walking into the open street, he aimed it at the Ceratopians and unleashed.

Within seconds, one of the massive aliens fell.

Still, Scott pressed on toward them. As his sidearm unloaded his wrath, he screamed with fury—a sound that was almost inhuman.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the Fourteenth to board the Pariah. As Jayden held suppression from the ground, the injured Clarke was assisted into the ship. As soon as he was aboard, Travis grabbed the controls. “We’re about to go!”

Suddenly, Jayden’s attention snapped ahead. “Scott!”

Scott did not hear Jayden’s cries. His ears echoed with gunfire. His vision was reddened with anger. As another Ceratopian fell, his screaming became violently worse.

Then Jayden was there.

“Scott, come on, man!” He tugged at Scott’s side as the Ceratopians returned fire. Scott fired for another moment before the Texan forced him back. “We can’t hold this place, man! We gotta go!”

Scott was the last one inside. His finger did not relax from the trigger until the bay door finally whirred shut. The Pariah took off immediately, and the lieutenant threw down his sidearm and sat. He banged his head back against the wall.

“Remington!” Clarke said. “Please calm yourself.”

“We could have held it.”

“You know that’s not true!”

David guided Esther down in the far corner of the troop bay. She clung to his side the whole while. “Anyone hear from Will and Derrick?” he asked.

Nobody had.

David adjusted his comm. “Will, Derrick? You guys out there?”

Several seconds of silence passed, and then the demolitionist’s voice crackled through. “We’re here. We’re okay. We’re loading people aboard, and we’ll see you when we get home.”

“Good enough,” David said as he closed the channel. From beside him, Becan sighed in relief.

Farther back in the bay, Scott and Clarke exchanged verbal blows. “If nothing else, we could have kept them in check!” Scott said. “All we needed was time to reorganize!”

“Time to reorganize?” Clarke almost laughed. “The Eighth are decimated! There’s no way we could have held our position.”

“You couldn’t, but I could’ve.”

Clarke’s nostrils flared. “You will not speak again, lieutenant.”

“We could have held it!”

“I will not be challenged whilst you vent your wrath for Nicole!”

Silence. The entire troop bay was hit with the worst kind of tension. Nobody uttered a sound.

Clarke stared Scott down as the younger man turned to the far wall. “You are relieved until I see fit for you to return,” Clarke said. “Until I see fit. Not you.”

Scott said nothing in reply.

Dostoevsky, Max, Oleg, and Varvara were picked up on the beach, their assault on the Cruiser a unified failure. Though none of them were injured, they undoubtedly would not have survived had they carried on without the Eighth. Though they immediately picked up on the tension in the Pariah, they made no mention of it. Instead, they took their seats and waited while the cursed transport returned to The Machine.

Scott was the first to leave the Pariah when it docked. He clutched his helmet in his hand; his sweat-dried hair was a wreck. The cut on his cheek had coagulated into a lump of dark red blood. Its dried drippings trailed down his face.

“Remmy,” Becan said as he jogged to catch up. “Remmy, please, stop for a second.”

Jayden was close behind. David stayed with Esther by the ship.

Scott heard the Irishman, but made no effort to stop.

“Remmy…”

Before Scott could go farther, Becan hurried to get ahead of him. He stepped backward as Scott kept his pace.

“Please Remmy, it’s me. I don’t want to hurt yeh.”

“Get out of my way, McCrae.”

“This isn’t the way to go abou’ this.”

Suddenly, Scott slammed his helmet to the ground and grabbed the Irishman by the collar. “The way to go about this…” Scott snarled in a voice Becan had never heard before. After several seconds of uneasy quiet, Scott released Becan’s armor. He glared for several moments, then stormed past. His statement was left unfinished.

Becan stepped aside and watched as Scott marched toward the exit; the rest of the unit stared from behind. For several seconds the Irishman stood still. Then he turned to Scott’s helmet.

The helmet lay abandoned on the floor of the hangar, where Scott had hammered it down. The visor was completely shattered, and a crack was split down the EDEN logo—the letters on its front cut in two.

Becan stared at the helmet for several moments, then returned his gaze to the door for one final glimpse of the lieutenant. But it was too late. The doorway to the hangar was vacant.

Scott Remington was already gone.

14

Monday, August 8, 0011 NE

EDEN Command

“My thanks to all of you for attending this meeting,” said Benjamin Archer. “I’m sure when the president asked me to investigate the Novosibirsk matter further, none of you expected results quite this soon. In truth, I hadn’t either.”

Torokin watched Archer make his initial speech in front of the conference room. It was early in the morning—earlier than normal for an impromptu meeting. But none of the other judges complained. For the very first time, it appeared that progress with the Novosibirsk situation was being made.

“In my brief examination of Novosibirsk, I’ve uncovered some information that…for lack of a better word, astounds me. As you all know, yesterday we were able to determine that General Thoor may have used the Bakma assault as a stepping stone to thin out EDEN’s influence at his base. I’ve used that as my basis for investigation, and I found results immediately.”

Archer handed a stack of papers to the judge on his right. “Allow me to explain the papers you’re receiving now.”

Torokin watched as Archer’s report made its way around the table. Not only did Archer look the part of a prince, but he acted it, too. The blond-haired judge had grabbed the reigns of the High Command and was running with them. It didn’t matter that Archer had a knack for Xenobiology—Torokin didn’t like this one bit.

“I’d hypothesized that General Thoor was using the Bakma in the assault to weed out EDEN soldiers. His intention? To restock Novosibirsk, not with EDEN, but with Nightmen. He longs for control, and his role as a former Nightman captain gives him more than enough influence to wield it.”

President Pauling leaned back as he listened. A copy of Archer’s papers sat before him.

“On pages one through seven of my report,” Archer said, “you will see an extensive psychological profile on Ignatius van Thoor. I’d encourage you all to examine it thoroughly, but for now I’ll save you the time and paraphrase. General Thoor is military brilliance exemplified. But he also suffers from an egomaniacal self-perception. In the mind of Ignatius van Thoor, power is of the utmost importance.

“Take a moment to examine his history. Read the remarks of his superiors while he was young in the Nightman order. Read the remarks of those under him now. Three words will consistently emerge. Proud. Ruthless. Relentless. He is the perfect dictator. He is a symbol of autocratic tyranny at its most destructive, because he is controlled. His ambitions do not overflow. He allows them to be released as they suit his needs. He sets his sights on a goal, and he stays his course until that goal is fulfilled, never acting on the emotion of a moment. He is tactical in his tyranny.”

Archer placed his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Being tactical is precisely what he is doing now. Beginning on page seven, you’ll see a telling series of statistics…nine pages’ worth. You’ll see every log of every alien incursion that Novosibirsk has handled in the past four and a half years.” He glanced down at one of the papers and read aloud.

“February 5, year 0007. Ceratopian Cruiser. Handled by the unit known as the Seventh. Forty percent casualties, zero Nightmen involved.

“February 7. Bakma Carrier. Handled by the Third. Zero casualties, five Nightmen involved.

“February 26. Ceratopian advance on Moscow. Handled by the First, Seventh, and Fourteenth. Over sixty percent casualties—zero Nightmen involved. So bad was it, in fact, that the Fourteenth were completely decimated, and consequently restocked—with three Nightmen officers.

“There is a trend here,” Archer went on. “Notice the Nightmen’s involvement relative to the varying degrees of risk. If the intruding species is Bakma…the Nightmen are dispatched. If it’s a Ceratopian vessel of any significance whatsoever…EDEN are. We all know the vast difference between the Ceratopians and the Bakma. He has purposely assigned EDEN the operations with higher risks of fatality. He hasn’t just started to weed us out. He’s been weeding us out for years. And he’s got just enough inconsistency thrown in to pass it off as coincidence. “

Murmurs grew around the table.

“I believe it’s his way of removing EDEN from the equation, without us suspecting a thing. The more soldiers EDEN loses, the more Nightmen are put in their place. Records show that the Nightman population in Novosibirsk has increased by almost fifty percent over the past two years, and it’s not slowing. And in truth…we don’t know how many Nightmen he has. We can only tally the Nightmen who are doubly registered as EDEN soldiers—we may have lost the majority already. It’s improbable, but not impossible.”

Torokin looked over to Grinkov, who in return gave him a pointed stare. This was big. This was the first concrete evidence EDEN had of Thoor undermining their influence. This was not going to be ignored.

Castellnou was the first to make sure of it.

“I told you!” he said, leaping from his chair and pointing at Pauling. “You have insisted that we let Thoor do what he pleases, that he is a special situation! Now we see how special he is!”

Richard Lena followed suit. “We’ve said, time and time again, that we can’t let him go on like this.” Chatter broke throughout the room.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Pauling said, wiping his brow. “Please…let us at least think this through…”

“Enough thinking!” shouted Castellnou. “We think too much! It is time to do!”

“Gentlemen,” said Judge Blake, “we need a course of action. Right now we’ve got nothing.” He turned his head to Archer. “Judge Archer, can you come up with a procedure for this? A proposal? Something for us to look at and consider?”

“I can.”

Torokin stared at Blake in disbelief. Without even thinking it through, he entered the verbal fray. “Why do you give this task to only Archer? Is this not something that involves all of us?”

“With all due respect, Leonid, we have collectively failed. Archer has the wind at his back. God forbid we take away his momentum.”

“Then maybe Archer should be president. He gets to make all the decisions.”

Both Grinkov and Lena raised their eyebrows at Torokin’s remark. Archer watched in silence.

“That was uncalled for,” Blake said. “If you’re envious of Judge Archer’s work, then maybe you should have taken a more proactive stance against Thoor yourself.”

“He has done nothing but restate what we already knew. Did any man here doubt that Thoor had his own priorities? Did anyone think that he cared whatsoever about EDEN’s goals? Why does this matter now? If Thoor wants Novosibirsk, let him have it. What does it matter to us?”

“It matters because Novosibirsk is ours. It belongs to EDEN.”

“But it fights the same war! Do you care more about EDEN or Earth?”

Judge Carol June, the American with the auburn shag haircut, interrupted him. “We’re making progress, Torokin. Why are you against that?”

Torokin pointed his glare at her. “I am not against progress. I am against one man alone deciding which way we should go.”

“I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention,” she answered, “but that one man is pulling his weight. Maybe you should give it a try.”

“Dura,” Torokin spat at her. Grinkov’s eyebrows shot up at the Russian remark. “This should be something we discuss. Don’t give all the decisions to one man.”

“Leonid,” Grinkov whispered as he leaned close to Torokin, “what is wrong with you? They are not letting him make all the decisions—he is only coming up with a proposal.”

Torokin averted his focus to respond. “He has been here for barely a week and we are worshipping him.”

“No, we are not. He is only coming up with a proposal. Why are you acting like this?”

“Because I don’t like him!” he whispered passionately. “I can’t tell you why. I just don’t!”

“Judge Archer,” Pauling said, interrupting the hushed exchange. “Come up with a proposal. We’ll decide what to do with it when you’re through.”

“Mr. President…” urged Torokin.

“That’s my decision,” Pauling said firmly, turning to Torokin. “End of discussion.”

The Russian judge growled under his breath.

“This has been a lot to digest. Benjamin, is there anything else you discovered that we need to talk about?”

Archer shook his head, though his eyes lingered on Torokin. “No, sir. Those were for the most part all of my findings.”

“We’ll convene again when your proposal is finished.”

It took no second command for Torokin to leave. As soon as the president dismissed them, the ex-Vector shoved back his chair and stormed out of the conference room. Grinkov and Lena were hot on his heels.

“Leonid,” Grinkov said. “Please, wait.”

“What do you want?” Torokin asked, still walking.

“Tell me why you are so upset. What did Archer do?”

“He’s done everything. That’s why I’m upset.”

Keeping pace behind them, Lena interjected. “Wait a minute, what’s going on? Is something wrong with Archer?”

“I do not know,” Grinkov shrugged. “I don’t know what the problem is.”

“Leonid?”

Torokin turned around in the hallway. “There is something about him. I can’t tell you what it is, because I do not know. But there is something that makes me feel wrong. Even when I spoke with him earlier, before all of this, I felt it. I do not like a politician, not at all.”

“Look, I’m not crazy about someone replacing Darryl either, but the bottom line is that ‘Sir Benjamin’ is making ground. Isn’t that good?”

“I don’t know. Is it good?” Torokin turned around to walk again. “He came in without a discussion. Rath gave him to Pauling, and Pauling appointed him judge. The rest of us had nothing to say. And now look at him.”

“Exactly,” Lena said. “Look at him. He’s doing great. What’s not to like?”

“There were many others who could have been chosen. Uta Volbrecht, Rene Demange, Bastiaan Platis—”

“So essentially anybody from Vector?”

“General Platis was never in Vector, and you know that’s not what I meant. We need people of war, not of talk.”

“Leonid,” said Grinkov behind him, “we both were not sure about Archer when we met him. But like it or not, so far he has given us good things. We are finally seeing results in something that has plagued us for years. What could be better now?”

Torokin snapped back around. “It would have been better if we’d had a choice.” Then he stopped. He looked past Grinkov and Lena to the younger man standing behind them. The younger man who had silently caught up. It was Archer.

Grinkov and Lena turned just as Torokin saw him. Archer stood in the middle of the hallway, his amber eyes resting on Torokin. A look of uncertainty swept over the new judge. Grinkov and Lena stepped aside as Archer approached.

“Judge Torokin, if you please, I’d like a chance to talk to you. I realize it may not be desired.”

Torokin was silent as he scrutinized Kentwood’s replacement. The man whom no one had seen coming. He glanced at Grinkov and Lena, giving them a subtle nod. The two other judges stepped away.

Archer approached Torokin and continued past him down the hall. “Please, will you walk with me?” Torokin cast a final glance back to his two friends, then turned to join Archer’s company. “I understand your words,” he said as soon as they were out of earshot, “and I realize that you have your reservations about me.”

Torokin drew a deliberate breath, but said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Archer sighed. “I truly am. It was not my choice to be nominated judge. When the offer came, I saw it as an opportunity—an opportunity to excel. Believe me when I say, that’s all I wish to do. My convictions are the same as yours.”

“You replace a good man.”

“I know. Prior to coming here, I’d never met any judges. Judge Rath knew of me purely from hearsay. But as I’ve been here, I’ve had the privilege to examine what the High Command accomplish. I know Judge Kentwood had contributed great things. I wish to contribute great things as well.”

They rounded a corner in the hallway as Archer continued. “My wish is that everyone here would respect me. No man doesn’t wish that for himself. But I realize that trust comes with camaraderie and experience.” He turned his gaze to meet Torokin’s. “I respect that you have reservations. I look forward to proving them wrong.” He smiled faintly. “All I ask for is the opportunity to do that. I want to earn your trust—as trust should be earned. May I do that?”

“My trust is not that important.”

“It is to me. I do look up to you. You were a Vector.”

“Have you ever been in combat?”

Archer said disappointingly, “I’m afraid the answer is no. My roles have always been administrative.”

“That is why I do not trust you,” Torokin replied. “Only half of us have been on the battlefield. Myself, Grinkov, Lena. Rath, President Pauling, Castellnou…then Yu Jun Dao, and that’s it. The rest of the judges have never fired a weapon.”

“Did Judge Kentwood?”

“No.”

“And you trusted him, did you not?”

“He proved himself with time. I respected him.”

Archer stopped walking. “And that is all that I ask. I ask for the chance to do the very same thing. Judge Rath placed a great deal of trust in me. It’s not my intent to betray it.”

“You are off to a good start,” Torokin said, as he resumed walking again. “You have captured all the others’ attention with Novosibirsk.”

Archer chuckled as he kept by Torokin’s side. “Well, it wasn’t much, but thank you. As I said when I’d first met you, I’d like to think myself a tactician. It’s essential that I notice details.” He caught himself in the midst of a laugh. “But to be perfectly honest…” His hesitated as his words trailed off.

“What?”

“It’s nothing, I’m sorry.”

Torokin stopped and faced him. “No, tell me. What?”

Archer hesitated again, then he sighed. After a brief glance to ensure their privacy, he spoke to Torokin in hushed words. “To be honest, I’m shocked this wasn’t noticed before. The information I found wasn’t hidden. I don’t think anyone bothered to look.”

Torokin didn’t like what he heard. But he agreed.

“Who was in charge of Novosibirsk?”

“No one,” Torokin answered. “Occasionally someone would look into it, but…it was always only discussed. Nothing was done.” Thoor was sent letters—that was it. Letters of unenforced warning.

Archer frowned. “Has the Council always been run that inefficiently?” Torokin shot him a glare, and he quickly reworded. “What I mean by that is, how could that have been allowed to go on for so long?”

“There were doubts concerning its importance. Even I had some of them.”

“I certainly don’t question hesitation. But it’s the total lack of research that’s surprising.”

Those words stung him. President Pauling wasn’t perfect, but he had Earth’s best interests at heart. Nonetheless, he was the one who continually delayed action against Thoor. Torokin understood why. “You will take care of that now, I am sure.”

“I’ll do what’s required of me. Hopefully in a way that brings everyone together.”

“If you do that, even I will be impressed.”

“If I can do that, will you trust me?”

“If you can do that,” Torokin answered, “I will worship you.”

“Then that shall be my mission,” Archer said solemnly.

“Good luck.”

“Luck won’t have anything to do with it,” Archer said with some confidence. “You’ll see.” As he turned to walk away, he gave Torokin a final nod. “Farewell, my friend. You’ll be seeing my progress very soon.” Torokin offered the new judge a closing smile, and the two men went their separate ways.

Torokin still wasn’t buying it. Kentwood had been an honorable man, and there were more reputable choices to replace him. There were men and women of war—not discussion.

But Archer was doing something. He was doing something no one else in the High Command had bothered to do. Something Pauling never made a necessity.

He was getting to the bottom of Novosibirsk.

He had no idea whether the new judge’s proposal would indeed be something that would bring everyone together. If it was, it’d be an epic accomplishment. But for now, he’d keep his reservations about Archer. For now, he still didn’t like him.

No more meetings were called that day, and nothing more was made of that morning’s. Grinkov and Lena joined Torokin that evening for a card game of preferans, as they always did, and though Archer was mentioned in their banter, little was said about his private chat with the ex-Vector. For the most part, the conversation was lighthearted. Torokin would give Archer a chance to prove himself.

That was plenty enough.

15

Monday, August 8, 0011 NE

1540 hours

Novosibirsk, Russia

Shortly after their return to Novosibirsk, the Fourteenth completely split up. Galina and Varvara escorted Maksim and Clarke to the infirmary, where Clarke was told to remain for a day for precautionary reasons. Maksim’s rehabilitation would last considerably longer—almost two months. It was a tough break for the demolitionist alpha.

As for the Pariah, the gun mount was inspected thoroughly. After an overhaul from the technical crew, it was returned to functionality. No explanation was uncovered for its failure, but no one was surprised.

Esther had disappeared. She had unloaded the Pariah with the rest of the unit, then promptly escaped from their presence. Though Becan made an initial effort to find her, David persuaded him to stop, suggesting it would be best to give her time to herself.

The other members of the unit hung in the most awkward silence they’d experienced since the death of Lieutenant Novikov. Even Dostoevsky—the lone remaining Nightman of the Fourteenth—seemed affected. He abandoned the crew immediately after the Pariah was geared down. No one stood in his way.

The Eighth returned shortly after, where the full extent of their casualties came to light. Of the eighteen members of the demolitionist squad, seven were dead, including the unit’s second in command. Four were wounded, two critically. William and Derrick had come out of the battle unscathed. It was the only good news the Fourteenth heard.

The rest of the afternoon was a strange mix of rest, restlessness, and the foreboding sensation that at any moment, someone in the unit would snap. Scott did not return to Room 14, and the general consensus was that leaving him alone was the best thing to do.

Nonetheless, even the lieutenant’s absence was not enough to quell the morbid atmosphere in the unit. It was an atmosphere that demanded discussion. When Becan and Jayden stepped into Room 14’s lounge, David and Travis were already waiting. “What took you two so long?” David asked. His left arm was cradled across his stomach.

Jayden walked to the counter and slid his hands in his pockets.

“We went lookin’ for Esty,” Becan said. “How’s your shoulder?”

David frowned. “I’ll live. And if I recall, I already talked to you about Esther.”

“Righ’, I know, yeh told me to leave her alone. Well, I couldn’t do tha’.”

“Did you find her?”

“I did. She was sittin’ outside alone, wantin’ to quit.”

David sighed.

“The girl’s gone loopers. Every time yeh say somethin’, she jumps. I think she’s goin’ to need a bleedin’ shrink.”

“I never seen someone act like that before,” said Jayden. “I couldn’t believe it.”

“I can believe it,” David said. “After what she went through, absolutely.”

“Did Scott hit ‘er?”

“Yeah.”

“Man…that’s insane.”

“Righ’, well, Remmy’s a bit insane at the moment, if yeh haven’t already noticed.”

“We’ve all noticed,” said Travis.

At Travis’s words, David shook his head. “It’s only going to get worse now.”

“Wha’ do yeh mean?”

“Scott needed this mission. That’s the only reason he went. He needed to kill something. He needed to release. Nothing got released.”

“Esty migh’ disagree,” Becan said.

“What Scott did to Esther—that was the tip of the iceberg. He wanted to explode out there. He wanted to pour every bit of his anger out on the Ceratopians. And they tore our tails off instead.”

“I bet that’s why he got so mad at the captain,” Jayden said. “When the captain said we were leaving.”

“Scott’s a volcano with a cork right now. At some point, he’s going to erupt.”

“I can’t believe the captain even let him go on the mission,” said Travis. “I mean, the guy just lost his fiancee. He should be mourning right now.”

“He’s more focused on revenge than remorse,” David said.

“I wouldn’t want to be the guy that killed Nicole right now.”

“Speaking of that,” said David, “if by some chance one of you finds out who that guy was, I don’t think it’s a good idea to tell Scott.”

“Why not?” Becan asked.

“Because I have no doubt Scott would kill him.”

“Righ’. Well, maybe tha’s a good thing. One less Nightman in the world.”

“Maybe we should tell Esther that, too,” Jayden said, ignoring Becan. “If she finds out who did it, not to tell Scott.”

“I doubt he goes looking for Esther anytime soon,” David said, “but you’re still right. It’s better for Scott that way.”

“I say you’re both wrong. Let Remmy kill every one o’ them.”

“That’s impossible, man,” answered Jayden. “Even Scott knows that. He’s gotta.”

“The last thing we need is another war on top of the one we already have,” said David. “If we find out who did it, we’ll deal with it then.”

Before David could elaborate further, a man stepped through the lounge door. It was not someone they’d expected. It was the man they’d expected the least.

Dostoevsky.

As soon as they saw him, the operatives tensed. As soon as Dostoevsky saw them, he froze in front of the doorway.

Then Becan rose to his feet.

What took place next happened so fast that no one in the room could have stopped it. Without saying a word, Becan stormed toward Dostoevsky, reared up his hands, and shoved him dead in the chest. Dostoevsky was thrust back into the bunk room, where his back collided into a bedpost.

Inside the bunk room, Varvara and Oleg froze.

“Becan!” yelled David as he leapt from his chair.

“Yeh want someone for your Nightmen to pick on?” Becan asked as he tracked closer. “Pick on me, scab.”

“Becan, stop!”

Before Dostoevsky could move, the Irishman punched him square in the face. Dostoevsky toppled to the floor, just as David and Jayden grabbed Becan’s arms.

“Becan,” screamed Jayden, “chill out!” Becan offered moderate resistance as the two men restrained him, though after a moment, he calmed. His glare remained fixed on the Nightman, who was sprawled on his knees.

The commander raised his hand to his lip, where a dark streak of crimson smeared his skin. His eyes settled on Becan, but he didn’t attack. Instead, he cleared his throat, wiped his hand on his jersey, and rose to his feet. “Gentlemen…”

“Don’t play tha’ ‘gentlemen’ game with me, yeh bleedin’ dregg.”

“Becan,” David whispered, “stop it, now.”

“Do yeh see wha’ your lackeys did? Do yeh feel proud o’ them now? I bet tha’ new piece o’ Nightman dung feels draggin’ proud o’ himself.”

“Becan!” said Jayden, “we don’t even know if he had anything to do with it, man!”

The Irishman glared at Dostoevsky. “Why don’t yeh enlighten us? Why don’t yeh tell us here an’ now? Did you have anythin’ to do with Nicole’s murder?”

“Becan,” Varvara spoke tensely from her bed, “you must stop now. You do not know who you are fighting with!”

“Oh, I bloody know,” Becan said. “An’ I want him to answer me question.”

Dostoevsky looked at Becan. He wiped his lip again, then quietly exhaled a breath. “General Thoor chooses Nightmen…not me.”

“An’ does Thoor choose who they have to kill?”

After a moment of hesitation, Dostoevsky gave his answer again. “General Thoor chooses Nightmen. Not me.”

“Well I want yeh to deliver a message to General Thoor. You tell him tha’ next time he wants to claim someone, try me. I’ll give him plenty o’ killin’.”

“Becan, that’s enough,” said David.

“Yeah,” Becan said, “I know it is.” The Irishman’s glare lingered on Dostoevsky for a few moments, before he spit in the commander’s face, pushed past him, and walked out. He disappeared into the hall, slamming the door in his wake. The room was left silent.

Dostoevsky lowered his head, and wiped Becan’s spit from his brow. He straightened out the sides of his uniform.

“Please don’t relay that message,” said Jayden.

The commander almost laughed, but said nothing.

“Don’t relay that one,” David said, “but try this one.” Dostoevsky watched as David stepped closer. “Ask that new Nightman if it was worth it. Ask him if it was worth tearing a man apart, and ripping a unit to shreds. Then ask him if it was worth the cost of her life.” The room watched as David leaned closer. “If he says yes to any of those, do us all a favor and kill him. I’m sure that’s not a problem for you.”

David stared Dostoevsky down for several moments, then eased back, turned, and walked away. Dostoevsky watched as David stepped past him, crossed the bunk room, and left into the hall behind Becan.

Jayden and Travis swapped a glance as the unsettling silence of the room swelled again. Before the threat of new words could surface, they stepped back into the lounge. Varvara and Oleg looked away.

Which left Commander Yuri Dostoevsky—the Nightman fulcrum—standing by himself at the far end of the room. The look on his face was a strange one, though no one had bothered to notice it. He stood there for several moments, his posture restraining apprehension, before he wandered into the lounge, where he went to the counter to brew tea. The process was never finished, though, as he abandoned the lounge shortly after. He stepped out of the room amid silence.

No one told him goodbye.

* * *

Scott didn’t remember falling asleep. He didn’t remember walking back to his room. His mind had slipped away in the hangar. The only thing he remembered was Nicole.

He would have been talking to her right then. He would have been telling her that everything was all right, and that he loved her. Then she’d say she loved him, too. He heard her words in his mind as if they were real.

“Scott, thank God.” He could hear her say from his bedside. “Thank God you were okay in Khatanga.”

He would have smiled. “Of course I’m okay, baby. Another day at the office.”

“Right—an office that’s trying to kill you,” she’d answer back. Then she would smile, because he was safe.

It was an imagined fantasy. He was laying in bed, in the dark. There was no one else around. There was no girl thanking God for his life; there was no girl to ask him what happened. There was no girl at all.

Scott wasn’t the kind of person to cry. In fact, in the six years that he and Nicole had spent together, not once had she seen him in tears. It was Scott’s job to be the comforter. It was her job to let him be that.

In the midst of his emotional chaos, Khatanga had been a distraction. For the short time that made up the mission, he’d not once thought of Nicole. His mind had been locked in the moment. Gunfire. Leadership. War.

Prior to his graduation from Philadelphia, instructors had told he and his fellow classmates, ‘when you pull that trigger for the first time, you’ll never want to let go.’ Scott had never believed it. Not until now. Now, there was nothing else he wanted. The cold stock of an e-35. The feel of an M-19 handgun strapped to his side. The liberating sound of a bullet leaving a barrel. They became his gods after God let her die.

Destiny. He used to embrace it. Destiny brought him to EDEN, and EDEN brought him to Russia. Russia brought her to death. It was a cruel joke from a God who didn’t care. He wondered if her murderer was following destiny, too.

More than anything in the world, Scott wanted the Nightman who did it. For five minutes, he wanted the murderer to himself. The wretch who saw her beautiful face full of innocence, and crushed it like a butterfly under a shoe. He wanted that man, like he wanted nothing else. He wanted him more than Nicole—but for a different reason entirely.

The knock on Scott’s door was a hesitant one. After letting it go unanswered for several moments, then hearing it tap once again, he rose from his bed and coughed. “I’m coming.” His voice was deeper now. It was even different to him. It wasn’t fatigue, or even remorse. It was hollowness.

He unlocked the door and eased it open. It was Galina.

She lowered her gaze to his feet. “Lieutenant.” Her voice was different, too. It was submissive in a way it had never been before. Not submissive out of respect. Submissive out of fear. “I came to give you a report.”

Scott turned around, walking back into the darkened depths of his room. “Yeah?”

She politely cleared her throat. “The captain will stay in the infirmary for today. They want to monitor his condition. They are ‘playing it safe.’”

She always tried to use American terms with him. She usually used them correctly.

“Maksim is in much worse condition. Between his time in the infirmary and rehabilitation, he could be out of combat for many weeks. Do you want to know specifics?”

“That’s okay,” Scott said, laying down on his back. He wouldn’t understand specifics anyway.

She nodded. “That is all that I wanted. I am sorry to disturb you, lieutenant.”

That was all she was going to do. Give him a report, then leave. Yesterday that would have been fine. Yesterday he would have wished her gone as soon as he’d opened the door. But that was yesterday. As she reached out to pull his door shut, Scott tilted his head in her way. “Galya.” As soon as he murmured her name, she stopped. “Please come here.”

For a moment she visibly hesitated, then she canted her head. “Yes, lieutenant.” She stepped inside and closed the door. The two teammates were enveloped by darkness.

“Please come see. For a minute.”

Scott could tell she was nervous. Even through her obedient affirmation, there was an uneasy tone to her voice. Nonetheless, she drew close to his bed. Scott could still see her. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness long before she had arrived. He knew what he wanted to do to her. He knew what he needed her for. It was the only innocent thought that he’d had.

As she stood by his bedside, he reached for her hand. Not to hold it romantically. To hold it out of necessity. To remember, for a fleeting moment, what it felt like. To see if it still felt the same.

The instant he touched her skin, the memories rushed upon him. Every memory of everything wonderful that he’d experienced with Nicole replayed fresh in his mind. It was as if she weren’t dead. He could imagine her squeezing his hand. He could imagine her clinging to his chest. The thoughts felt as if they were real.

But they weren’t. And Galina wasn’t Nicole. Scott leaned his head back, bit his lower lip, and struggled not to break down.

As soon as his sobs whimpered out, the tension in her body relaxed. She was at his side immediately, one hand clutching his, while the other moved to his shoulder. “Lieutenant, it is okay. It is okay to do this.”

“I don’t…” His words were lost even to him.

“Scott,” she whispered, her formalities fading away. “I am here. I will not go anywhere.”

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to think. He wanted to cling to her shirt. To bury his face in her chest. He wanted to curl up and die.

Both of her hands now clutched his. “We are all here. We are here for you, Scott. Every one of us.”

Nicole was the only girl he’d ever loved—the only love in his life. She was always the one who’d been there for him. Who would be there for him now? Who would listen to him when he needed someone to talk to? Who would comfort him when he was at his worst? He needed that now more than ever. He needed her now more than ever. But now she was gone.

It wasn’t fair. After all the good he had done, after he had been so faithful. How could God allow her to die? To let that murderer kill her? Let him suck the breath from her life?

His thoughts escaped from his lips. “I’m going to find him.”

Galina fell silent. Several moments passed before she spoke again. “Please, Scott, do not think like this now.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

She fought back tears of her own. “If you do this…you will never forget it. You will bring it with you through all of your life.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

Her grip tightened around his hand and she bowed her head forward. Moisture rimmed in her eyes. “We will get through this. Okay? We will do morning sessions, we will go on missions. We will get back to life.”

That was what she didn’t understand. Nicole had been his entire life. Those other things hadn’t. Six years of growth, six years of love. That couldn’t be forgotten. Not then. Not ever.

He’d slapped Esther. Ripped her emotions apart. He’d challenged Clarke. He’d shoved away Becan. Everything was being undone. Everything he had worked for, everything he’d accomplished. It was all burning away.

“I’m sorry for everything.” He wiped his eyes as he fought through the tears. “I know how I’ve been.”

“You have been like anyone else would be.” She moved her hand to his leg. “It is only two days, only two. Please, Scott, give it more time.”

“I know what I’ve been.”

“Would you like Varya and me to stay with you? We would be happy to.”

“No.”

“Please…”

Scott laughed sardonically. It was barely a laugh, but it was there. And it wasn’t out of amusement. “You don’t need to. I’m not going crazy. I just have to work this all out.”

“You will.” She squeezed his leg. “And we will work it out with you.” After he made no reply, she went on. “What can I get for you today? You can name anything. I will get it for you. Whatever would make you feel better.”

“A name.”

She blinked.

“His name.”

The smile Galina had forced fell away. She lowered her gaze to his sheets. “Scott…”

“That’s all that I want.”

“That is not what you want to do.”

“That’s all that I want. To know that name, to see that face.” The Nightman who had taken from him what he cherished most. Who had taken from him what he loved.

“You need to rest,” Galina said. “That is what you need more than anything. I will stay here.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“No. It is necessary. This is what medics are for.” She gave him a firm look; she would not be challenged. “This is not your choice. It is mine.” She eased from his bedside and stood. “You rest. I will prepare my things and put in a cot for sleeping.”

Scott shook his head. “Please don’t stay.” As much as he wished he could stop her, he couldn’t. She clearly distrusted him on his own. She wanted to stay, not out of compassion or medical obligation, but because she wanted to watch him. To make sure he didn’t leave.

“That is enough,” she said. “I will get my things, you will rest. I will be back soon. Within half hour. Do not go anywhere—this is order.” Before he could answer, she hurriedly stepped from the room.

Scott sat on his bedside in silence. When it came to things like this, she outranked him in every way. She was right when she said it wasn’t his decision. Not in matters like this.

But it didn’t matter. Her staying wouldn’t affect him. Not like she wanted it to. She could watch him. She could protect him. But she couldn’t stop him.

Someone was out there. Someone with a name, with Nicole’s blood stained on his soul. Someone had an appointment with the devil. No—not the devil. The appointment they had was much worse.

They had an appointment with Scott Remington.

It didn’t take David long to find Esther. She was exactly where Becan said she would be—sitting alone, outside on the concrete sidewalks of Novosibirsk. David knew the moment he saw her that she was changed. Her shoulders trembled. Her head was down. She hugged at her knees with all the anguish of a traumatized child. She was a shell of the girl she had been days before.

Though Esther didn’t know it, Max had taken a hit for her in the hours that passed. He’d reported to Novosibirsk Command that the cause of her errant transmission was not a mistake on her part, but a glitch in her comm—an oversight that fell against him. Max had escaped with a stern warning of diligence. Esther had escaped with her life. David was one of the few people who knew that.

Esther became aware of him as soon as he drew close. She turned her head instinctively to him, then quickly shied it away.

“Hey,” David said as he stopped beside her.

“Hey,” she quietly whispered back.

“Okay if I sit?”

For several moments she didn’t respond. When she finally did, it was barely a nod of the head.

David eased down at her side before she had a chance to change her mind. “Talk to me, kiddo.”

She glanced in his direction, though again she said nothing. Her eyes weren’t moist; it appeared as if she had stopped crying some time ago. But by no means did she look all right. Her gaze slid away again, blankly retreating to the landscape before her.

He hung his good arm over her shoulders. “You know, I’ve done some stupid things in my life…”

“I killed them.”

David fell silent.

Her shoulders tensed. She turned her head away, and her brown eyes distanced to the ground. For a moment, she didn’t even breathe.

When David finally answered, his tone was softer than hers. “I know you did, Esther. But you’re forgiven for that.”

She almost laughed. Her head lifted from the ground. “I know how to work a bloody comm. It’s so simple.” David fell quiet as she spoke. “I’d worked with one every day at Academy, doing things so much more difficult than what I was asked to do today. But today is what counted, and today is the day that I failed. I killed them.”

“Esther…”

“I wanted to perform so well. I’d trained for four years, I’d gone through so many exercises, all to arrive at this horrible failure.” She looked away. “If I were anyone else in this unit, I would hate me for what I’ve done.”

“Esther,” David sighed, “we don’t hate you.”

“Everything that happened is on me. Whatever happened to the Eighth, to Khatanga, is my fault. I don’t even know what happened there after we left.”

He squeezed her shoulders. “I don’t either. But I do know one thing…nobody brought their best to Khatanga. Nobody.”

“But at least they could work their sodding comms.”

Silence fell again as they sat side by side. There were few operatives walking the grounds around them; such sparseness was unusual for the middle of a weekday.

“I’m so scared,” she finally whispered. “I’m so scared to go back in that room.”

“What room?”

“Room 14.” She closed her eyes and lowered her head. “I know what they’ll all be thinking. About me. And the lieutenant…”

“Scott will be fine.”

“He was so excited to have me. Now he’s not.” She winced as she said the words. “He lost his fiancee, and he needed that mission. He needed it for himself, and I took that away. What am I supposed to say when I see him?”

David fought back a frown. “Don’t say anything. Put this behind you. Be strong—be what you’ve been trained to be. Just be there, ready to go when we get called out again.”

She pressed her palm to her forehead. The disappointment in her voice grew heavier. “I was always so proud when I did something well. I was so proud when I graduated. What have I to be proud of now? I feel as though I’ve betrayed the unit. I wasn’t what I was supposed to be.”

“Esther, you can’t think like that. You know we don’t feel that way. Becan and Jayden went looking for you earlier today, and it’s not because they’re disappointed.”

She scoffed and looked away.

“I’m here,” David said. “And I’m not disappointed. Max isn’t disappointed in you, and neither are Galina or Varvara.”

For the first time in their conversation, her eyes rimmed with tears. “What do I say to him? To the man who needed something, that I tore away?” A teardrop rolled down her cheek. “How can I put on that uniform? How can I look at his face?”

He pulled her against his side. She didn’t resist.

“I just want to go home…”

“I don’t want you to go home,” David said. “Neither does anyone else.”

“This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. It’s not who I am.”

“Esther…”

“I’m leaving, I have to.”

“Don’t.” The forcefulness of his voice made her stop. She turned her head to him. “Esther…this is hard to understand, because right now you’re in the middle of it. You haven’t had time to look back.”

“To when?”

“To right now.” She turned her face fully to see him. “Sometimes…we have to fail to succeed. Sometimes our most important moment is when we rise up from our worst one. What you did today isn’t what’s important. What’s important is what you do tomorrow, after you’ve absorbed and acknowledged what’s happened today. That you’ve learned a lesson and become stronger—that’s what defines who you are.”

She stared at him in silence for several moments, before she turned her head away. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand this at all.”

“I’ve made mistakes, Esther.”

She almost laughed. “Did your mistakes cause people to die?”

David watched her for several seconds, until he drew in a very deep breath. He returned his eyes to the landscape. “Yeah, they did.”

Esther was taken aback. Her mouth lingered partially open as she sniffed in a breath and faced him.

“I know where you are right now,” he said. “I know what it is you’re feeling. You see, Esther…we’re all damaged. And the people who aren’t damaged yet…someday they will be. That’s just life. Life happens to every one of us.” Esther watched him as he spoke. “What you did can’t be undone. It can’t be revised or revisited. But you can always change. You can always grow.”

She hesitated, opening her mouth to speak. No words came out.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” David said. “I can’t tell you how to deal with this. But I can tell you one thing.” He turned his head to face her. “This is your most important hour. This is the hour that’s going to dictate what you do with the rest of your life. There are only two choices. You’re either going to run from it…or you’re going to face it. You’re going to face it and say, ‘I made a mistake. I’m not perfect. But I refuse to let that stop me.’” He looked at her gravely for several seconds. “I believe in you, Esther. Not because I know anything about you, but because I know that you care. Sometimes…that’s all that separates heroes from washouts.”

She stared at him in silence, her watery gaze never wavering from his own. When she finally looked toward the horizon, she allowed herself a small smile. “I suppose I don’t have to ask which of those two choices you made.”

“I ran.”

She turned quickly to face him, her eyebrows arched with surprise. “You ran?”

He turned his eyes back to the landscape. “I’m here, aren’t I? And that’s why I want you to hear me.”

For several seconds, she simply stared. Then she too fixed her gaze on the distance.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. I don’t even know what’s going to happen tonight.” He turned his head back to her. “But I hope we go through it together. You, me…Scott, Becan, Jayden. All of us. I hope you don’t choose to run away.”

Her eyes fell blank as they distanced. She lowered her stare to the ground.

“Think about who you are, then think of who you always wanted to be. Then, make whatever decision gets you there. You know that’s what you have to do.” He sat in silence for several moments, then slowly pushed up from the ground. He winced when his left shoulder moved.

“Mr. David…”

“Just David,” he said with a smile, hiding his pain.

She smiled, too. “David…”

“Yes?”

She lifted her head toward him. The moisture still dwelled under her eyes, but the tears had long stopped falling. She stared at him somberly for several seconds, before her smile faintly widened. “Thank you for finding me.”

He winked. “There are still more people to find.”

Esther gave him a warm grin, and watched as he stepped back, turned, and walked away.

She remained on the sidewalk for many more minutes, her eyes remaining fixed on the distant landscape. Aside from the occasional brushing of loose hair from her face, she remained comfortably captivated by stillness.

No one else sought her out.

* * *

Dostoevsky was repressed as he eased open the door to his private quarters. He stepped inside, sealing the door shut behind him. An eerie silence accompanied him into the room. It was the same silence that had followed him since he first stepped in Room 14 minutes before. There had been no acknowledgments when he’d walked past his teammates. There had been no words of greeting. And for the first time in his Nightman life—ever—one of his subordinates had struck him. Fearlessly. But that wasn’t what weighed on his mind.

What weighed on his mind was that no one else cared.

Dostoevsky’s room was black, until a sharp tug at his desk lamp caused a dim yellow hue to flush away the darkness. He padded to his bed, sat on its edge, and slipped off his uniform and undershirt.

He was well aware of his status as one of the most notorious Nightmen in Novosibirsk. While fitness was a strict requirement for all of Thoor’s men, Dostoevsky was an exception to the rule—a superior one. The aggressive firmness of his muscles had always been the marvel of all Nightmen who knew him. He did not have the body of a model, but he had the prowess and strength of a savage.

Four classes of Nightmen dominated the Nightman regimen. There were sentries, donned in their metallic hulls, serving as guardians. They surveyed The Machine through the mirrored lenses of their zombified helmets, greeting new arrivals with icy coldness, leaving no question as to who was in control. Next there were the eidola, the hidden eyes of General Thoor, mingling among the innocent as wolves in EDEN clothing, undistinguishable from the general populace. There were the slayers—the grunts—who made up the majority of the Nightman army. Their rank of armor, slender and purposeful, was the most frequent of all Nightman classes.

Then there were the fulcrums. The pivots. The devils. Their armor was indistinguishable from the armor of the slayers, save for one distinct feature. Their spiked half-collars—their horns. The fulcrums were the Nightman leaders—the leaders that Thoor called his own.

Leaders like Yuri Dostoevsky.

Prior to the Assault on Novosibirsk, there had been two fulcrums in the Fourteenth: Baranov and Dostoevsky. Despite the fact that Baranov outranked him in the unit, there was no question that Dostoevsky held a special place in Thoor’s order. He was one of the general’s most prized soldiers. He was one of the general’s best.

He was also one of the Fourteenth’s most feared. Few in the unit dared to speak to him, and Baranov was the only one who had ever ventured to confront him about anything. Even Clarke watched his tongue when Dostoevsky was near.

Until today.

Like many in the Fourteenth, Dostoevsky was skeptical of Scott upon his arrival at Novosibirsk. Unlike the rest of the unit, Dostoevsky’s feelings didn’t change. Scott’s amiable personality grew on everyone else. They came to embrace him. With the fulcrum’s cold approach, that embrace never happened. Even during Dostoevsky’s personal training with Scott, the two men kept an emotional arm’s distance. As far as Dostoevsky was concerned, the Golden Lion was an overrated idealistic embodiment of a hero.

An embodiment whose love had been murdered.

Dostoevsky exhaled and leaned back on his bed, taking a moment to look at the ceiling above him. There was a small crimson triangle imprinted there, directly over the pillow he’d placed his head on. He had put it there himself as a constant reminder of his singular purpose. He lived to serve the Nightmen. He lived to serve Thoor.

His gaze lingered on it—the Nightman symbol—before he finally rolled his head to the side. His face was as immovable as when he entered, yet for the first time, his emotions verged on something different. Emotions no one had ever seen on his face. Emotions that, for the first time in his life, frightened him.

Reaching over to his nightstand, Dostoevsky flicked off the light. The yellow hue faded from the room. Without a word, the commander rolled over, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

One hour later

Esther closed her eyes, leaning her head back as her brown hair drifted atop the glistening surface of the water around her. She was alone in the gymnasium-sized swimming pool. The delicate swishing of her body in the water was the only noise in the room. No one was there to hear her or watch her. There was no one to tell her she’d failed. It was exactly the way that she wanted it.

She loved the feeling of water surrounding her body. Since her childhood, she had always felt lured to it. She’d excelled in underwater training at Philadelphia; she’d always sought out the pool to find refuge. In the water, she could disappear. She could drop out of sight, where no one could see her. Temporarily, she could cease to exist.

She lifted her head, the weight of her wet hair slicking it down the back of her head. Water streamed down her face.

David had done wonders that day. She understood why the unit looked upon him as a father. He was. When all she had wanted to do was run away, he was there to put his arm around her—as he would have his daughter—and tell her she mattered. He’d given her the confidence to stay. In truth, he reminded her of her own father. But she hadn’t seen her own father since Philadelphia.

Closing her eyes, she laid her head back again.

She knew she was better than Khatanga. She knew how to handle a comm. The fact of the matter was that the reality of combat had flustered her, like nothing had flustered her before. It had flustered her into stupidity. She had always heard from her instructors that regardless of training, regardless of time in simulators, there was nothing that compared to a real mission. In simulators, she knew she’d survive. Even if she failed, she knew that when the clock hit zero, it was all just pretend.

In Khatanga, it wasn’t pretend.

The Ceratopians were real. The neutron rays were real. Her failures were real. She wasn’t incompetent—she was just a wide-eyed rookie, seeing the reality of danger for the first time. Feeling true fear for the first time. Experiencing for the first time the price of allowing emotion into the equation of combat.

She opened her mouth, drew a deep breath, and pushed herself beneath the water’s surface, right along the poolside wall. Where no one could see her—completely hidden from the world.

Away from Scott.

He made her nervous. Even before the mission, even before Nicole’s death. There was something about his presence that stirred her emotions—that wrenched her stomach. He made her feel something she hadn’t felt since she was a teenager. She’d been terrified when he’d cornered her in his room. She’d been frightened almost to tears. But deep down inside, in the corner of her heart that she kept tucked away, the tiniest part of her inexplicably enjoyed it. She was disconcerted by his shirtless body—by the experience of the firmness of his form. She liked that when he pushed up from his bed, his arms flexed. She liked the aggression in his voice. She wished he would have thrown her to the floor.

That thought made her nervous the most.

Emerging to the surface again, she once again slicked back her hair. She was alone still. Just how she’d wanted it.

At least for right then.

When she finally did return to Room 14, the unit was waiting. The showers gushed to life with warmth, and for the first time in some time, they were enjoyed by everyone.

Though the tension was far from relieved, there was a hint of forced normality in the air. It was the kind of forced normality that could only come with a unit blindsided by circumstance. It was the kind of forced normality they were getting used to.

If normality, fear, and indefinite uncertainty could ever be reconciled.

16

Wednesday, August 10, 0011 NE

0700 hours

Novosibirsk, Russia

It was early morning when the Fourteenth was called into operation. Their comms had sounded, and the tail-spun unit once again mustered in the hangar to receive their assignment. There was a very different feel to the call, much different than the one for Khatanga. Prior to Khatanga, there’d been a sensation of dread in the air. Now, there was nothing but numbness.

By the time David arrived in the hangar, the battered but determined Captain Clarke had already arrived. He was the only other man David saw.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Clarke said, indicating the older man’s shoulder.

David’s left arm was still cradled. “I’ll be fine once adrenaline kicks in, captain. I’ve been banged up before.”

“As you wish.”

Several moments of silence passed before David spoke again. “What are we facing?”

“Bakma,” Clarke answered, his eyes watching the hangar entrance, where the rest of the crew slowly gathered. “A Coneship was shot down between Kachug and Ust’-Ordynski.”

“Where is that?”

“East of here. In a region known as the Irkutsk Oblast. By Lake Baikal.”

“That’s a lot of names.”

Clarke’s face remained placid. “I know.”

David watched as the rest of the crew filtered in. Scott was yet to be seen. David turned to address the captain again. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Go ahead.”

“I’m not sure Scott should be a part of this. I’m not sure he’s ready.”

“He won’t be,” Clarke answered. “I’d informed Mr. Remington of my decision when the initial call to action came through. He is to remain here, under Varvara’s supervision. His emotions have become a liability.”

“Wha’?” Becan asked as he approached them. “Remmy’s not comin’?”

“I’m afraid not, McCrae.”

“Why the bloody hell not?”

“Because he’s acting on impulses, and they’re not positive impulses. He’s going to get someone else killed.”

“The captain’s right,” affirmed David. “He needs to be away from this.”

Becan shot David a strange look. “Now wait just one bleedin’ minute. Weren’t you the one sayin’ Remmy was a volcano with a cork? Tha’ he needed to release everythin’?”

“Yes, I did. But there’s a right and a wrong place to release it.”

“Then where’s the righ’ place?”

“I don’t know, Becan. But I do know that this is the wrong one.”

The attention of the unit was diverted as Dostoevsky made his way in. The horns of the fulcrum commander glistened with polish. But that wasn’t what caught everyone’s eyes. Behind him, four other men—all Nightman slayers—marched in tow.

“Wha’ the hell?” Becan turned his gaze to the captain. “Wha’ are they doin’ here?”

Clarke sighed, cleared his throat, and addressed the now-gathered unit. “For those who are unaware, we will be operating today without two of our own—Mr. Remington and Ms. Yudina. We were undermanned with them, and we’re more undermanned without them.” He motioned with a head tilt toward the Nightmen. “These are our reinforcements.”

Becan’s mouth tumbled open. “Yeh got to be bloody kiddin’ me.”

“I was informed by the general that we would receive ‘outside assistance’ for this operation. They are it.”

The crew stood paralyzed with shock.

Scott stood in silence in his private room. His hands gripped the sides of his sink as he stared at his face in the mirror. He hadn’t said a word since Clarke had commed him—commed him to say Scott would remain. Scott didn’t need to say a word. The ferocity in his eyes said everything.

Varvara sat timidly in her chair at the other end of the room. She hadn’t said a word, either.

“I’m going.”

Her eyes widened as soon as Scott said it. “What?”

“I’m going.” The two words stung with finality. Scott wasn’t staying behind. He didn’t care if it came down to blows. He marched to his closet.

“Scott, wait, please…” Varvara’s voice grew frantic as he strode past her. “You cannot go! You heard what Captain Clarke said.”

Scott pulled his armor from his closet and began to gear himself up. “You don’t want to debate with me, Varvara.”

Her hands trembled as she ran them back through her hair. She looked around frantically as if to instinctively see if anyone else would support her. But the two of them were alone. She turned back to Scott. “Please, Scott…listen…”

Scott clamped on his breastplate and arm guards. He didn’t even have a working helmet. He’d broken his last one when he threw it to the ground. But he didn’t care.

She edged up tentatively behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Scott, please, just listen for a moment—”

As soon as she spoke, he snapped around. He thrust her hands away from him; Varvara gasped and stuttered as she stumbled back. “You need to listen to me!” he snarled. “You don’t know what it’s like. Not you, not anyone.”

“Scott,” Varvara quivered, “I—”

“Not one of you knows how it feels, to have this place take from you the one thing you want more than anything. To watch this place destroy what you love.” He snatched his e-35 from its holder in the closet and slammed a magazine into place. “You haven’t lost something here. When you find someone who has, you send them to me. Then we’ll have this discussion.”

Varvara was almost in tears. “Scott…”

“I am going on this mission.” He holstered his M-19 handgun and grabbed a cache of ammunition. “I’m going on it for me…and for you. None of you realize it yet.”

There were no more words to be said. Brushing past Varvara, Scott opened the door and stormed out into the hall.

For a moment, Varvara did nothing. Tears dripped down her cheeks, as she stared wide-eyed from the corner.

Not one of you knows how it feels. To watch this place destroy what you love. You haven’t lost something here.

The words echoed clear through the room. Even after Scott left, they remained.

When you find someone who has, you send them to me.

She continued to weep, and sunk to the floor. There were no other sounds in the room—only the sobs of a desperate girl.

There was nothing else.

Suddenly Varvara sprang up. Wiping her tears and hurrying to her feet, she rushed from the room. She had no choice.

“Captain,” Dostoevky said as he stepped forward. His gaze drifted to Becan for a moment, but quickly darted away. The other four men held firm behind him. “I give you Viktor Ryvkin, Nicolai Romanov, Auric Broll, and Egor Goronok—on loan to us from the Tenth.”

“I trust we have their full cooperation?”

“Affirmative, captain.”

“Very well.”

From several meters away, the others observed them—observed their new reinforcements. Ryvkin was tall. He was dark haired and slender. He looked like a man who could kill. Romanov was shorter, but not short. He moved with short, jerky motions. Broll was a blue-eyed blond—he was a German, and well built. Like Maksim Frolov, the injured alpha demolitionist.

But Goronok was the worst. The bald-headed Nightman looked strange, almost alien—yet obviously he wasn’t. His eyes were dark and wide apart. His face was long, but his nose was pointed and high. His jaw had the delicacy of an anvil.

“This looks like a bleedin’ freak show,” whispered Becan.

David said nothing.

At that moment, a new pair of footsteps entered the hangar behind them. The entire crew turned around to face them. It was the last two people they’d expected to see. It was Scott and Varvara. Scott was donned in his helmet-less armor, as Varvara followed nervously behind.

Clarke’s eyes blazed. “Mr. Remington, you were told to remain in your quarters.”

Scott’s expression was too cold to care. His footsteps were purposeful and firm. “That’s not happening.”

“Excuse me?”

David interjected between them. “Scott, think about this for a minute. Is this something you should really be doing?”

“I thought about it, Dave. I thought about it long and hard.” He pushed past them.

Clarke’s face exploded with red. “You will stop right where you stand, Mr. Remington!” Scott swung around to face him. “I will not be contravened by you!”

“This is my job! This is what I’m here to do!”

“And my job is to tell you what to do!”

Galina quickly stepped to Scott’s side. “Scott, please, listen to me for a moment. Will you listen?”

“No. I’m through listening.”

Clarke snagged the golden collar of Scott’s armor as Scott tried to walk away. Scott whipped around and knocked Clarke’s hand aside.

“Captain!” said Dostoevsky, shoving himself between the two. He gave Scott a brief look, then turned his attention to Clarke. “I will watch him, captain. I will take him with me.”

Clarke hit the commander with a stare. “Is this your unit, or mine?” The question almost sounded serious.

“Let him make his own choice. He must live with it, not us.”

No one else in the hangar breathed. Even the technicians around them watched in unified silence.

The captain’s eyes slid past Dostoevsky to Scott, then returned to the fulcrum commander. “Do what you want,” he seethed as he turned to the Nightmen. “You are the ones in charge.” He brushed away from Dostoevsky and stormed into the transport. “Prepare for ascent!”

“Scott,” David said, “I don’t think you’re thinking. You need time to calm down.”

“Don’t lecture me, Dave.”

“I’m not lecturing you. I’m worried about you. You’ve been through something unbelievably traumatic.”

Scott checked his assault rifle and boarded. “I appreciate your concern. But I need this.”

“You need what? To kill something?”

Scott gave him a hard stare. “I need to do my job.”

“Scott, you’re not in your right mind right now. You don’t even have a helmet, did you even notice that? You cracked your last one wide open.”

Scott looked away for a moment, then turned to him again. “I don’t need one.”

“Scott, listen to yourself.”

“I said I don’t need one.”

David sighed.

“What I need is to go on this mission, Dave,” Scott concluded. “More than you know.”

David stared at Scott for several seconds, as he watched him lower to his seat. “Whatever you need.”

“How’s our weather?” an irritated Clarke asked Travis by the cockpit door.

Travis was noticeably submissive. “Lukewarm, sir. Light precipitation, if any. Looks like there was rainfall yesterday, sir, but not much today. Anything else I can find out for you, captain?”

“No, Travis. That will be fine.”

As the four Nightman slayers took their seats in the front of the ship, Scott allowed his glare to swivel their way. He had no idea who they were or why they were there, but he hated them. He hated them because they were Nightmen. He hated them because one of them had killed her. Not one of them specifically—he sensed that their particular hands were clean. But one of their kind had. One of their disease. And that was all the reason he needed. Their time would come. But not now.

“What are they doing here?” he asked Becan, who had taken a seat beside him.

“General Thoor was kind enough to send ‘em to us. Apparently we’re a wee bit understaffed.”

“Do you know any of them?”

“Aah…” the Irishman furrowed his brow. “Tha’ one on the end, the one who moves like a lizard, his name’s Romulac. Then the next one is…Rick, I believe…”

“Nicolai Romanov, Auric Broll, Viktor Ryvkin, and Egor Goronok,” said Dostoevsky, who sat across from them. “All men from the Tenth.”

Becan’s eyes narrowed. “All murderers from the Tenth, don’t yeh mean?”

“Yes,” Dostoevsky confessed. “They are that, too.”

“How’s your jaw? Still hurtin’?”

“Not as much.”

“Tha’s too bad,” said Becan. “I might have to realign it again.”

“Becan,” interjected Varvara, who sat two seats down from the Irishman. “Do you have to do this?” Jayden held onto her hand.

“Righ’, righ’,” Becan answered. “Not bloody worth it.”

As Esther strapped herself in, Galina sat down beside her. The Russian medic smiled. “Varya is taken up with her boyfriend. So you must give me gossip instead.”

Esther tried to smile back, but said nothing.

Galina watched in silence before she spoke. “You will do fine. You will see.”

Esther stared at the wall. “I know.”

Travis announced the Pariah‘s ascent from the cockpit, at which point the operatives held on. Within a minute, the Vulture transport was airborne and streaking through the sky.

“Attention, everyone,” Clarke announced to the crew. His face was still flushed with anger. “Here is the situation we’re faced with. Novosibirsk fighters have intercepted and shot down a Bakma Coneship, along with its escort of several Couriers, just west of Lake Baikal. The ground may be wet due to past precipitation, but for the most part it’s an average day.

“There are no towns in the immediate vicinity, so there’s no need to fret over civilian casualties. Nobody else should be there. Coneships are larger than Noboats, however, so be prepared for moderate resistance from the survivors. There may also be canrassis in the area.”

“Use standard woodland camouflage,” Dostoevsky ordered the EDEN soldiers. “Green and brown.” The soldiers began to transition their armor, while the Nightmen looked on in silence.

“Boris,” Clarke said from the cockpit door, “bring up an image of the site from Command.” As the captain stepped back to look at the monitor above the door, an overhead image of the crash site appeared before him. Light woods surrounded the site in every direction. There were no other features anywhere. As the captain observed the image, Max stepped beside him. “What do you think, Axen?” Clarke asked.

Max stared at the map for several moments, then leaned close to Clarke. “I think you’re losing control of this unit,” he said quietly.

Clarke turned to face him.

“Scott defies you, Dostoevsky overrules you, and look at the current us-to-‘them’ ratio.”

The captain brought his gaze to the four Nightman slayers, all oblivious to the clandestine conversation. “What am I supposed to do, Axen? Fight them?”

Max shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t blame you for submitting. And I don’t blame Scott for defying.” His eyes too slid to the Nightmen. “But something else is going on here. They gave us four slayers for a reason.”

“That reason doesn’t matter. Those Nightmen don’t matter. Neither does Remington.” He turned back to the map. “Right now, it’s only this. This is everything.”

“Yes sir.”

Scott leaned his head back and closed his eyes, as the transport soared through the air. The events of the past ten minutes replayed in his head. The alert of the comm. Clarke’s order for him to remain. His own decision to ignore it. Varvara had tried to stop him, but even in her attempts, it was obvious she knew she was powerless. His will was not to be reckoned with.

All for this. All for the cold addiction of an e-35 assault rifle. All for the urge to pull the trigger.

There was a time when thoughts such as those would have surprised him. There was a time when he’d have never challenged authority. But that was before what had happened. That was before everything had changed.

“Everybody listen,” said Clarke, as Max resumed his seat. “We are going to break up into three parties. The first, led by myself, will consist of Brooking, Timmons, and Evteev.”

Esther and Jayden swapped a glance.

“We shall be dropped off at this location,” he pointed to an open area several hundred meters south of the crash site, “where we shall work our way north into an observable position. We’ll monitor the Bakma and relay any weaknesses we see in their defenses. We’ll engage if we must, but our priorities will be tactical.

“Lieutenant Axen will lead a team consisting of Remington, Jurgen, Strakhov—”

Dostoevsky cut him off. “Captain, I offered to take Remington—”

“I’m aware of your offer. It’s respectfully denied.”

Dostoevsky made no response.

“Lieutenant Axen will lead a team consisting of Remington, Jurgen, McCrae, Strakhov, and Lebesheva. You will be dropped off west of the Coneship, where you will await our instruction before proceeding. We will dictate your assault.”

The captain’s gaze turned to the Nightmen. “Which leaves Commander Dostoevsky in charge of his comrades, to be dropped off due east of the wreckage.”

Dostoevsky turned his attention to Varvara. “Varya, you will come with us—”

“Varvara will remain in the ship,” Clarke corrected, “to be utilized as needed. Is that a problem?”

Dostoevsky looked at Clarke for a second, then shook his head. “No, captain. It is not.”

Scott closed his eyes and lowered his head. It was a different sensation now than it had been for Khatanga. His emotions were more controlled and purposeful. Or at least it felt that way.

Oleg sat down beside him and smiled. “I am ready, lieutenant. Are you?”

Scott said nothing.

“Do not tell this to Max,” Oleg whispered with a wink, “but you are still best lieutenant in all of Novosibirsk.”

Khatanga was an error. Khatanga was the pain. This would be the fury.

“Remmy,” Becan said from Scott’s other side. “Are yeh sure you don’t need a helmet? Don’t yeh need to communicate through a helmet comm?”

“He is right,” said Oleg. “You need a way to communicate, lieutenant.”

Scott rose and reached up into the Pariah‘s overhead storage locker. Moments later, he produced an earpiece microphone. He slid it over his right ear and sat down.

“Well,” Becan frowned, “tha’ takes care o’ tha’.”

“We’re approaching the crash site, captain,” said Travis from the cockpit. He glanced back to the soldiers in the troop bay.

Clarke cleared his throat and stood. “Brooking, Timmons, Evteev, prepare to disembark.”

“Yessir,” said Jayden, releasing Varvara’s hand and standing up. Esther rose up to meet him. “You ready for this, Esther?”

She nodded. “I am.”

“You got that whole comm thing figured out?” the Texan asked well-meaningly.

“Yes,” Esther said, snapping him a glare. “I do.”

The inertia of the Pariah altered as its velocity decreased. Within minutes, they had descended upon the woods. “Opening the door!” yelled Travis. As the crew held on, the back door of the ship slowly whined open while the ship hovered close to the ground.

It was a relatively warm August morning. Beneath the Pariah, under a light ground-cover fog, was a patch of green open space.

Clarke stepped to the edge of the bay door, slung his assault rifle over his shoulder, and leapt down. Jayden, Esther, and Boris were soon to follow. Clarke’s voice emerged through the Pariah‘s speaker system. “We’re going to traverse our way north. Let us know as soon as you’re situated, Max.”

“Yes sir.” Max made a signal at Travis, and the Pariah lifted again. As its nose pivoted for the northwest, he turned his attention to the bay. “I want everyone watching someone else’s back. David, you’re with me. Oleg, you’re with Becan. Scott, you’ve got Galina.”

The pairs separated themselves. As soon as David was by Max’s side, he lowered his voice and addressed him. “You sure you want Galya going with Scott? I can go with him if you want.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Max answered quietly. “She can handle it.”

“He needs someone who can control him, maybe physically.”

Max almost cut him off. “Hey, I said I’m sure. All right?”

David hesitated before agreeing.

“We’re almost to your drop-off, guys,” said Travis. Once again, the Pariah‘s speed lowered. “Get ready to jump.”

Max averted his attention from David. “Let’s keep our eyes open down there! Watch each others’ backs!”

“An’ watch ou’ for canrassis,” said Becan.

“Yeah, that too.”

Scott stepped to the edge of the bay door, watching as the ground passed beneath him. He could smell the scent of the trees. It smelled like a hunt.

“Be watchful, Remington,” said Dostoevsky from behind him. “Do not act only on your emotions.”

Though Scott kept his back to the commander, his face twisted into a scowl. Had Dostoevsky said that in Khatanga, Scott might have killed him right then. But this wasn’t Khatanga. Closing his eyes again, he inhaled a deep breath from within.

“Scott?” Galina asked from his side.

Muscle memories flashed through his mind. How to reload his rifle. How to unholster his sidearm. How to activate a grenade.

“Scott?”

How to fire two guns at once. How to aggressively tumble. How to break a neck with one arm.

“Scott.” She tugged his shoulder, and he snapped out of his meditation. “Are you okay?”

She had no idea. She had no idea at all. She was still trying to be friends. Scott turned his attention back to the ground. “Don’t look in one direction for longer than two seconds. Keep your peripherals open. Do exactly what I say, when I say it.”

She listened in silence.

He turned to face her. “Are you ready?”

Galina stared at him for several seconds, mouth half-opened in silence. She finally nodded her head. “Yes, lieutenant. I am ready.”

Scott looked on again. “For the duration of this fight, we are one person.” It was the only way she’d survive. Total combat amalgamation. Like a machine.

Galina said nothing.

The Pariah slowed to a hover. Max jumped off the ramp. As he held up a hand signal of silence, the others followed behind him.

As Scott leapt, he cast one last glance back at the ship. Dostoevsky’s eyes were solely on him.

“In position,” Max whispered through his helmet comm.

Clarke’s voice emerged moments later. “We’ve already made first contact. One sniper, in the treetops. He’s been isolated by Timmons.”

“There may be several in the area,” Dostoevsky added from the Pariah. “They may have formed a perimeter.”

“We’re watchin’,” said Max. Above him, the Vulture transport glided away to drop off Dostoevsky and the Nightmen. Max turned to look at his crew. “We’re supposedly on the broad end of the Coneship.”

“The engine,” said Oleg.

“That’s right. Let’s move in a triangle formation. Me and David will take point.”

The group affirmed and moved into positions, with Becan and Oleg grouping behind and south of Max, and Scott and Galina behind and north.

The woods were unnaturally quiet, though to Scott that wasn’t a surprise. Silence was often the loudest indicator that things were not as safe as they seemed. That applied tenfold to crash sites. There was a wet pine smell to the air, just as Travis had speculated. The ground was visibly moist, and each step he and Galina took was met with a squish.

“This is my first time to Lake Baikal,” Galina said softly behind him. She tried to smile. “Not exactly a vacation.”

Scott chose stealth over conversation, and a subtle hand signal relayed his preference. Galina obediently went quiet.

Dostoevsky’s earlier observation was an obvious one, but nonetheless needed to be acknowledged. If Clarke’s crew had already isolated one sniper, that meant there must have been more in the area. They probably weren’t true snipers. More than likely, they were the unlucky Bakma grunts who’d drawn the short straws, and were forced to take to the trees. If they weren’t snipers, they wouldn’t have snipers’ aims. They might need several shots to hit something.

“The moment you hear or see gunfire,” Scott whispered, “get low and behind a tree. They probably won’t hit you with their first shot.”

“How do you know?” Galina asked.

“I just know.”

Bakma did not have poor aims. Nonetheless, humans tended to make better marksmen. While the Bakma had the edge in technology, humanity appeared to outskill them. Maybe it was a biased opinion, but Scott stuck with it anyway.

“My team is down,” Dostoevsky said through the comm.

Travis’s voice was quick to follow. “Varya and I are going higher. We’ll orbit the area.”

“Very well,” answered the captain. “All units, please hold for a moment. We’re sending Brooking ahead.”

Scott held his forward progress and knelt on the ground. Galina took to his side.

“Esther will do well,” she said. “I believe in her.”

At least somebody did. Scott would opt to stay skeptical. He almost couldn’t believe how excited he had been when Esther and Maksim first arrived. Now it only seemed foolish. She stumbled right out of the gate, and he lasted all of two seconds. At least neither of them had been killed. The Eighth wasn’t so lucky.

Esther’s voice emerged from the comm a minute later. “I have a visual on the Coneship. Point is to the west—I mean east, point is to the east. Tallying hostiles…”

“At least she’s not comming the Bakma,” Max muttered off-channel.

“I have eight in sight on the southernmost side. Three on the rear, two on the point, and three atop the vessel.”

“Damage to the craft?” Clarke asked.

“Minimal on the exterior,” she answered. “There’s a trench behind it that comes in steep—it must’ve come down nose-up. I see evidence of cavitation on the hull, but it doesn’t seem physically ruptured.”

Becan gave his teammates a look. “Wha’s all tha’ mean?”

“It’s got a dent,” said Max.

“No sign of any canrassis,” Esther went on. “Nor of Ithini. But I’m blind to the vessel’s northernmost side. Shall I circle around?”

“Negative, private,” Clarke answered. “They won’t guard just one side of the ship. They’ll probably have equal numbers for both sides.”

“By that assumption,” Esther said, “there would only be three more that I can’t visually see. Which leaves a total of eleven.”

Max spoke through the comm for the first time. “That sounds about right, sir. These things carry about thirty-something crew members. If half died in the crash, which is likely, that’ll give us about fifteen to worry about. More or less.”

“Agreed,” answered Clarke. “Brooking, hold your position. We shall come to you. Max, Dostoevsky, continue pressing forward. Be mindful of the treetops.”

“Yes, captain.”

“You see,” Galina said, “she did very well. She was just nervous before.”

Her nervousness still got people killed, Scott thought. No sugarcoating mentality could change that.

“You heard him,” Max said. “Let’s move again.” The unit quietly affirmed and crept forward.

Far above the treetops, orbiting the Coneship’s crash site, the Pariah‘s engines quietly hummed. Inside, seated beside Travis in the chair customarily held by Boris, Varvara cast her blank stare out the window. She had said next to nothing since their arrival at Lake Baikal. She’d said next to nothing since Scott’s room.

But the echo of his words played in her mind.

Not one of you knows how it feels. To watch this place destroy what you love. You haven’t lost something here. When you find someone who has, you send them to me.

The repetition hadn’t ceased since they’d left.

“Varya?”

She couldn’t get those words out of her thoughts. His anger. His desire. His horrible sincerity with both. But it was those words that had caused her to tremble—that caused her to crumble apart.

“Varya?”

Scott had forgotten. Had he not, he’d have never said what he said. In the midst of his personal agony, the only wounds he could see were his own.

“Varya!”

When Travis said it a third time, Varvara flinched and looked at him. Her eyes were reddened with rawness.

“Varya, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

She waited for a long moment before she answered. “It is nothing, Travis. Please.” She turned her head away.

He stared at her. “Varya, I’m here if you need me. Did something happen?”

She lifted her hand in objection. “Don’t ask me these things now, please. I am serious.”

For a hesitant moment, Travis said nothing. They sat alone, side by side in the cockpit of the Pariah as it burrowed through the timberland air. “All right, then.”

Varvara did not speak again. She only stared out of the window. Scott had forgotten. He’d forgotten the other who’d lost. He’d forgotten the one whom he’d leapt for.

But she remembered.

Scott kept his head on a swivel. Had he brought a new helmet along, as his teammates had advised, he would have been able to use infrared to scan the trees. It was something he hadn’t thought about before. Nonetheless, he liked the open exposure. It freed his head movements, and his peripherals were completely unblocked.

The distant blasts of plasma fire shattered the silence. There were two blasts, one right after the other, followed by assault rifle fire. Then all was silent again.

Max and his teammates froze as Dostoevsky spoke over the channel. “One enemy sniper down. No casualties.”

Scott had been right. The Bakma fired first, and twice, and still hadn’t struck any of the Nightmen. They weren’t Bakma snipers at all. They were just the ones that had been picked to go up.

“I believe they are divided into quadrants,” said Dostoevsky. “Two snipers on this side, two on the far side.”

“If there were two on this side,” Clarke said, “they’ve both been isolated. Max, that means there’s two on your end.”

“Yeah, yeah, I copy,” said Max. He muttered disgustedly off-comm.

“Keep your eyes peeled, guys,” said David.

“If there’s two on this end,” Scott said, “they won’t be together. Not if they’re separated into quadrants. At least one of them will have to take to the ground to track us.”

“That’s a good point,” David agreed. “Unless we’re splitting them right down the middle.”

“Which means they’ll both go to the ground.”

“Right.”

Clarke’s voice emerged once again. “We’ve reached Brooking’s position. The Coneship is directly ahead of us. I want both teams to move within a hundred meters of the vessel, then hunker down and wait. We’ll all strike at once as soon as we’ve coordinated.”

“We’re not quite ready for that yet, sir,” said Max. “We’re still quite a ways from the ship.”

“We have time on our side, lieutenant. We’ll be patient.”

Max closed off the comm channel and turned to his crew. “You heard the man. Keep moving forward.”

Scott longed to find a Bakma—or even to be charged by a canrassi. He longed for something that wasn’t nothing, and right now nothing was all there was. The forest around them was silent, as it had been since their deployment. He tightened his grip on his e-35.

“Shh!”

The hush came from David, and the entire group drew to a halt. Through the artificial silence of the helmet comms, Max whispered openly to his partner. “What is it?”

“Sticks,” hushed David. “Breaking.”

“Where?”

He pointed to the north—the direction of Scott and Galina. As soon as he did, the sound became apparent to all.

Crack! Snap!

Immediately, they dropped to the ground. Scott slid behind a tree and readied his rifle. Galina ducked behind the tree right beside him. The rest of the unit knelt at the ready.

Snap!

Scott tuned his ears to locate the noise. It was a large sound—a lumbering sound. With the saturated state of the ground cover, there was only one thing heavy enough to crack sticks with that kind of bumbling authority: a canrassi.

Scott knew there were two possibilities. First, the canrassi could be alone. It could have survived the crash and simply run away through the forest. They were domesticated, but they were animals nonetheless. Or, it wasn’t alone. There were at least two Bakma unaccounted for on their end, unless Dostoevsky was wrong about their formation. And he was rarely wrong about anything—even Scott would give him credit for that.

He attempted to further tune his ears, but the noise was no longer present. It was replaced by the unnatural silence. Easing his head around the corner of his tree cover, he scanned the northernmost woods.

Nothing. No movement, no noise, no disturbance. Nothing. Though Scott had no idea what kind of world the canrassi had come from, he could easily imagine it to be a forested one. The beasts had the design for it. This was humanity’s planet, but right now they were in the canrassi’s element. Or at least, that’s what Scott’s gut was telling him.

“I’ve got him,” said Max through the comm. “One o’clock from the north.”

Scott panned his eyes in that direction. Nothing but woods. “How far?”

“Forty meters.”

That was close—closer than they should have let it get to them. Canrassis had deceptive speed. Forty meters could be eaten away in seconds.

It hit Scott’s mind right then. This was humanity’s planet. It didn’t matter if canrassis were from forests, jungles, deserts, or volcanoes. It didn’t matter if canrassis were designed for this terrain. It wasn’t about design at all. It was about intrusion. It was about them being somewhere they weren’t supposed to be. It was about shooting trespassers on sight.

“I’m going after him,” Scott whispered through the comm.

“Hold on, Goldilocks,” said Max, “do you even see him yet?”

Scott offered no reply. He slipped from the cover of his tree and stalked forward.

“Scott!” hushed Max furiously. “Scott, what are you doing? Wait!”

Waiting had worn itself thin. It was time for them to be the aggressors. He knelt down beside a larger tree and bent his head around the edge of it. He still saw nothing in the direction Max had indicated. But that didn’t mean nothing was there. Propping his assault rifle on his shoulder, he took a careful step forward. Immediately he heard it.

Crack!

When his eyes traced the sound, he finally saw it. Its fur-covered back was hunched over as it crunched on a green, leafy fern. It was a black-fur. Though rarer, they were particularly nasty. They even stunk worse than their brown-furred counterparts. They smelled like a fermented horse.

Canrassis were omnivores. But it was a well-known fact that they preferred meat. They preferred to eat something that ran.

“Contact,” Scott whispered. He slid from tree to tree, gliding through the cover of the forest as he got in position to fire. His eyes never once left the beast, whose attention was averted away. Canrassis weren’t overly intelligent, and their fierce appetites gave them an odd tendency to ignore nearby threats. When separated from the aggressive leashes of their masters, they became solitary to the point of a fault. They became dumb.

Snap.

Scott froze. The sound hadn’t come from the canrassi. It hadn’t even come from him. Whipping his head to the north, he covered himself behind the thickness of a nearby larch tree.

He knew what the sound was immediately. The snap wasn’t nearly as loud as the canrassi’s. “New contact—Bakma,” he whispered. “No visual.”

“Where?”

“Eleven o’clock from the north,” Scott answered.

“Nothing on infra.”

“Then look on the ground.” Scott eased his field of vision back to the canrassi. It was still hunched over, its back to him, devouring the fern thicket. Oblivious. Or not yet threatened enough to be concerned.

“I’ve got the Bakma,” said Becan through the comm. “Thirty meters from your position, Remmy.”

“I don’t see him,” said Galina.

“Then stay down,” Scott said. “I’ll take care of him.” Shouldering his assault rifle, he unholstered his sidearm and stood.

Then it came.

Plasma fire seared the air behind him—from the opposite direction. Immediately, his teammates dove for cover.

“Second Bakma contact!” shouted Max, as he rotated to face the foe behind them. As if on cue, Becan and Oleg opened fire.

Scott didn’t see the second Bakma. But he didn’t have to. He had his own Bakma to take care of. And his own canrassi. His attention returned to his side of the forest, where he scanned his enemies again. He froze as soon as he did.

The canrassi was gone.

He backed against the tree and fell quiet. After a moment, the sound of return fire stopped.

“Got him,” said Oleg. “One Ex down.”

“Anyone got visual on that canrassi?” Scott asked.

No one answered.

“Scott,” whispered Galina. “Where is the Bakma?”

There was only one way to know. With a canrassi running loose, there wasn’t time to wait for the Bakma to appear. There was only time to press the attack.

Bursting from the cover of his tree, Scott readied his M-19 and dashed forward. As anticipated, a flash of white plasma followed his moves. Rolling behind cover to avoid it, he once again pressed his back against bark.

“I got a bead on it,” said David.

No, Scott thought. It’s mine. Bursting from cover again, he swung out his sidearm to aim. Once again, plasma followed his wake. Scott tumbled forward, aimed in the direction of the blast, and searched for his target.

He saw it. The Bakma was partially visible behind the brush of a thicket, its plasma gun firm in its hand—and preparing to fire again.

But not fast enough. Scott fired a series of rounds, and the Bakma toppled backward to the earth.

“I said I had it!” exclaimed David.

Scott ignored him. “Going for the canrassi.”

“Do you even see it?”

It didn’t matter. He’d hear it as it charged through the brush. There would be no mounted plasma blasts to dodge. Stepping furiously forward, Scott holstered his sidearm and regripped his e-35. Holding it at the ready, he pressed through the thickets and twigs.

He heard it the moment it roared. Scott’s head quickly turned to the left, where the spider-eyed beast was reared up. It wasn’t even ten meters away. Scott hurried to lift his assault rifle, and he opened fire.

Bullets tore through the bearlike beast’s flesh. It hunched forward, as its massive hind legs churned for Scott.

Scott’s knees braced in place. His eyes narrowed and he held down the trigger.

Snap! Crash! Crack!

The canrassi lunged forward, saliva spewing from its jaws. Scott tumbled to the left to avoid it. The canrassi snapped its jaws and turned to pursue.

Scott never relented his projectile assault as he trained his bullets at the canrassi’s head. The beast’s face exploded with blood. It toppled straight down to the ground.

“Scott!” David yelled as he and the others hustled toward the lieutenant.

No time to answer. He unloaded a round into the fallen beast’s head, then leapt over it to find the Bakma’s body. He had to make sure it was dead. Dashing through the brush, he uncovered it. The instinct of assurance took over. He aimed his gun at the alien’s head and pulled the trigger. The Bakma erupted with red.

A moment later, the others were on him.

“Scott, what in the hell was that?” asked Max.

Scott shouldered his rifle. “Targets down.”

“About ten times as recklessly as they should’ve been!”

Scott matched Max’s glare. “They’re down. Is that a problem?”

“Scott,” said David as he approached, “work with us, not against us. We’re not the enemy.”

Max turned to relay their status to Clarke.

“I was the closest operative to it,” Scott said. “Letting anyone else go after it would only have put them in unnecessary danger.”

“But we didn’t need to go after it, Scott. We have guns!”

“What are our orders?” Scott asked, turning from David to Max.

Max finished his dialogue on the comm, then shouldered his rifle and looked east. “First plan is the same plan. Triangle formation, we move together. Then we wait for Clarke’s word to move in.”

“We’ll need to attack them fast.”

“We’ll see when we get there.”

“Clarke wants to be patient, but that won’t work. They’ve heard our gunshots. They know their soldiers are down. Every second of patience we give ourselves is one more second for them to get prepared.”

“Does it even matter if we’re all attacking at once anyway?”

“Yes.”

Max turned to face him. “You need to get a grip, Scott. He’s in command, not you.”

“I never said I should be,” Scott answered. “But nonetheless, we’re moving too slow.”

“I think he’s righ’,” said Becan. “They know we’re here, no question. Let’s hit them while they’re brickin’ it.”

“Look, I just work here,” said Max. “What do you want me to do?”

“We have to move,” Scott replied. “We have to be aggressive.”

“Let’s move, then. Come on.”

As Max’s team made their way toward the Coneship, Galina tried her best to match Scott’s pace. It was like trying to keep pace with the wind.

“Scott, please slow down.” It was phrased like a plea for help.

Scott’s legs eased enough for her to catch him.

“Thank you, Scott. I am trying.”

“I may need you to shadow me further,” Scott said.

“What?”

“When we get to the wreckage. If they’ve left a chink in their armor, I’m going to hit it.”

“What does that mean?”

He continued to press ahead. “It means if they have a gap, if they have any sign of weakness, I’m going to rush them.”

She furrowed her brow and kept up. “But…did Captain Clarke not say to be patient—”

“Clarke is wrong.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a mistake not to move in fast.” And it was. He knew it. But Clarke didn’t. The Bakma weren’t stupid. They were aware of the fights around them, and they’d fortify. It was a basic military tactic—defend one’s position. The longer the Bakma had time to prepare, the more confident they’d become. The harder they’d be to break. Right now, they were anxious. Gunfights had broken out all around them, and they’d lost contact with their dispatched soldiers. EDEN had fear on its side. It was stupid to let that dissipate.

“What if the others do not charge?”

“They will.” Or at least the Nightmen will. Scott knew that without question. Nightmen were aggressive. They attacked with fear. They probably thought Clarke was wrong, too. Regardless of the fact that he hated them, he admired their sense of relentlessness.

By the time Max’s team reached the Coneship, Clarke and Dostoevsky had already relayed their positions. When Max gave the captain word of his arrival, a plan was quickly set forth.

“Stay with the tree cover,” Clarke said over the comm. “We can barrage them with a constant assault. Surround them by all three sides.”

“Surround the Coneship with a cone,” thought David out loud.

“I count eleven total,” said Dostoevsky through the comm as well. “As Brooking predicted.”

Clarke affirmed. “We can almost see them all from our position.”

“Anyone see the hatch?” asked Max.

“Yes,” answered Dostoevsky. “It is on the top of the vessel. The ship is rotated on its side.”

“So the other door is buried against the ground.”

“Correct.”

Scott surveyed the scene. The Bakma warriors were unaware of his unit’s exact location, but not oblivious to their general presence. There were six in his immediate view. According to Esther’s earlier report, two were at the point, and three were on top of the ship, by the hatch. Five were out of sight.

The Bakma looked skittish. Vulnerable. The time to strike was right then.

“On my mark, open fire,” said Clarke. “Hold your positions and maintain cover. We’ll have them completely besieged.”

That was wrong. Besieging them wasn’t the answer. They had to press against them with force. “Remember what I told you,” Scott said to Galina.

“Scott, I do not know,” she replied. “I do not think I can do this.”

“You can do it. You have to want to.”

“Please Scott, let us just follow the plan—”

“Mark!” Clarke yelled.

Without a moment’s delay, Scott propped up his rifle and fired. The others on his side did the same.

The Bakma collectively jumped as projectile fire rained around them from all three sides. Over half of the Bakma fell before they returned fire. And even their return fire was off target.

They were frightened.

“Now,” Scott said, as he adjusted his comm. “I’m charging the ship.” Before anyone could protest, he leapt to his feet.

“Remington!” shouted Clarke. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

The Bakma turned their attention to Scott as he broke to the clear. He could sense Galina behind him. A moment later, he could sense Max and the rest of the team.

“We are charging as well!” Dostoevsky said through the comm.

“Wait one bloody minute!” erupted Clarke.

Plasma fire whizzed past Scott’s shoulder. He could feel its heat as it brushed him. But the assault of projectile was too much. The Bakma withdrew their fire and retreated for the hatch, dropping to assault rifle fire along the way. By Scott’s count, only two made it inside.

The only thing left was to storm them. Storm the ship. Bring them to their knees in their moment of panic. Now Scott could sense Galina’s absence behind him. She’d fallen back. But the Nightmen in front of him were still moving in.

They charged up the point of the Coneship, where Scott joined them in mid-effort. Dostoevsky flung the hatch open. Scott leapt inside.

Three Bakma pushed back to the wall. They were the only three Bakma that remained. As soon as Scott was inside, and two of the slayers had joined him, the three aliens threw down their guns.

“Grrashna—”

Scott raised his rifle and fired. The slayers behind him did the same. The Bakma collapsed to the floor.

Far down the cockeyed hallway, an Ithini rounded the corner into view. Before it could open its mouth, Scott peppered its body with metal. The wide-eyed alien dropped hard.

The Nightmen took the initiative immediately. They spread out down the central corridor of the ship, flashing their guns around every corner. The sweep didn’t take long.

“Ship clear,” said the slayer named Auric.

Dostoevsky met Scott with a nod. The mission was finished—as quickly and efficiently as Scott wanted it to be. It was a success.

“Travis! Veck, Travis!”

The panicked voice came over the comm channel. At first Scott didn’t recognize it, but when it emerged again, it became clear. It was Max.

“Man down! Man down! Travis, we need Varya here now!”

Scott swapped an odd look with Dostoevsky. Why were they calling Varvara? Wasn’t Galina right there?

It hit Scott in that very instant. But Dostoevsky stated it first.

“…Galina…”

Without a second’s pause, the two men dashed from the ship.

As soon as he saw her, Scott’s heart stopped. Galina was lying face up in Oleg’s arms, while Max was in a panic above her. There was a burn mark straight through her breastplate. Her chest was torn open.

Scott was wrong. She hadn’t fallen back with the others. She’d been shot.

“It is so cold,” Galina babbled incoherently in Russian.

No…Scott’s mind raced. Oh no…

Her chest was charred chaos. He could make out the organs beneath.

David’s eyes bulged red with anger. As soon as he saw Scott, he attacked.

“You trashing dregg hopper!” He smashed his hands to Scott’s chest. Scott toppled back to the ground.

Dostoevsky jumped in to defend. “Stop!” he said, grabbing David. “Stop it, now!”

“Why couldn’t you do what you were told?” David spewed. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Jurgen!” Dostoevsky protested.

“Varvara,” Clarke said, trying to be calm, “Galina has a six-inch sear in her upper left chest. Her lungs are completely exposed.”

“I am fine,” Galina mumbled. “Where are my papers?”

“Galina, be still!” the captain said.

Scott pushed himself up as Galina struggled against Clarke. “She’s going to be all right,” Scott said. It was more out of hope than assurance. “She’s going to—”

“Shut up, Remington!” Clarke cut him off.

“I need my papers,” said Galina again.

Above them, the Pariah made its descent.

“We will stay,” said Dostoevsky. “We will remain with the Coneship. Bring Galina back to Novosibirsk now.”

“I’ll go back with her,” said Scott.

Clarke shot him a look. “You will remain here, lieutenant. You didn’t care about Galya then, I won’t let you care about her now.”

Scott could feel it welling up in his stomach. He could feel himself starting to burst.

“Remmy,” Becan said, pulling Scott away, “she’s goin’ to be okay. I know yeh know this. Please, let them work.”

Scott couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was talking but her words made no sense.

“It’s all righ’,” said Becan. “It’s not your fault.”

As the Pariah lowered to the ground, Varvara stood at the bay door’s edge. “Don’t move her! Let me see.” As soon as the Vulture was perched, she hurried out with a military stretcher. When she saw the gaping wound, her eyes grew panicked.

“Varya, it is good you are here,” Galina said. “I need you to go get my papers.”

Varvara ignored her and dashed to the ground. She quickly pressed dressing on the wound. “I need help moving her inside, now!”

Scott stood. “I’ll get her.”

“We will get her,” said Clarke. He pointed out David and Boris. “The three of us will lift her on three. One. Two. Three.” The three men hoisted her up as Scott watched. They moved her on top of the stretcher, where Varvara inspected the wound. The young medic began speaking rapidly in Russian.

“She says she must go back immediately,” Dostoevsky translated. “This is beyond what she can do.”

“Everything’s beyond what she can do,” muttered Clarke.

“She is in critical condition, captain. She may not survive the flight.”

“I need two people with me,” ordered Varvara.

“I’m going,” said David.

Varvara looked at Boris. “You come, too!” The two men lifted the stretcher.

“Max and I will come along as well,” said Clarke.

Dostoevsky shook his head. “She does not need that many, captain.”

“We’re not going for her sake.” Clarke set his glare against Scott. “We’re leaving for his.”

Dostoevsky said nothing and looked away. Clarke and Max boarded the ship. Within moments, it was off of the ground.

Scott fought to justify his emotions. Yet it wasn’t his fault. It couldn’t be. The charge was clearly what they’d needed to do. It was Clarke who had erred with his moment of hesitation.

“Hey man,” Jayden said, “you all right?”

Scott had no helmet to slam. He tore out his earpiece and threw it to the ground.

“She’s gonna be fine, man. You wanna pray?”

“I don’t need to pray!” He didn’t want to pray. He didn’t want to think that Galina wouldn’t make it. She had to make it. He was the Golden Lion, and she was his friend—his shadow. Scott had made it out. So would she.

In that instant, he hated the Nightmen more, despite the fact that they’d joined him in the charge. It was because of them that this was all happening. It was because of them that he’d lost Nicole. And now this.

“I’m going to kill him.”

Becan shuddered. “Remmy? Who yeh talkin’ abou’?”

“I’m going to kill him, Becan. The one who did this.”

“Wait? Wha’? Yeh talkin’ abou’ the Bakma? They’re all dead.”

Scott twisted his gaze into a glare. “I’m talking about him. The slayer.”

Immediately, Becan and Jayden swapped a look.

“This is not me. This is him.”

“Remmy, yeh need to be calm…”

Scott turned around to face the Nightmen. “I know one of you knows him.” Scott wasn’t even on the battlefield anymore. In his mind, he was holding Nicole’s corpse.

Dostoevsky eyed him.

“I know that one of you knows him!”

“Who?”

“You know who!”

Becan interjected. “He’s talkin’ abou’ the murderer, yeh dregg!”

“Tell me if you know him!” Scott said again.

“Remington,” said Dostoevsky, “you do not know what you are talk—”

“If you know his name, tell me, Yuri!”

Dostoevsky said nothing—his jaw had dropped. He only stared oddly at Scott, while the slayers around him stood still. For a moment, his countenance changed.

Scott took note of it instantly. “You know him,” he said accusatorily.

“Remington, you would be wise to watch how you speak—”

Scott stormed toward Dostoevsky and shoved him in the chest. The fulcrum commander stumbled back. “You know him,” Scott said. “I saw it in your face.”

The slayers behind Dostoevsky stepped forward.

“Remmy, not here!” pled Becan.

“He knows, Becan,” Scott pointed. “Look at him. I know that he knows him.”

Oleg positioned himself between them. “Please, everyone, we need to not do this. This will only be bad.” He glanced to Dostoevsky, who said nothing.

“You know the man who murdered her,” Scott seethed. “Tell me who it is.”

“Lieutenant Remington,” said Dostoevsky, but Scott cut him off.

“Tell me who it is!”

“Enough!” shouted Oleg. “No one else speaks! That is enough.” He motioned to Becan and Jayden. “You two, take the lieutenant over there. The rest of you, go to the Coneship. No one else speaks.”

As the chain of command disintegrated, Dostoevsky stepped aside. The slayers followed him back to the wreckage.

“He knows, Becan,” Scott said lowly. “He knows.”

“I know. I know, Remmy.”

“I’ll kill him if he doesn’t tell me.”

“Just be calm.”

The Pariah did not make its expected return. A different Vulture, one from an entirely different unit, arrived instead. A sweeper team was dropped at the wreckage, while the Fourteenth was taken back home.

Not once did Scott or Dostoevsky speak to each other. The men sat on opposite ends of the troop bay with their respective teammates blocking the space between them. Only when the silence became unbearable did Scott move to seat himself next to the pilot in the cockpit. It was the only other room in the ship.

No one met them when they arrived back at Novosibirsk. No one was expected to. Scott, Becan, Jayden, and Oleg left the hangar together, where they sought out an update for Galina. The only words that stood out were ‘irreversible shock.’ She’d been moved to emergency surgery; they were told nothing else.

Scott had no urge to see his teammates. Room 14 was a distant thought. He retired to the quiet of his personal quarters, where he remained for the rest of the day. Not once did anyone visit him, and not once was he tempted to leave. Galina’s cot remained empty in the corner, but today she’d be staying somewhere else. All because of him. Not because of Scott. All because of him.

When Scott would find him, it would all come to end.

17

Wednesday, August 10, 0011 NE

EDEN Command

Archer stood before the Council, a collection of formalized papers in his hand. He looked satisfied. “My friends, I’ve got a solution to our Novosibirsk problem.”

As Archer passed the stack of papers to the judge at his right, Torokin and Grinkov watched from the opposite end.

“The paper I am distributing to you now is one that I’m sure you’re familiar with. It is our current protocol for mission response—Article 115A in the EDEN policy manual.” As the papers were passed around the table, the judges scanned over their copies. “What I am proposing is not a new policy. It is merely an alteration, an amendment. We put much trust in our generals to respond to hostile incursions, and that won’t change. In fact, there’s nothing being added or subtracted from these procedures. It’s simply being reordered.”

Grinkov leaned in close to Torokin and gave him a wry look. “At least he speaks eloquently.”

Torokin ignored the comment and listened.

“Currently, Article 115A states that when an EDEN facility responds to a situation, Command are to be notified. We’re going to reverse that. In my revision—115A-2—Command are to be notified prior to any EDEN responses. Our job will simply be to confirm the responses requested by our generals—to give them our blessing.”

Several of the judges raised their eyebrows.

“What this will do, quite innocently, is give us the final word on who responds to what assignment. All we do is say yes. This won’t slow down EDEN’s response time in the slightest…because the only base we’ll be paying attention to is Novosibirsk.

“As soon as Novosibirsk Command contact us, we’ll be able to pull up a description of the units they intend to deploy. We can immediately determine if the assignment is intended to weed us out. If it is…we simply say, ‘negative, Novosibirsk, send this other unit instead.’ We may insert whatever unit we wish, Nightman or not. We can combat their insolence with bureaucracy.” He smiled smugly.

President Pauling stared down at the paper. Archer went on.

“This reordered policy will ensure that EDEN and the Nightmen are being dispatched to equal assignments. We eliminate Thoor’s say-so on who lives and dies.”

Grinkov spoke up immediately. “If you are correct about General Thoor, he will never abide by this regulation.”

Archer smiled. “Precisely.”

Grinkov looked skeptical.

“That’s the revision’s purpose,” said Archer. “Thoor has no reason to challenge this amendment. The amendment is meaningless. That is…unless he has an ulterior motive. General Thoor is the only person this change will affect. If he challenges it, then we know there’s a good chance my hypothesis was correct—Novosibirsk has been weeding us out for years.”

Carol June—the auburn-haired American—leaned close to Judge Blake. “This guy’s sneaky,” she whispered. “I like him.”

Blake held back a smile.

Grinkov addressed Archer again. “And what if you are correct? What do we do then?”

Archer stared at the Russian judge for several seconds, then looked down at the tabletop. “There comes a time, Judge Grinkov, when serious steps must be taken to ensure the uncompromised safety of Earth. That always includes the use of force.”

For the first time, murmurs swelled around the table. Judge Castellnou laughed sardonically and leaned back. “This is what we should have been doing for months now.”

“I’m not quite finished, if you please,” said Archer. The chatter around the table settled down. “This revision would merely confirm our apprehension. We will need to take it several steps further. I’d like to propose a formal investigation of Novosibirsk, with the intent of proving General Thoor’s recalcitrance.”

Grinkov made a confused face and whispered, “His what?”

Torokin listened on.

“By gaining concrete evidence against the general, we will further strengthen our position against him.”

“But if we will strike him anyway,” asked Torokin, “what does it matter?”

Archer didn’t hesitate. “It matters because it justifies our retaliation. When the people of Earth see us combating our own facilities, they’ll want to know a good reason why. It’s my intention to give them one.”

He once again began to pass out papers.

“I would like to hit Thoor with a financial audit.”

June’s eyes widened to Blake. “He’s cruel, too.”

“If General Thoor is recruiting Nightmen, he must be recruiting them from somewhere. How does he do this? Where does he advertise? How does he transport them? If he’s embellishing them with Nightman armor, from whom does he purchase it? Who are his suppliers? All of these things require money, and money always blazes a trail. If he’s using our funding to accomplish these things, that’s a crime. And that, my fellow judges, is called evidence.”

As Torokin listened to Archer’s explanations, he could feel his stomach churning. It wasn’t outrage, and it wasn’t doubt. He was impressed. When the papers came around to him, he began to study his copy immediately.

“Now,” Archer went on, “if the revision and the audit go as anticipated, we’ll have both evidence and limited control. But what we won’t have is information. Inside information. As much as we know about Novosibirsk, we truly know nothing at all. How many Nightmen does he have? How many of them are registered in our database as members of EDEN? Does he have covert Nightmen? If this investigation does take us on a path towards military conflict, these are all things we need to know.”

President Pauling spoke for the first time. “You want to spy on them?”

“Yes.”

Everyone in the room fell silent.

“I would like to begin an infiltration of Novosibirsk—a black ops operation, if you will, both openly and covertly.”

“Openly and covertly?” Pauling asked.

“Yes, Mr. President. I would like to conduct a census of the base, to be overseen personally by some of us. That’s a physical headcount of everyone garrisoned there. Every soldier, every Nightman, every resident. Everyone.”

Richard Lena spoke for the first time. “On the basis of what?”

“On the basis that we don’t trust our computer numbers. Novosibirsk was the victim of a major assault. We’re not sure how many operatives are truly there. And we aren’t.” He smiled at Lena. “By performing a physical headcount, we will have detailed information on not only the number of operatives at Novosibirsk, but the identity of them as well. The census is merely a facade. Our true intent is reconnaissance.”

“You said openly and covertly,” said Pauling again. “What do you mean by ‘covertly?’”

“I would like to assign soldiers to Novosibirsk,” answered Archer. “Soldiers whom we’ve selected. Their purpose would be infiltration, to learn its dirty little secrets. They would report their findings to us.”

“That’s a lot of power you want to wield,” said Lena.

Once again, Archer smiled. “Not me at all, Judge Lena. This must be a collaborative effort.”

“So whom did you have in mind?”

“For starters, I can think of no one more fitting to run our census than Judge June.”

Carol June raised an eyebrow.

Archer turned to her. “Prior to your position in the Council, you were heavily involved in personnel matters, were you not?”

“Yes, I was.”

“How appropriate, then, would it be for you to be in charge of our census? Is this something you’d be willing to consider?”

“Yes, it is.”

He smiled. “Excellent. I do believe each phase of this operation should be monitored by more than one judge, as accountability is of the utmost importance. Would anyone else be willing to consider assisting Judge June?”

“I would like to assist,” answered Judge Blake. “I was assisting Mamoru with Research and Development, but since Judge Shintaku has joined the effort, there’s really little need for my involvement. She’s done superbly.”

Across the room, Tamiko Shintaku nodded modestly.

“Brilliant,” Archer said to Blake, as he returned to his papers again. “As for the audit, I believe Judge Onwuka has dealt with financial matters before—am I correct?”

Uzoma Onwuka, the lone Nigerian judge, nodded his head.

“Would you be opposed to leading the financial aspect of this investigation?”

“I would not be opposed,” said the Igbo tribesman.

“Are there any volunteers to assist?”

Rath raised his hand. “I’ll help out.”

Torokin pored over his copy of the papers. His gaze grew more intent with every paragraph.

“Is something wrong?” Grinkov asked.

“No…and that’s what’s wrong.”

“As for the implementation of Article 115A-2, I’d like to oversee that myself. Simply put…I was the one who revised it. I know it inside and out.” Before anyone could respond, Archer spoke again. “I do feel I must say this as well…these are my proposals, but by no means do I feel they should be adhered to without full deliberation. I’m presenting quite a lot at the moment, but should any of you find reason to dispute this investigation’s effectiveness, please proclaim it. In fact, I’d rather not vote on this at all today. I’ll feel more secure if everyone has several days to look over the papers themselves, so we can agree on a proposal together. That’s only right.”

“I think that sounds reasonable,” Pauling agreed. “Was there anyone you had in mind to assist you with your revision?”

“The floor is open for a volunteer, Mr. President. I had no one specifically in mind.”

After several seconds of silence, Castellnou raised his hand. “I want to assist you.”

Archer smiled warmly. “That would be wonderful.”

“What about the black ops operation?” asked the president. “Who oversees that?”

Archer looked down for a moment, then placed his hands behind his back and turned to Pauling. “I felt it only fitting that Director Kang should oversee that part of the investigation. But I don’t feel it’s my place to request it of him myself.”

Pauling nodded. “I’ll talk to Kang.”

Archer turned his attention to Torokin and Grinkov. “I’m particularly interested in your opinions concerning these proposals.” The two Russian judges looked at him. “The two of you do know more about Thoor than most of us. I’d consider your insight invaluable.”

Torokin stared at Archer for a moment, then absently nodded his head. “I will look at the papers.”

“Wonderful!” He turned to Pauling. “That was all I had prepared for today, Mr. President. I do apologize for taking up so much of your time.”

Pauling said with lighthearted sarcasm. “You mean that’s all?” Several of the judges chuckled as Archer sat down. “This is all a lot to digest. Before we decide, let’s take a few days to look it over, each and every one of you. We’ll meet Friday to vote.” The judges acknowledged, and Pauling rose from his seat. “That’s all for today. I think everything else is running smoothly. You’re dismissed.”

As the judges rose from their chairs and filed out, Judge Lena made for Grinkov and Torokin. “What can I say? The kid’s good.”

“I still don’t like him,” said Torokin.

“I must admit,” Grinkov said, “I am impressed. Even if he does look more like a prince than a soldier.”

“He is not a soldier,” Torokin said. “That is why I don’t like him.”

Lena grinned. “Come on, Leonid. Even you’ve got to be impressed with this proposal. Right?”

Torokin didn’t answer.

“Right?”

Torokin glanced down for a moment, then looked away. “Maybe.”

Lena laughed. “Yeah, maybe. I think you don’t want to admit that you might have been wrong.”

“Are you playing preferans with us tonight?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Is that a no?”

“Yeah, I’m playing. Someone’s got to keep you Soviets in line.”

Grinkov smiled.

“Then let us go,” said Torokin. “I do not wish to speak of these papers again. Not until I have read them all the way through.”

“That sounds good enough,” said Grinkov. “Then you can admit you were wrong.”

“Zatknis.”

The other men laughed.

Eventually, all of the judges had filed from the conference room, leaving it in total abandonment. There were no more meetings that day, and none were planned for the next. Everyone would have two days to study. Two days to figure out how they’d vote. Two days to decide whether they’d stare the Terror in the face. Whether they’d take a stand against The Machine.

Whether they’d throw a wrench in its gears.

18

Thursday, August 11, 0011 NE

0333 hours

Novosibirsk, Russia

For the rest of the day after his return from Lake Baikal, Scott remained restless in his room. He hadn’t visited anyone as the hours passed by, and nobody had visited him either—with the exception of a single technician. Apparently, Clarke had ordered Scott’s armor to be confiscated, and had it hauled back to Room 14. Scott knew it was to prevent him from going on another mission without clearance. He honestly didn’t care either way.

As he lay in his bed, wide-eyed and alert in the middle of the night, one person danced through his mind. It was a person without a name. It was the person who was to blame for everything wrong.

Everything in Scripture talked about mercy. Entire chapters were dedicated to it. Revenge was to be left to God; that was God’s will. But it wasn’t Scott’s will—not any longer. Scripture also said no man would be tested beyond his ability to resist temptation. He wasn’t sure about that one either.

He’d never felt that way before. He’d never thought about those kinds of things. But that was before everything changed, the moment the murderer had ripped her away. The moment she’d been dead in his arms. Scott wasn’t to blame for that. The man without a name was. It was all him.

Out of the silence, a knock sounded at Scott’s door. He turned his head toward it, then glanced at his clock. It was barely past three-thirty in the morning. Nobody should have been up at all. Not even himself.

Scott listened to the silence for a moment, then he pulled off the covers from his chest. Reaching out, he flicked on the lamp by his bed. His bedsprings creaked as he sat up, then stood.

The knocker waited patiently as Scott grabbed his jersey from the floor and fitted it on. He could sense that the visitor was still there, despite the fact that he couldn’t see him. It was a ‘him,’ that he knew. The visitor knocked like a man.

As Scott turned to walk to the door, he cast a sidelong glance in the mirror—then he stopped. His face, once clean shaven as always, was now cloaked in unattended stubble. His eyes were locked in a glare. His face was dark, and the slice on his cheek was now scabbed. It was as if he’d become someone else.

He walked to the door, reaching out to unlock it and pull it open. He froze as soon as he saw his visitor.

It was David. He stood alone in the otherwise abandoned halls. His eyes were hardened in red, and fatigue lines dripped down his face. The invectiveness of his stare was loud amid the silence of curfew. Before he even opened his mouth, Scott knew something was wrong. He knew what David was about to tell him. David’s words only served to confirm it.

“Galina just died.”

Scott heard it. He heard it, but he didn’t accept it. He only stared in the absence of belief.

“I just thought you’d want to know.”

Scott realized right then that he was dreaming. He could feel it. His feet transformed into lead, and he was suddenly awash with lightheadedness. His stomach flipped upside down.

David turned to leave down the hall.

He knew he was dreaming. In a dream, he could hear peoples’ voices. And Galina’s voice was clear in his mind.

I do not think I can do this.

He remembered her voice when she’d said it. He remembered how he’d reassured her.

It’s all right, Galina. You’re safe right here with me. Take cover, and I’ll move in when the others are ready. I’ll see you when I get back—you stay here.

He remembered those words when he’d said them. He could hear himself saying them still. There was no way she was dead.

He felt his eyes as they throbbed. He felt the first tear as it fell. Those words—those words he remembered himself saying—those were the dream. Galina had just died.

That was what was real.

Right then, it all crashed upon him. Consequence. Reality. Coldness. Galina had just died. Galina—his valued friend—had just died.

She was dead.

“I didn’t mean it,” Scott blurted out. He said it without giving a thought. He’d shouted without meaning to shout. The cry was choked in the restraining of tears. For the first time since Nicole had died, his thoughts weren’t focused on her. They were focused on another girl he knew. They were focused on the one he had killed.

The one he had killed. He himself.

David stopped in the hallway. He turned his head to the side, just slightly—just enough to be seen. Then he said something Scott had never heard him say to him before.

“I don’t care.”

Scott watched through blurred eyes as David walked away. He listened as the footsteps grew distant. He listened until they were gone.

For the second time in his life, the death of a girl was upon him. The first one had led to the second. Who was next?

He couldn’t feel his feet as they drifted. He only knew he ended up back in bed. He didn’t remember shutting the door; he didn’t remember turning off the light. He didn’t remember anything but her.

Her and her both.

* * *

Room 14 was a tomb. Of all the operatives who resided there, precious few slept in their bunks. The rest of them—Becan, Jayden, Max, Travis, and Varvara—remained restless and enervated in the lounge.

Only one of them cried. It was Varvara, as her face was nestled tight against Jayden’s cradled arms. Her tears were not loud, but they streamed in a constant flow. Her sniffles were the loudest sounds in the room. All of the others were still, their eyes dry with exhaustion, their emotions too drained to be apparent.

“It’s all right,” Jayden whispered, his arms caressing Varvara’s back as she trembled against him. “It’s all gonna be all right.”

The news of Galina’s passing had been delivered by Captain Clarke, who promptly left after he announced it. David had walked out not long after. The rest of them stayed there in silence.

Finally, one of them spoke.

“I think we have a serious problem,” said Becan. Even his voice was subdued.

No one answered at first. It was as if no one had heard him at all.

“It’s called war,” Max eventually responded.

Becan turned to him and frowned. He hesitated for a moment, then replied, “Yeh know I’m not talkin’ abou’ tha’.”

“Yeah. I know.” Max rubbed his hands over his face. Then he leaned back in his chair. “You’re talking about Scott.”

“We need to figure ou’ wha’ to do. Do you realize all this has happened in one bleedin’ week? Tha’s it, just a week. Wha are we goin’ to look like a whole month from now? We need to figure ou’ somethin’.”

Max pressed his fingertips to his forehead, closing his eyes. “What is there to figure out?”

“Oh, nothin’ much, only how to stop our friend an’ commandin’ officer from goin’ psycho.”

“I don’t blame Scott for this,” Max said. “Scott took action—that’s what he does. He took action in the middle of a war. Maybe it is his fault. But maybe it’s Clarke’s fault for not charging first. Maybe it’s my fault.”

“Were you just ou’ there with us?” Becan asked sarcastically. “Did you not see wha’ we saw?”

Max glowered at the Irishman. “I saw one of us die in a war.” He glanced briefly to Varvara in apology. “Galina was everyone’s friend, and every one of us loved her. But she died in a war. Scott may have had nothing to do with it. But because of what’s going on now…it’s spiraling out of control.”

“Are you saying we’re blowing Galina’s death out of proportion?” Travis asked. The others turned to regard him.

“No,” Max answered. “Not at all. But Scott’s going to get all the blame—and he shouldn’t. It might just have been her time to go.”

“So you don’t think Scott had anything to do with it?”

Max sighed. “You see how everyone in here feels right now? Take that and multiply it by a thousand. That’s how Scott’s felt for a week.”

“An’ now Galina is dead,” said Becan.

“So is Anatoly. So is Ivan. So are Kevin and Kostya. Hell, our new demolitionist got knocked out in his first mission—he’s lucky to still be alive. Does anyone even remember his name?”

“Tha’s not the point.”

“The point is that people are going to die. Are we going to blame Scott for all of them?”

“It ain’t Scott’s fault,” murmured Varvara through her Russian-thick twang. The moment she did, everyone shifted to face her. “It is their fault. They have done to him what hurts him the most. Now he has become someone else.”

“Who has he become?” Becan asked.

Varvara said nothing.

After a moment, Max answered again. “The only thing I can tell you is what I think. That might not be much.” He hesitated before going on. “I think Scott’s losing a fight. It’s the biggest fight he may have ever faced. First, he lost his fiancee. Then, he lost his faith. And now…he’s losing his friends.”

“He hasn’t lost me,” said Jayden.

Travis frowned. “I feel weird talking about Scott right now, man…”

“And normally, we’d be grieving about Galina,” agreed Max. “But we’re not. We’re brooding. We’re divided. You could cut the tension in this unit with a knife. That’s not because Galina’s just died. That’s because some dregg in slayer armor murdered Scott’s girl. That one thing led us to this.”

“I know, but—”

“No ‘buts,’ Travis. If we don’t talk about Scott, if we don’t find some way to get this unit on track, someone else is going to be dead.”

“Didn’t you just say it wasn’t Scott’s fault?” Travis argued.

Max stared at him in silence for several seconds. “Congratulations, nitwit. You’ve managed to miss the whole point.”

“So wha’s the point?” Becan asked.

“The point is, everyone’s emotional now. That’s not good in a war. Do I think Scott killed her? No. But because of his situation, everyone looks at it that way. And that’s causing all these emotions, and that’s what’s going to get someone else killed.” He leaned back in finality. “And that is why we have to talk about Scott, now.” He turned to Travis. “I hope you’re getting all this, because I’m starting to sound like a shrink, and I don’t like it.”

Travis was silent before he answered. “Yeah, I get it.”

Out of the new quiet, Varvara spoke once again. “When I was with him, he said to me how he feels.” The others in the room listened attentively. “He said that we can’t understand how he hurts. And it’s true. Not one of us knows of that pain.” As the rest of the operatives watched her, she distanced her eyes from the room.

After a moment of unfinished silence, Becan tilted his head. “So wha’ does he need to get better?”

She didn’t answer.

As the wall clock ticked on relentlessly, the collective gazes of the operatives lost their focus, until they stared upon nothing at all. When one of them eventually spoke, it was as if for the first time.

“He’s not gonna lose me,” said Max. “I swear that to God.” On the other side of the room, Jayden looked up.

“I bet Remmy never thought you’d say somethin’ like tha’,” Becan said.

“No…I think he did,” Max pondered. “Hate me or not, he never gave up on me. I’m not gonna give up on him.”

The Irishman leaned back in his chair. He stretched out his legs to the floor. “I never planned to to begin with.”

Varvara clung to Jayden more tightly.

Max blew out a slow breath, sliding his hands in his pockets. “All right, then.” Everyone else turned to face him. “Galina was one hell of a girl. Let’s give her one hell of a ride home.”

Travis slowly nodded his head. “I’ll wash down the Pariah. I’ll fly her out myself.”

Max agreed. “That’ll do good, Trav,” he said in conciliation. “That would be meaningful.” Then he stood. “Everyone sleeps now. You know that’s what she’d have said.”

“Yes sir.”

One by one, the operatives rose from their chairs. One by one, they filed out the room. The last one clicked off the light to the lounge, and the room was empty.

Room 14 fell asleep.

* * *

Dostoevsky’s eyes glossed over as he watched his glass fill with vodka. He was in his private quarters, but not alone. Another man sat across his table from him with a long-emptied glass in his hand.

“You drink like a man with regrets, commander,” said Nicolai Romanov. He was one of the Nightman slayers from the mission.

As Dostoevsky’s glass filled to the brim, he tilted the bottle upright. “Should I not have regrets?”

“Of course not,” Romanov answered, grinning in the strange way only he could. “You are perfect, like me.”

Dostoevsky laughed in irony. “If that is what you believe.”

“You do not believe I am perfect?”

“Of course you are,” the fulcrum commander answered sardonically. “And so am I.”

Romanov chuckled and leaned back, twitching in his peculiar manner. He was similar in size to Dostoevsky, despite Dostoevsky’s lesser age. Both men were of equal height and build, if Dostoevsky wasn’t a tad more muscular. Both men had nefariously dark hair. Both men were Nightmen. The difference came in their roles. Dostoevsky was a fulcrum; Romanov was not.

“You have a very interesting group of friends, Yuri.”

“They are not my friends.” Dostoevsky swallowed a drink.

“Am I your friend?”

“If the general says so.”

Romanov laughed. “He does. He says we are very good friends. In fact, he says we are such good friends that we will be together for a very long time.”

Dostoevsky swallowed a sip, then stopped with his glass in midair. He looked hard across the table toward Romanov.

“Then I suppose you have not yet been told. We will be joining your unit.”

“All of you?”

“That is correct. Viktor, Auric, and Egor. And myself. Together we will spill beautiful blood. Does this disappoint you?”

Dostoevsky stared at him for a moment, then resumed his alcoholic indulgence. “No.”

“It is a good thing that Viktor has medical training. It appears that your unit will need it.”

Dostoevsky hurled his glass to the floor. It shattered, with shards scattering in every direction.

Romanov twitched and raised an eyebrow.

“Do not mock the dead, Nicolai. Not with me.”

“The dead concern you? Since when?”

Dostoevsky didn’t answer. Instead, he drank straight from the bottle.

Romanov propped his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Never have I seen you this way. What has happened?”

Once again, Dostoevsky said nothing.

“Are you afraid because of what you have done? Are you afraid that you are damned?”

Yuri chuckled, quietly at first, but louder as the seconds passed. Finally, he took another large swig of vodka. Placing the bottle down, he eyed Romanov. “We are all damned, Nicolai.”

“Then we will all burn in hell together.” Romanov clanged his glass against Dostoevsky’s bottle, then grabbed it to fill the glass up.

“There is a special place in hell saved for me,” Dostoevsky said, as he watched Romanov pour jerkily.

“Why is that?” Romanov asked, downing his drink.

“Because I am evil.”

Romanov laughed and extended his glass for a toast. “In honor of those who are evil.”

Romanov’s hand was outstretched for a mere second before Dostoevsky’s palm swiped it aside. The glass flew from Romanov’s hand, shattering against the far wall.

“You like breaking glasses today,” Romanov said dryly.

Dostoevsky pushed back his chair and rose somewhat shakily. “This evening, I will give him what he wants to hear.”

“You will give him what he wants to hear? Who?”

“Remington.”

“You will give Remington what he wants to hear?” Romanov stared at him quizzically. “What does he want to hear?”

Dostoevsky walked to his closet. “A name.”

Romanov’s eyes shot wide. “What?”

“I will give him a name.”

“Does the general know you will do this?”

“Leave me, Nicolai.”

“But are you sure—”

“Leave me, slayer!”

The voice made Romanov flinch. He hurriedly rose to his feet. “You know what will happen if you do this. You know what will be done.”

“I know.”

Romanov stepped to the door. He opened it, then turned around a final time. “You know what will happen.”

Dostoevsky eyed him. “Nicolai…I know.”

After a final look inside, Romanov left. The door was shut behind him, and Dostoevsky was once again alone.

He drank until he passed out cold.

* * *

Later that morning

The cafeteria once again bustled with life as the operatives of Novosibirsk took to its nauseous odors like cattle to a freeze-dried trough. At the head of the herd was Alexander Nijinsky.

The uniform he wore was of a dark texture. While its details—pockets, seams, and zippers—were plainly visible, only one characteristic screamed out above the rest: the upside-down crimson triangle patched over his heart. The reward for his loyalty to Thoor.

Slayers were the most common of the Nightmen, and while the horns of the fulcrums stole the spotlight, the slayers were the ones who muscled The Machine. Nijinsky’s unit—the Third—made no mention of the new suit of armor in Nijinsky’s locker. It was a generally accepted fact that when a man became a Nightman, he had ascended beyond other men’s opinions. It was best not to ask questions.

With the rest of the Third dispersed throughout the cafeteria, Nijinsky settled down with his tray near a table at the far end of the room. It was the same table he’d sat at when he first saw the girl—his unbeknownst gateway to knighthood.

Novosibirsk was far from a melting pot. Over eighty percent of the base population consisted of Russians. When a member of another nationality joined its ranks, he or she was usually placed in a unit with others of like kind. Nonetheless, amid the constant chatter of Russian conversationalists around him, the occasional foreign language caught his attention. The culprits today were two men—one large and one not—who sat at the table directly in front of him. He was just far enough away to hear their words, and he was familiar enough with their language to understand them. They were Americans.

“All I know,” said Derrick, “is that Ulrich’s not gonna let this go. He’s already put in three formal complaints to Thoor.”

“Nothing’s gonna come out of it,” William said, shoving a spoonful of porridge into his mouth, then talking through the swallow. “It’s a Nightman unit, man. They had Ivan, and they still got that other guy.”

Derrick gave him a look. “Man, c’mon. The girl commed the wrong unit. There’s no way Thoor’s gonna let that slide.”

“Wrong, wrong, wrong,” William said smugly. “I saw the report. The Fourteenth claimed it was equipment malfunction.”

“Aw man, are you serious?”

“Yep.”

“That’s bunk.”

“What, do you want that poor chick to get in trouble?” William asked.

“Dude…she killed half our unit.”

“Yeah, I know,” William shrugged. “But it wasn’t anyone that we liked.”

Nijinsky knew what they were talking about. Not the details, but he knew of the mission. Khatanga. It had been a Ceratopian assignment. His unit—the Third—almost got called in to clean up the mess that the Eighth and Fourteenth had left behind. But the task went to the First and the Fifth.

He took another bite as he continued to listen.

“She had a rough enough time, man,” said William. “Did you know Scott slapped her?”

“I heard it was more like a smack.”

“Whatever. She’s probably scarred for life.”

“Stupid girl.”

William waved him off. “Oh, leave her alone. She doesn’t need anyone else chastising her. A smack in the face from Scott Remington’s embarrassing enough—the man can’t hit worth a sack of scat.”

“I don’t know about that. You seen him lately?”

“I stopped watching them spar after Ivan died.”

Derrick harrumphed. “Well you ain’t seen nothing, then. Someone taught Scott how to throw down.”

Nijinsky smiled to himself as he listened on. He had heard of Scott Remington. Scott Remington was the Golden Lion; most people in Novosibirsk had heard of him. When someone like that joined a base, usually word got around. In fact, rumor had it that Remington had played a role in the Assault on Novosibirsk. Not a starring role, but a role nonetheless. That alone spoke of something impressive.

William shook his head. “I still can’t believe what happened to him. I just can’t believe it.”

“You talkin’ about his girlfriend?”

“Yeah, Nicole.”

“I know. It don’t seem right.”

“It’s not,” said William. “I’ve barely seen him since she died, but he ain’t the same. It’s not just Khatanga, either. He even looks different.”

“The guy just lost his fiancee. That kind of thing can mess a man up. I’m surprised he even went on that mission at all.”

“I can’t even imagine what he must feel like. Especially since he knows one of them did it.”

“I heard they think it happened while she was here in the cafeteria.”

Nijinsky stopped. His spoon hovered in front of his mouth, but it was frozen in place just centimeters away from his lips. He lowered the spoon, and turned his head the Americans’ way.

“Someone’s gonna die,” said Derrick. “I know I’d kill someone if they murdered my wife.”

“She wasn’t his wife yet.”

“C’mon, you know she was gonna be.”

“Yeah.”

Derrick took a swig of water. “I’d hate to be the lunkard who murdered her. That man has no idea what he got himself into. Scott’s mad like the devil.”

“I hear that.”

“That Nightman’s gonna die.”

Nijinsky dropped his spoon. It clanked against his plate as he flinched down to grab it.

“All right, man,” William said, “this food sucks.”

“Yeah…”

The demolitionist stood with his tray. “One of my friends from Alabama is mailing me some barbeque sauce.”

“Are you serious?”

“Like a heart attack.”

“Oh man!”

As Nijinsky watched the two Americans leave, his fingers trembled on the table. Only seconds after the two men disappeared, he stood up, picked up his tray, and hurried out.

Nijinsky’s palms sweated as he hurried down the Hall of the Fulcrums. He darted between the dim flickers of torchlight as his eyes searched frantically for the wooden doors of the Inner Sanctum. The dank odors of the dungeon headquarters surrounded him. As soon as he found the doors, he offered the sentries beside them a nod and reached out to push them open.

But the sentries didn’t nod back. As soon as Nijinsky reached for the door, they converged to impede his path. Before the new slayer could react, one of the sentries slammed a hand to his chest. Nijinsky was violently bucked away.

He stared in astonishment at the sentries. “You must let me in! I must speak to the general at once!”

The leftmost guard responded through the mechanical drone of his helmet. “General Thoor is not present.”

“Where can I find him?”

“That is not your concern.”

Nijinsky stood flustered between them. “You do not understand. I must speak to the general immediately. This is not a joke!”

“Your presence has not been requested.”

“I demand to speak with him. I insist! This is an urgent Nightman affair.”

The sentry stared through his zombified eyes. “If that were true, we would already know of it.”

Those were the last words the sentries uttered. Even as Nijinsky stared at them, they stood in unwavering blockage.

Finally, Nijinsky stepped back. “Then I will find him myself.” Turning around, he strode out of the Hall of the Fulcrums, leaving the Citadel of The Machine silent in his wake.

It was an overcast day, and there had been no real dawn. The sky simply grew fainter in brightness, through rows of puffy gray clouds.

Nijinsky hustled down the sidewalks of Novosibirsk, his eyes peeled in search of General Thoor. After a fifteen-minute walk of the grounds, he found the general near the easternmost fields. He was overseeing a series of drills involving a column of fulcrum elites.

Nijinsky wasted no time as he hurried over to meet with the general. Though sentries were present, there were none immediately by Thoor’s side, and Nijinsky was careful to maintain a safe distance. He waited for the Terror to address him. After several moments of indignant silence, Thoor spoke, his autocratic drone heavy and cold. “Why have you come to me, slayer?” He asked the question without turning around.

Nijinsky bowed his head in reverence. “General,” he said anxiously, “the woman that I killed…I believe she belonged to Scott Remington.”

Thoor was silent for a moment before he responded. “Do you take issue with that, Nijinsky?”

A frightened laugh burst from Nijinsky’s lips, then quickly subsided. “But he is the Golden Lion. He will kill me. They say he is angry like the devil.”

“And this frightens you?”

For a moment, Nijinsky couldn’t offer an answer. When he finally did, it was only half of one. “No, general, I am not afraid, but…”

Thoor responded when Nijinsky trailed off. “You do not sound like a man unafraid.”

“General…this is not an ordinary soldier. This is the American from Richmond. This is the one they say leads like a champion.”

“I know who Scott Remington is.” Thoor’s voice firmed with his words. “This American champion concerns you?”

“General,” Nijinsky sighed, “I did not know. I did not know this was the one whose woman I was to kill.”

“If you had…would you have still killed her?”

Nijinsky hesitated. Several awkward seconds passed before he finally gave his answer. “Yes, general. I would have still killed her. I do not regret what I have done, I only…”

“What is it that you want, slayer?” Thoor asked impatiently.

This time there was no hesitation. “Can he be moved? To another place, another facility? Or can they watch him? The eidola?”

The space around them was consumed in utter silence. For a moment, even the barking of the drillmaster seemed to fade away into nothingness. When Thoor finally spoke, his voice was decidedly clear. “You want protection.”

Nijinsky opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out.

“Fear is not a luxury that you may be accorded.”

“But why did you choose her?” Nijinsky blurted. As soon as he said it, he bit his own lips.

The atmosphere cooled. “It is as I have told you,” Thoor said. “You were given an invaluable task. Her loss was necessary.”

“But what if Remington finds out?”

“For your sake, pray that he does not.”

During the whole of their conversation, not once had Thoor’s eyes turned to meet him. His gaze remained icy, locked on the exercises and the fulcrum elites who performed them. He appeared almost statuesque.

“Yes, general,” Nijinsky finally answered. “I will not let this concern me.” His voice vibrated as he spoke the words.

“Leave, slayer. If you approach me again with such insignificant concerns, the wrath of the Golden Lion will be the least of your fears.”

“Yes, general.” Nijinsky snapped off a salute.

It wasn’t returned.

As he retreated from the general’s presence, Nijinsky once again felt his palms become sweaty. His mind was almost paralyzed with paranoia. Nonetheless, he reentered the complexity of Novosibirsk‘s main grounds and made his way back to Room 3.

As had been the case since his transformation, Nijinsky was not approached by anyone in his unit—not even the unit’s Nightmen. There was little that scared him. He had always been that way, and that was why he had become a Nightman. He was not afraid of murder. He was not afraid of darkness. But now, for the first time in as long as he could recall, there was someone that he feared. It was someone more violent than he. It was someone whose bloodlust burned fierce. Fierce as a lion.

Fierce as the lion he’d struck.

19

Thursday, August 11, 0011 NE

1755 hours

That evening

Scott had been out of his room for several hours. They were hours spent wandering at loss. First he’d walked to the hangar. Then he’d gone to the infirmary. Then he’d paced the halls. He walked to run away—to cry alone.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, and he didn’t care. There were too many thoughts in his head. Some thoughts had been there all day—those of Galina and Nicole. But other thoughts had slowly crept in since.

There was Esther. There were her tears as she trembled into David’s arms during Khatanga. There was the flinch in her body as Scott yelled.

There was Clarke. There was the redness that flushed over his face as the soldier he’d stood up for challenged him.

There was Becan. There was the Irishman’s frightened expression when Scott had slammed his helmet to the ground. It was the first time he’d seen Becan scared in that way.

There was Varvara. There was the look of terrified confusion as the soldier she’d been assigned to protect shoved her aside and abandoned her. He would never forget her fear.

There was Jayden. Travis. Max. Boris. Oleg. There was a heart-twisting memory for them all.

And then there was David, and the words of finality Scott heard him say as David turned to leave him behind: I don’t care.

Scott knew he had no reason to live. What he’d loved the most had been cruelly ripped from him, and he’d thrown out hurt in return. The thought of suicide lingered in the back of his mind as it had since the day Nicole was killed. It was surpassed only by revenge.

Until now.

It was during that walk, during those passing hours of solitude, that he realized his wrath had already been fully spent. It had poured out on innocent people—on his friends. So now, what was left? He’d failed his friends. He’d failed himself. And he’d failed God.

He was ready to die.

When he made his way back to Room 14, he was completely prepared to take his own life. He had a blade. He had a rope. He had a gun. He could leave in whatever way he chose.

I don’t care.

He heard those three words repeated again as he opened the door to the officers’ wing. The words that gave him permission to go.

I don’t care.

Even as he walked through the halls, he had to fight back the urge to break down. Every significant memory of his life washed through his thoughts. His first start behind center at Michigan. The first time that he’d kissed Nicole. The day he decided to join EDEN—the same day he left everything behind. All to bring his hopes to an end.

All to fail.

He saw the crack in his door from down the hall. He knew who it was without thinking. It would be Varvara. It had been Galina’s job to stay with him, and now Galina was dead. Varvara was dutiful enough to take over the role. Even through the fear he’d instilled in her, she would do her job. She’d be there when he didn’t deserve to have her. It was her job.

He didn’t know what he would say to Varvara when they’d meet face to face. He wasn’t sure how she’d react. He wasn’t sure how he’d get her to leave the room long enough for him to kill himself. In the past, he’d have prayed for the right words to say. But this was a prayer God wouldn’t answer.

Sliding his palm against the frame of the door, he gave it a half-hearted push. The door slowly eased open, and he stepped inside.

The lamp on his desk was the only light on. Its yellowish-orange hue illuminated the room, just enough to reveal the other person within. It wasn’t Varvara at all. It was the last person he would ever have expected.

It was Dostoevsky.

As soon as Dostoevsky saw him, he rose from his seat in the room. His eyes were surprisingly glossed. “Lieutenant,” he said in barely a whisper.

Scott stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Even without getting close, he could smell alcohol on the fulcrum commander’s breath. Dostoevsky was drunk. “Why are you here?”

The Nightman tried to smile but failed. After a moment of awkward hesitation, he drew a breath. “You were gone for a long time. I was not sure you would return.”

Scott realized his first guess was wrong. Dostoevsky wasn’t drunk. But he had been drinking. “Why are you here?” Scott repeated.

Dostoevsky’s gaze fell to the floor. For a second time, silence surrounded them. When the commander finally spoke again, his voice was even lower. “I have never had someone to love. I do not know what it is like. I do not know how it feels to lose a loved one.”

To those words, Scott could give him a reply. Without thought. “It’s like living in hell.”

The commander fell quiet once again.

Why was Dostoevsky even there? Scott knew there must have been some important cause. It was the first time the fulcrum had ever shown up at his door—or let himself in, for that matter. And now, they were together in silence. Why?

“I know there is nothing I can say to fix what has already been done,” Dostoevsky said. “But for what it is worth to you…she did not deserve to die.”

Scott could feel his face as it turned red. He could feel the heat through his skin. She was an angel. She was his angel. She had come there to demonstrate her love for him. For Dostoevsky now to say she hadn’t deserved to die…it was too much.

Dostoevsky looked down at his hand. Inside it, between two fingers, he held a single slip of paper. Walking closer to Scott, he extended it out. “Open your hand.”

Scott tilted his head with suspicion.

“Please do it.”

Open his hand for what? For a slip of paper? For an offer of repentance? What repentance could Dostoevsky possibly give? Scott stood silent and still as his gaze locked straight on the Russian’s. But for the first time ever, Dostoevsky couldn’t look him in the eye. The Nightman’s eyes were cast to the floor—just like they’d been for Nicole.

Scott found himself extending his hand.

Dostoevsky placed the paper in Scott’s palm, then curled Scott’s fingers around it. The whole while, he looked away. Then he spoke. “I am giving you the one thing you want. I am giving you what you still have to live for.”

The hair on Scott’s arms began to tingle.

“Do what you feel that you must,” Dostoevsky said. “Do what you know you can live with. You will take it with you for the rest of your life.”

A chill worked itself down Scott’s spine. Without even having to look down, he knew what was written on the paper. He knew.

Dostoevsky removed his fingers from Scott’s fist and turned to walk to the door. As Scott stood motionless behind him, hand outstretched to no one, grasping the slip of paper that Dostoevsky had placed there, the Nightman commander stopped. “I am sorry that you lost your love.” He stood still for a moment, then quietly shut the door to Scott’s room. He disappeared into the halls.

Scott was alone—alone with the slip of paper in his hand. He was alone with the thing that he knew. Tears had already begun to rim under his lids, and now the first traces of moisture trickled down. His heart began to throb, and he felt his entire body shake.

He knew. He knew what was there. He knew what he held in his hand. It was the only thing he’d wanted, after the only other thing he’d wanted had died.

For the first time since Nicole’s death, a familiar voice stirred in Scott’s heart. It was a voice that couldn’t be audibly heard. But it was not his.

Your wrath has been poured out enough.

His fist was still closed. The slip of paper was yet to be seen. If he burned it or ripped it to shreds, he’d never know. He’d never have to fight back the urge. He could kill himself and end it all there.

Your wrath has been poured out enough.

As the sobs began to choke forth, he dropped down to his knees and cried out. “Why now? Why are You doing this now? Why even give me the chance?”

As he pressed his fists to his face, he buckled over on the floor. He knew it was his choice. Only he could choose to open his hand.

Only he.

He remembered Nicole’s face in the casket. He remembered the words she’d spoken. God is putting you in the places you need to be. She’d believed in him. She’d held his hand from the other side of the world. She’d loved him.

Then she was murdered.

He knew, right at that moment, what choice he was going to make. It was the only choice he could possibly make.

“I’m sorry,” he said through his tears. “I can’t take Your way out.” God’s way left too much undeserved. Too much unfinished. Wiping the drops from his eyes, he unclenched his palm. He unfolded the paper and looked.

It was there.

It was right there.

His hand stayed open only a second, then he crushed the slip of paper in his fist. He once again felt his face burn with anger. It was exactly what he had wanted to know. It was exactly what his anger had sought.

It was a name.

* * *

Jayden and Esther sat alongside the wall by Clarke’s office door. Varvara had been summoned there by the captain, in a gesture they unanimously determined must have been for a medical pep talk. With the loss of Galina, Varvara was the last remaining medic. It was a fact she’d acknowledged with silence.

“What do you think he’s telling her?” Esther asked quietly.

Several seconds of silence passed before Jayden helplessly replied, “I dunno.”

“Do you think they’ll send us another medic?”

“I dunno.”

“Most units have only one medic…right?”

Jayden pulled down his cowboy hat and slouched back. “I dunno.”

Esther watched Jayden for several seconds before her shoulders too began to sag. “I’m sure that whatever happens, she’ll be able to handle it.”

The Texan was motionless behind the veil of his hat, his arms lying dead at his sides.

The door to Clarke’s room unlatched and opened. Jayden and Esther hopped to their feet. Varvara stepped out.

Varvara had looked worn out all day, like a woman in desperate need of a warm shower and a bed. Both luxuries had escaped her since she’d returned from the mission. It showed in the dark rings beneath her eyes and her grimy, lackluster hair. Without makeup, she looked downright ragged.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Jayden spoke. “What’d he say?”

She ran her hand through her hair, where it lingered to support the back of her head. She stepped away from the door. “He told me what I expected to hear.” Her voice rang of pathos. She began to walk down the hall. “He will keep me at gamma private for now, to see how I do. If it is too much, he will somehow get help.”

“You’re gonna have to do it all by yourself for now?”

She was too tired to cry. “There is no choice. There is no one else to bring in.”

“That’s bunk. He actually thinks you can take care of the whole unit by yourself?”

Varvara closed her eyes and lowered her head as they walked behind her. “Jayden, I do what I have to do. There is nothing I can say, all right? Please don’t ask me all of this right now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t wanna think, I don’t wanna…” she paused as she got lost in her words. “I don’t wanna do anything.”

As Jayden stepped beside Varvara, Esther followed from behind. “Did he say anything about Lieutenant Remington?”

“Of course,” Varvara answered. “He is to stay in his room until the captain comes up with punishment. Maybe demotion.”

“What?” Jayden asked. “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.”

“What did you think he would say?” she asked angrily. “That the lieutenant gets promotion? He disobeyed the captain’s orders, Jay. That is all that matters.”

“Yeah, but—”

“But what? Galya is dead. What am I supposed to say to him? To give Scott another chance? I can’t do that, even if I think he deserves it.” She hesitated as she continued to walk. “I don’t even know if he does.” As they neared a corner, Jayden reached out his hand to take hers. She allowed it to fall limply into his grip. Then she stopped, turned to him, and gently fell into his chest. “I only wanna sleep,” she said, closing her eyes. “And wash my hair. Either one would be good enough.”

Esther watched them. “Why don’t you do both, then? The other way around, of course.”

Varvara opened her eyes and looked at Esther. She offered the young scout a small smile. “First, I gotta eat. It feels as though I have not eaten some real food in a long time.”

“I haven’t eaten some real food in four months,” muttered Jayden.

As the threesome approached a corner, a solitary operative popped out from around it. They stepped sideways as the stranger unapologetically shoved past them and raced down the hall.

“You could’ve said ‘excuse me,’ jerk,” the Texan said. The stranger ignored him.

Esther pointed. “That’s one of the Nightmen who was with us at Lake Baikal.”

“You mean from the Tenth?”

“Yes, I recognize him. I don’t remember his name, though. “

They all watched as the Nightman bolted to the door of Room 10, shoving it open wildly.

“He told him!” Romanov said frantically in Russian from the open doorway.

Inside the room, Viktor Ryvkin turned to face him. “Who told who?”

“He told Remington!” Romanov hurried inside and closed the door.

As soon as Remington’s name was spoken, Varvara, Jayden, and Esther collectively froze. They exchanged shocked, disbelieving looks, then dashed toward the door. “What’d he just say?” Jayden asked as he looked at Varvara.

“He said that ‘he told Remington.’ Someone told Remington.”

“Told him what?”

“I don’t know.”

They crept beside the doorway and listened.

Ryvkin placed his book down and approached Romanov. “Calm yourself, Nicolai. Who told Remington what?”

“It was Dostoevsky,” Romanov said. “He told me this morning that he would tell Remington who it was. I thought he must be joking. But I just discovered that he told him!”

“You are not making sense,” Ryvkin said. “What did Dostoevsky tell Remington?”

“He told him who killed his fiancee!”

Varvara stifled a gasp outside the closed door. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth.

“What is it?” Jayden whispered. “What’d he say?”

“Dostoevsky told Scott who killed his fiancee!”

Jayden and Esther spoke at the same time. “What?”

Varvara hushed them. “Quiet! Lemme listen!”

“I don’t understand,” Ryvkin said. “Why would Yuri do this?”

“I was with him when he was drinking,” answered Romanov. “He said he was damned for the things he has done. I have never heard him speak like that before. I thought that he had too much vodka, and that he would be better tonight. But I just spoke to one of the general’s fulcrums. He said Yuri walked into Remington’s room to tell him!”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Ryvkin said. “Why would he do this?”

“You know what will happen, don’t you?” Romanov asked. “Remington will kill the slayer who killed his woman!”

Outside the door, Varvara whirled around to Jayden. “Quick,” she whispered emphatically. “Go find Scott. He is gonna kill someone. Hurry!”

Jayden nodded and turned away. A moment later he stopped. “Oh veck, I don’t know where his room is. I’ve never been there.”

Esther spoke up. “I know where it is,” she said confidently.

Varvara turned to her. “Go, then, Esther. Quick! We will go back to Room 14.”

Esther bolted down the hallway, and Varvara and Jayden resumed their eavesdropping.

“I don’t know who killed Remington’s fiancee, but we must warn him,” Romanov said. “Or he will be killed. We have both seen the anger that Remington harbors.”

“His name is Nijinsky,” answered Ryvkin. “I know of him.”

“We must find him, then.”

“No,” Ryvkin shook his head. “We cannot get involved. What Yuri does, he must answer for. That is the way it must be.”

“His name is Nijinsky,” said Varvara.

“Nijinsky?”

“Yes. The man who killed Nicole.”

Jayden stepped away from the door. “C’mon, I’ve heard enough. Let’s go tell the others.”

Varvara nodded and followed him off.

Esther made it to Scott’s room in under a minute. The lieutenant’s door was wide open, but he was nowhere to be seen. As she turned on the light to look around, she could feel the tension in the room. Despite the lack of anyone else there, it was still present. Scott’s anger pulsed from the walls.

Her gaze darted in every direction, but nothing caught her eye. Finally, she looked at her feet. On the floor, partially crumpled by the wrath of a clenched fist, was a single small slip of paper. She bent down to retrieve it. The moment she opened it, she knew what it was. It was the killer.

She took it and bolted into the hall.

When Jayden and Varvara burst through the doors of Room 14, the whole room swung around to face them.

“What the hell?” asked Max as he rose to his feet at their entrance. Becan, Travis, Boris, and Oleg were also spread out in the bunk room.

“Scott’s in trouble,” panted Jayden. “Right now.”

David emerged from the lounge, a cup of hot tea in his hand. He listened in silence.

“Wha’ kind o’ trouble?” a shirtless Becan asked.

“The bad kind.”

“Dostoevsky told him who killed Nicole,” Varvara explained. “Now we think Scott is gonna kill him!”

From the doorway of the lounge, David’s face sagged.

“Wha’? Tha’s bloody grand! I hope to hell Remmy does kill him! Wha’s his name?”

“Nijinsky,” answered Jayden. “That’s all we know.”

David lowered his cup. “Do you know where Scott is?”

“No, man. We sent Esther to go check his room. We came here to tell you guys.”

Oleg listened quietly as the dialogue took place.

“Just let him do it!” said Becan. “We need a few less Nightmen in the world!”

“It’s Scott, man!” pled Jayden.

“Look,” said Max, “we need to calm down and think about what we can do. Anyone here heard of this guy?” No one replied. “Do we even know what unit he’s in?”

“We can find a terminal,” said Travis. “We can look him up on there, if that’s his last name they got.”

“Yes,” Varvara affirmed, “that is a last name.”

“Good idea, then,” Max said. “Maybe we can get there in time to stop Scott.”

“It’s too late,” came a new voice from behind them. The operatives turned to the door, where the voice emerged from the hall. It was Esther. “He’s already gone.”

* * *

Alexander Nijinsky sat atop his bunk in Room 3, where he polished the barrel of his e-35. As his hand pushed the rag up and down the black metal, he looked at his reflection in the gloss. His face was distorted in the curvature of the gun, but he could make out some of his features. He could make out his eyes.

It was a quiet night for the Third. Almost all members of the unit were there. Nijinsky had always yearned for a mission, and tonight was no exception. But tonight, his motivation was different. Normally, he wanted missions so he could kill. Now, he wanted one to escape. There was something far more dangerous than extraterrestrials there in Novosibirsk. There was something that was solely after him. Nijinsky knew what it wanted to give him. And worse yet, he knew he deserved it. He couldn’t get that fear from his mind.

So he waited in anticipatory dread. He waited for that movement in the field. He waited for that predatory growl.

He waited.

When the door to Room 3 crashed inward, Nijinsky almost fell from his perch. His hands lost their grip on the e-35, and it flopped to the floor. When he spun his head to the doorway, the figure he saw made him go white. It was the rage. It was the lover.

It was the lion.

Nijinsky watched in disbelieving horror as Remington surveyed the room. He watched in panic as the lion read each name tag. And when Remington paused in Nijinsky’s direction, the Nightman’s body turned to stone.

He’d been found.

* * *

“We’ve gotta stop him!” cried Varvara.

Esther hurried inside. “We can look him up, as Travis said! We have his name. We can use a terminal.” She held up the slip of paper.

Becan grabbed his shirt from his bed. “All righ’, fine. I still say tha’ Nightman’s better off dead, but if we’re goin’ to go, let’s go then!”

Travis hurried for the door. “I’ll check the terminal and find out where he is!” He glanced back into the room from the hallway. “How do you spell Nijinsky?”

Varvara spelled it out loud while the rest of the operatives rallied. “Go, quick!”

Travis turned back around in the hall. He once again started to rush away. But two words caused him to skid to a sudden halt. They were words spoken from someone inside the room. Words that made everyone stop what they were doing. Words that stood alone in the fray.

“Who’s Nijinsky?” asked Esther.

* * *

Nijinsky froze as Remington marched toward him. Several operatives from the Third stepped out to intercept, but they were halted by other Nightmen in the unit. The Nightmen were actually allowing the fight to take place.

Nijinsky flinched back as the Golden Lion lurched out to grab him. His eyes squeezed shut as the attack came. But the attack never came it all. He wasn’t grabbed. He wasn’t coerced. He wasn’t even touched.

It wasn’t Nijinsky whom Remington was after. It was the man standing directly beside Nijinsky. It was a man named Sergei Steklov.

As Scott grabbed Steklov by the collar, the young Russian’s boyish eyes grew in terror. Scott’s eyes did the very opposite. They narrowed, as the volcano of anger finally erupted. With his hands clenched around Steklov’s collar, Scott wretched him backward and flung him across the room.

* * *

Max stared wide-eyed at Esther. “What do you mean, ‘Who’s Nijinsky?’”

“I mean, who is he?” she asked, blinking in confusion. “Why do you want him?”

“He’s the one who killed Nicole!”

Her face fell. “What? That can’t be!”

Travis stood still in the doorway. “What do you mean, ‘That can’t be?’ You have the paper!”

“But that’s not the name on the paper!”

* * *

Scott watched as Steklov fell against the floor at the opposite end of the room. It was the farthest Scott had ever thrown someone. It was the farthest he’d ever wanted to. Before Steklov could scramble to his feet, Scott was on him again, grabbing him by the hair and smashing a fist hard across his face. He felt Steklov’s jaw give way as his knuckles shattered it.

Did you like that? Was that good? Did it feel that way when you killed her?

He repeated the attacks again and again. With every hammering blow, blood and teeth spewed from Steklov’s mouth. Lifting him up from the ground, Scott hurled the young Russian over his shoulder.

* * *

“Gimme that paper!” said Varvara. She tore it from Esther’s hand. Her eyes shot wide as she began to read. “This is Yuri’s handwriting! But the name is Sergei Steklov!”

“Wha’ the devil’s goin’ on?” asked Becan.

David listened from the lounge doorway.

“This is his handwriting!” Varvara repeated. “But that is not the right name!”

“Are you sayin’ Dostoevsky gave Remmy the wrong name? Why would he do tha’?”

Max crouched to his knees in silence, cupping his hands at his mouth.

“He’s goin’ after the wrong guy…” murmured Jayden.

“But why would he do tha’?” Becan hollered. “Why would he give Remmy the wrong name?”

At that moment, Max’s eyes shut. He leaned his head back, exhaled, and whispered a realization out loud. “Yuri, you dregg…” The rest of the room turned to face him, and he opened his eyes. For a moment, he didn’t say another word. When he finally did speak, everything behind his words became clear. “Of course he gave Scott the wrong name. If Scott kills Nijinsky, that’s justice. But if Scott kills an innocent man…that’s called murder.”

David lost his grip on his cup. It crashed to the floor, where it shattered.

From the doorway to Room 14, Travis turned his head to the hall. The sound of a rolling cart approached.

* * *

Scott grabbed Steklov’s head and stood him up. The boyish Russian threw a desperate fist in defense, but for Scott, it was like swatting off a fly—this child was no match for him. He was probably no match for Nicole. That made Scott hate him more.

Steklov cried out in Russian, but Scott didn’t hear him. Tears streamed down Steklov’s face, but Scott didn’t see. There was only one thought in Scott’s mind.

Burn in hell.

With a one-handed flick, he spun Steklov’s body around. He reached his hand across the young Russian’s jaw from behind.

Burn in hell.

Scott yanked Steklov’s head to the side. There was a crack as the Russian’s neck snapped. He whirled and collapsed to the floor.

It was done.

Scott could feel it well up inside him—the rush of the kill. He felt the blood pulse in his veins. He felt the heat surge down his spine. It felt like nothing he’d ever done. And it was just that.

His eyes darted up to the rest of the room, where the operatives of the Third stood in a mix of silence and awe. Why hadn’t anyone tried to stop him? It didn’t matter. What was done was done. Now, it was time for his warning.

“This is the first Nightman I’ve killed. But if anyone else dies for their Rule, I swear to God, this won’t be the last.”

Now they knew. They knew the ultimatum. The line had been drawn, and they knew not to cross it. It was done.

Then, someone spoke—someone in EDEN. What he said made Scott’s heart stop. “But Sergei was not a Nightman!”

Those six words were all that it took. Everything in Scott’s body went numb, as he stared in shocked disbelief. “What?”

“Sergei was not a Nightman! He just came to us from Philadelphia!”

Circled around the room, several of the Third’s operatives cracked smiles. They were the same ones who’d held back their comrades. They were the same ones who’d allowed Scott to fight.

They were all Nightmen.

He staggered back against the wall. His eyes trailed down to the body. The body he’d beaten. The one he’d destroyed.

No. What they were saying was impossible. Steklov was the Nightman. He was the Nightman that Dostoevsky had given him. He was the name on the paper. It was him—he was the one Scott was supposed to kill.

When it clicked, his whole stomach fell.

Dostoevsky had never said that Steklov was the murderer. He had only given Scott Steklov’s name. Scott had assumed.

Scott felt his head as it turned heavy. Why would Dostoevsky do that? Why would he give Scott an innocent name? He had known what Scott would do. He’d known that Scott would attack. Dostoevsky’s words repeated in his head.

Do what you feel that you must. Do what you know you can live with. You will take it with you for the rest of your life.

What would he take with him for the rest of his life? The death of an innocent man? That wasn’t vindication at all—that was just murder.

Scott froze.

That was just murder.

As it came to him, he felt everything turn cold. The chill down his spine stung again. The boy on the floor had been murdered, and it was Scott who had murdered him. Scott was…

No…

Dostoevsky had said it in Scott’s room. He gave Scott Steklov’s name because Scott wanted to know it. He wanted to know it. He wanted to know who he was supposed to kill. He wanted to know who he was supposed to murder.

No. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible. That was too much, even for the Nightmen. Wasn’t it?

Scott was a man of God. There was only one thing that could push him enough to take another man’s life. Only one thing that even came close. It was the one girl they knew he would kill for. The one girl that they knew. But they knew. Scott had even given them her picture.

They knew what it was that he’d do.

He stumbled backward out of the room. He pushed his hands back through his hair. It was all to get him.

For the second time that week, Scott ran as fast as he could. He ran as hard as he could. He ran with the purpose of a man who was terrorized. And for the first time since her death, he prayed to God.

His legs only slowed when he reached the hall to Room 14. He could see its door in the distance. With every step forward, it seemed farther away. His heart fought the desire to rip itself out of his chest; his gut twisted in knots.

Then he saw them.

They walked out of Room 14 with a purposeful gait. They were two men that Scott had never seen before. But he knew who they were.

They were Nightmen.

In their hands, being pushed down the halls of the barracks on a cart, was a helmetless set of EDEN armor. As soon as they saw Scott, they slowed down. They didn’t stop. They simply allowed their gazes to rest upon him with looks of curiosity and smugness. Then they were past.

Scott’s final breath before entering Room 14 felt like the longest he’d ever taken in his life. Like the last breath of a man beneath a guillotine. His stomach sunk deep as he rounded the corner to enter.

Everyone else was already there. David. Becan. Jayden and Varvara. Max, Boris, and Oleg. Travis and Esther. The bunk room was virtually full. But their gazes were not fixed onto him. Their gazes were fixed on his closet. As soon as he saw what they saw, he fell to his knees.

Its horns proclaimed its sin with soulless malevolence. Stamped on its chest, beneath an upside-down crimson triangle, was a name. It was the name of a murderer. But this time, he knew the name well.

The name on the armor was his own. It was the armor of a fulcrum elite.

Behind Scott, the footsteps of a man approached in the hallway. They stopped in front of the door. Scott didn’t have to turn to know who it was. He recognized the voice as soon as it spoke.

“He saw you in Siberia,” Dostoevsky said. “He told me that he wanted you, for us. He told me to train you. Then he asked me what it would take.”

It was real. What Scott saw before him was real. The horns, the darkness, the damnation. His rite of passage had been fulfilled with bloodthirsty vehemence. Exactly the way they had planned it.

“You are now what you are,” said Dostoevsky. “What you have done, you must now live with. You are my brother.” The room fell silent as it was said. “You are one of us.”

Scott crumpled face first to the floor. Tears now streamed down his face. He reached out his hand, but no one took it. He cried out to God, but heard nothing but silence.

She hadn’t died for someone else. She had died for him. And he had become what had killed her.

The halls reverberated with the sobs of the lion. The devil had stolen its soul.

20

Friday, August 12, 0011 NE

EDEN Command

“All right, everyone,” said President Pauling. “Time to read the verdict. All in favor of Archer’s proposals, let’s hear it. We’ll start with Tamiko.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes,” said Iwayama beside her.

“Yes,” followed Judge Yu Jun Dao.

As the votes continued to be announced, Torokin gave the papers a final look. Everything written in them was perfect. Every situation was defined. Everything worked. He frowned as he scanned them further.

“Yes,” said Lena.

“Yes,” said Rath.

It had all been so well done. So thorough and neat. It read better than any of Kentwood’s old documents.

“Yes,” said Castellnou.

“Yes,” said Grinkov.

The voting stopped. After several seconds of silence, Torokin looked up. All eyes were solely on him.

“Leonid?” asked President Pauling.

Torokin looked at the documents once again. So intelligent. So perfect. It pained him to read.

“Judge Torokin?”

“…yes.”

Pauling smiled widely. “Excellent! Benjamin, we’ll begin immediately. You’ve done an outstanding job.”

“I’ll second that,” said Judge Blake. “This was magnificent.”

“We’ve talked about Novosibirsk a thousand times,” added Carol June. “This is the first proposition that bears any semblance to a coherent plan. It’s almost embarrassing.”

Archer returned the smiles with one in kind. “Thank you all so very much. I can’t tell you what a pleasure it’s been to contribute.”

“Let’s waste no time, then,” said Pauling. “Let’s dismiss and get prepared for our roles. Those without individual roles for this operation, your opinions are equally as valid. Feel free to keep abreast with everything going on.”

“Yes, please,” said Archer. “No one should be in the dark with this.”

“You’re dismissed.”

As the judges rose again, Grinkov beamed at Torokin. “I am proud of you, Leonid. You did something new.”

“What new thing did I do?”

“You admitted that you were wrong.”

Torokin scoffed. “When?”

“You voted for the proposition. That is admitting, is it not?”

“No, it is not.”

Grinkov looked past Torokin for a moment, then said, “Well, here comes your opportunity to do so.”

Torokin glanced back, where Archer was fast approaching. The new judge grinned from ear to ear. Torokin muttered under his breath.

“I appreciate your vote of confidence tremendously, Judge Torokin,” Archer said, as he extended his hand for the ex-Vector to take. Torokin tentatively met it. “I trust you thought the proposal was satisfactory?”

“I voted for it,” Torokin answered. “That is enough.”

“I’m so pleased that you did.”

Grinkov cleared his throat. Far behind him, but within earshot, Judge Lena watched with satisfaction.

Torokin grumbled and looked at Archer, but his eye contact lasted only seconds. “You did very good. Very good.” He pulled his hand back to his side, and he looked away. “I was wrong about you.”

“There’s no need to say that,” answered Archer. “You had your reservations, as you should’ve. And I must confess, I’ve been bold in the short time I’ve been here. But I truly believe in our cause. I want nothing more than to contribute.”

“Well, you contributed. That is good.”

Archer smiled. “Thank you so much, once again.” He offered the two Russians a final nod, then stepped back to leave. “I look forward to working with you more!” Acknowledgments were exchanged, then Archer was gone.

Lena approached them a moment later. He slapped Torokin on the back. “Did I hear what I thought I heard?”

“You heard,” Torokin mumbled as he gathered his things.

“Good job, friend!” Lena said. “That was your first step toward recovery!”

“And what am I recovering from?”

“Being a curmudgeon.”

Grinkov laughed out loud.

“What does curmudgeon mean again?” Torokin asked as he turned to walk away. “That means perfect, correct? That means excellent person?”

“Right, that’s what it means,” answered Lena sarcastically.

“Enough from you both. It is time for vodka and preferans.”

“That sounds very good,” said Grinkov. “Very, very good.” With those words, the three men took their leave of the room.

Everyone but Torokin smiled.

Further up the hall, out of range of the others, Judges Blake and Rath walked in stride. Their steps were purposefully timed. Neither man spoke to the other, and only when all the other judges—all the other judges but one—had branched off from the main corridor, did they slow.

As Benjamin Archer neared them from behind, Blake and Rath parted for him to pass through. Soon Archer walked in their midst.

His footsteps were firm. His countenance and will were unsubmissive. When he spoke, it was not the tone he’d used minutes before. It was as though he’d become someone else.

“We shall take what they give us, until the time is right,” Archer said. Blake and Rath followed silently. “Then, we shall take what we need.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

Archer lowered his chin. “Go away.” His amber stare left no room for question. The two other men nodded and changed their directions. They struck a new path down the side halls.

The man they left behind walked with conviction. He walked like he had somewhere to go. But he no longer walked like a prince.

He was the king.

* * *

Friday, August 12, 0011NE

1353 hours

Novosibirsk, Russia

Dostoevsky stopped in front of the wooden doors that led to the Inner Sanctum. Behind him, the flickers of dungeon torches—the lights of the Hall of the Fulcrums—whispered into the silence of the musty air. The sentries beside the door turned to face him.

“Let me enter,” Dostoevsky said.

There was no argument from the sentries. For a fulcrum elite, disobedience was out of the question. The wooden doors creaked open, and Dostoevsky stepped inside.

The Terror sat upon his throne in the center of the room. His dark cloak ran over the back of his chair, shrouding the arms of the throne like a veil. As soon as the doors closed behind Dostoevsky, Thoor lifted his gaze to meet him.

As soon as Dostoevsky was in front of the throne, he stood at a lethargic attention. “It is done.”

For several seconds, no answer came from the throne. There was only the remorseless stare of the general—the one who ruled The Machine. Finally, he spoke. “Then it is as I have desired.”

Dostoevsky made no response. But he did turn his head to the shadows. There was a third man there. Someone in addition to Thoor. But he was concealed in the darkness.

“What is the condition of the Fourteenth?” the general asked.

Dostoevsky sighed a heavy breath. “I was unaware of our new additions, general, but they will coalesce. Captain Clarke will not resist. He never has.”

“The rest of the unit will cooperate?”

“They have no choice.”

A moment of silence passed and Thoor lowered the tilt of his head. His eyes bore down the steps of the throne to the fulcrum commander before him. “You are distressed.”

For a brief second, Dostoevsky’s gaze flitted to the floor. It lingered on the stone masonry, before he drew in a breath and replied, “A good man died today.”

“Steklov is replaceable,” Thoor scoffed. “Insignificant. That is why he was chosen.”

Dostoevsky’s eyes remained on the floor, as the flickers of the torches danced off the shadows of the walls. “I was not talking about Steklov.”

Silence fell, to which General Thoor said nothing. Finally—without another word between them—the general stood and stomped a salute.

Dostoevsky returned it, then spun to make his leave. Before he did, however, he paused to cast a glance into the shadows—to the silhouetted man in the darkness. His gaze lingered on the shrouded observer, the man who was hidden from view. But Dostoevsky knew him. He knew him too well. His glare lingered, and he turned to depart.

The commander did not speak to the sentries as he stepped past the doors through the archway. He did not speak to his fellow Nightmen as they passed him in Hall of the Fulcrums. The commander did not speak to anyone.

Back in the inner Sanctum, the shrouded man stepped from the shadows. With familiar eyes, he watched Dostoevsky disappear. Then he turned to the throne.

“Your thoughts,” the Terror demanded.

Oleg Strakhov drew a measured breath. “This has been a strain on the Fourteenth, general. There is great animosity against Dostoevsky, as you expected. Nonetheless, all has worked according to your will.”

The general’s tone fell darker. “If Dostoevsky falls, so be it. He has a successor now.”

“They know Nijinsky.”

Thoor was silent for a moment before he responded. “Nijinsky is of little importance. He was never the one that we wanted.”

“Yes, general.” Oleg hesitated for a moment more, then stared at the throne. “They also fear that Remington will take his own life.”

Thoor rose and marched to the floor. “He will not take his own life, for the same reason you will not take yours. You know where you will go when you die.” Oleg made no response, as Thoor stood imposingly before him. “You will remain with the Fourteenth as I see necessary. If Dostoevsky shows weakness, destroy him. If Remington shows weakness…make him strong.”

“Yes, general.”

“Leave me, eidolon.”

Oleg raised his hand in salute, and the general promptly returned it. Turning to the door—still donned in his standard EDEN clothing—he strode out of the room.

Thoor returned to his throne, where he lowered into the confines of its grasp. High above the Inner Sanctum, with only the flickers of torchlight to appease him, he returned to take the reigns of the darkness. The monster.

The Machine.

* * *

Scott’s room was shrouded in blackness. Galina’s cot still sat in the corner, but she was not in it. Galina was dead. Her sendoff had taken place earlier that morning, but Scott hadn’t attended. He hadn’t known how. He wouldn’t have known what to say had someone asked him to speak—if anyone would have spoken to him at all. Only one thought reverberated through his mind.

What have I done?

He hated himself. More than anyone else. More than Nicole’s unknown killer. He hated himself for becoming one with what ended her life. Her death hadn’t justified his lust for revenge. What he’d done had been purely selfish. It was pathetic. In his vain mind, the death of her killer would have been payment for the life that was taken. Instead, he’d taken a life of his own. One as innocent as she was.

To honor her, the most courageous thing he could have done would have been to show mercy. She would have shown mercy had the situation been reversed. She would have struggled to do it, but she would have done it. She would have done it to honor him. She would have done it to honor God.

Scott had been angry with God since the day she’d been murdered. But now, Scott feared Him. He feared disconnection. He feared damnation. He feared the very thing that he now heard.

Silence.

Dostoevsky had said Scott was his brother. Though Scott could scarcely bear it, it was true. He wanted nothing more than to resist himself, to throw the horns of his armor aside. But it wouldn’t be the truth. He could no longer hold the Nightmen in judgment. Even though it had been the wrong person, Scott meant to take the life that he took. Just as they meant to take theirs. The Nightmen were sinners like him. They were sinners who’d stepped too far.

Sinners just like him.

No one visited Scott that day. No one knocked on his door. In the wake of his most horrible achievement, the only pity he endured was his own.

* * *

That evening

The lounge was unified in solemnness; death hung heavily in the air. The able operatives of the Fourteenth were there, but words were few and far between. Such had been the case since Galina’s memorial.

There were no tears shed at the sendoff. They had no tears left. There was only the quiet disbelief that came with the greatest fall the Fourteenth had ever seen.

Every table in the room was occupied. At one sat David, Becan, and Jayden. Varvara sat alone at the farthest, preoccupied with a pen and some paper. The sound of her confidential scribbling was the loudest sound in the room. Esther sat opposite Boris, though she might as well not have been there. Travis was absent; he was flying Galina’s body home.

The door to the bunk room opened, and Max’s familiar form wandered in. He stood in the doorway of the lounge moments later, where his numb gaze surveyed the room. He slid his hands into his pockets and stepped inside, leaning against the counter.

“So what’s the word?” David asked.

The room turned its attention to Max, who shook his head. “Not a thing.”

“What?”

He sighed. “Clarke never said a thing.”

“Not one bloody word?” asked Becan. The Irishman slouched back in his chair. “Why’d he even call yeh?”

“To hand me this,” Max said, pulling a folded paper from his pocket.

“An’ wha’s tha’?”

Max slid the paper away. “Our newest members. Ryvkin, Romanov, Goronok, and Broll.”

“Those are the Nightmen,” said David.

Max nodded. “Those are the Nightmen.”

No one else spoke and the room’s atmosphere became ever graver. The only constant was the sound of Varvara’s pen as it scribbled on the paper beneath her hand.

It was Esther who finally broke the silence. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she pressed her palm to her forehead. “This was all me,” she whispered. “This would never have happened if I weren’t here.”

Max snorted under his breath as he observed her. “What are you talking about?”

“If I hadn’t messed up in Khatanga, he wouldn’t have been so upset.”

“Get real,” scoffed Max. “You think you’re that important? You’re nothin’.” She winced as he spoke. “He did what he did ‘cause they killed his girl. End of story. I would’ve done it, too.”

Esther made no verbal response. Her gaze traveled only as far as the tabletop, then disconnected. The others looked at Max in disbelief.

“What?”

“Ever try not bein’ a total jerk?” Becan asked.

“What’d I say that ain’t true?”

Becan waved him off in disgust, and Max moved to the counter.

“This is all wrong,” Jayden said. “What happened was wrong.”

“Scott knows it was wrong,” said David. “That’s why he’s not here.”

“I’m not talkin’ about Scott,” said the Texan. “I’m talkin’ about what they did to him. It was wrong.”

“What Scott did was wrong, too.”

“You suck, Dave.” The operatives shot Jayden a look as he said it. “You’re supposed to be his friend, not his enemy.”

“He’s a Nightman, Jay.”

“That’s dung and you know it. They cheated to make him a Nightman.”

“How did they cheat?”

“They lied to him.”

David sighed. “Jay, you’re missing the point—”

The Texan cut him off. “You’re missin’ the point, man. The point is that you’re his friend. You can’t just decide not be his friend when he makes a mistake.”

“Jayden, you’re not even thinking about—”

“Man, shut up.”

Max pressed against the counter and cleared his throat. “I really love all this bonding we’re doing, but we’ve got some things to sort out. What are we gonna do about the Nightmen?”

“Nothing,” answered Varvara from the far table. The others turned to stare at her.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. They are part of this unit now, and that is it. We have had Nightmen before.”

“Yeah,” Max replied, “and look how well that’s worked out for us.”

She glared at him.

“Right, whatever. You’re the doc.” Max watched as she resumed her scribbling. “What’s that you’re writing? A prescription for lunacy?”

Varvara made no immediate response. Her eyes only lingered over the words on the paper, scanning them from top to bottom. Finally, just when it seemed as if Max’s question had gone unheard, she gave him his answer. “It is a letter.”

“It’s a letter? For who?”

Her eyes glided over the letter again. She hesitated in her answer, then quickly tucked the paper away. “For Scott.” She said nothing else, and Max fell silent.

No more words were exchanged in the lounge that evening. No more conversations were started. David called his wife in New York, and Jayden subsequently called his parents. Even Becan made a phone call, though its recipient was a mystery.

The Fourteenth eventually filed away, one by one, into their bunks. For many of them, it brought finality to one of the longest days they’d ever known. For all of them, it brought finality to one of the worst. That night, for the first time in the Fourteenth’s history, every operative in the bunk room said a prayer.

Even Max.

Saturday, August 13, 0011 NE

0617 hours

Morning

Scott’s eyes opened as the comm went off on his nightstand. It didn’t come as a disturbance; he hadn’t been sleeping for hours. Unlike the last time its wails had echoed through his room, however, there was now no rush to answer. He had no desire to kill something. That hole had already been filled. Reaching over to the nightstand, he clicked the comm alert off. The beeping surrendered to silence.

For the first time in his life, he felt utterly despondent. He made no effort to pray. He could not bring himself to cry. Both would have been futile.

Dostoevsky’s voice crackled over the comm. “Lieutenant…we have crashed Bakma Noboat. Ten miles south of Moscow.” The commander noticeably hesitated. “Will you come?”

Scott lay in stillness in the darkness of his room. It was the first time Dostoevsky had ever asked him that. It was the first time Dostoevsky had sounded uncertain. Scott rolled on his side and wrapped his arms around his pillow. He closed his eyes.

It could have been Nicole, right there tucked away beside him, with his arms wrapped around her body and her face nuzzled into his chest. They could have eloped by then. They could have been one.

He could not help but imagine her there. He imagined his hand gliding gently through her hair, and her murmuring as she snuggled into his side. He imagined himself kissing her on the forehead, as she lazily opened her eyes. Then she’d smile. He imagined her words. He imagined what she would have said, had she been there beside him. He imagined.

“Scott…why did you kill?”

His mind went numb.

“Why?”

That was his truth now. That was the choice he had made. He had disgraced her in death, becoming one with what had taken her. That fall was his own.

Scott sat up in his bed and pressed a hand against its frame to support himself. He eased his other hand through his hair. It was the first time Dostoevsky had ever asked—had ever given him a choice to go. Scott looked over at his closet, at the suit of armor he’d dragged there himself.

Scott knew the choice he’d made—the answer to Dostoevsky’s question. He’d chosen it before the comms ever beeped.

The Pariah was primed and ready for flight. Inside the cockpit, Travis and Boris prepared for departure.

Conversation was virtually dead. A majority of the crew sat in the troop bay, while the four new Nightmen stood outside. But they weren’t the only ones outside. Dostoevsky was there. Jayden and Becan were there. At the far end of the troop bay, Varvara and Esther stared at the hangar’s side door.

Would he come? It was the second time that week they’d asked the question. Their answer came soon enough.

When he walked into the hangar, everyone turned to face him. They wanted to find their Golden Lion. But that was not what they found.

Where there had once been an expression that burned with confidence, they now found a stare hindered in crux. Where there once had been a stride fit for a knight, they now found a tread of contrition. Where there once had been an aura of righteousness, they now found an imprint of vice.

But that was not all they found.

They found horns. They found blackness. They found sin. They found punishment for the deeds of the fallen—the cost of a murder for love. Their Golden Lion had left them.

This new man, none of them knew.

THREE DAYS LATER

Tuesday, August 16, 0011 NE

1245 hours

Vilnius, Lithuania

As she pushed open the door to her house and stepped outside, she shielded her eyes from the glare of the midday sun. It was not an unpleasant movement, and as she brushed her golden strands from her forehead, she smiled.

The day shone with splendor. The clouds of earlier that morning had now dissipated, leaving the skies like a clear blue sea. Gentle waves of wind drifted past her as the warm fragrance of summer caressed her senses. She padded barefoot to the road.

She wore a short-sleeved ecru shirt; its lacy bodice was draped over faded jeans—jeans given to her by her mother only months before. They were designer jeans, more than her mother could afford. But they were worth it for the girl who’d come home.

As she approached the mailbox in front of her house, a young boy on a bicycle pedaled past. “Will you come play with me today, beautiful princess?”

She laughed and gave him an impish look. “And make all the other girls jealous?”

The boy grinned and sped along.

She was indeed a beautiful woman; she could pass for a princess. But it had not always been that way. Her elegance had come with maturation. It had come after her childhood had passed. It felt as though it had come too late.

There was a coldness inside her. There was a distance to her heart. She knew it, and she tried hard to fight it. But it was who she was. She was a girl with an invisible wall—one she’d built up in her youth. Only two men had been able to scale it. The first man was gone. The second man wasn’t allowed to count.

She pulled open the mailbox and looked inside, tucking her hair behind her ear as she did. It was empty. There were no letters, no papers. There was nothing at all.

Easing the mailbox shut, she turned and walked back to the house. She allowed herself one extra moment to soak in the sun’s rays that poured down above her. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and smiled. It was warmth that she’d missed. It was warmth that she’d missed more than anything. The feeling had yet to grow old.

She stepped inside and made her way to the kitchen. An older woman—a woman in her sixties—was sitting at the table. She was reading the paper. It was her mother.

“Mama, did you get the mail today?” the daughter asked in Russian.

Her mother turned to look at her. “Yes.” She indicated the far end of the table. “The mail is right there.”

“Is there anything for me?”

For a moment, the older woman hesitated. “Yes.” As the daughter stepped to the table to find her letter, her mother’s eyes lingered on her. Only when her daughter had begun to rummage through the pile did the mother speak once again. “It is from Novosibirsk.”

The daughter froze in her search. Her eyes moved to her mother as she held the stack of letters in her hand. “From Novosibirsk?”

“Yes.”

The young woman’s gaze distanced for a moment before she returned to the stack. After several more flips, she found the letter with her name. She recognized its sender immediately—she knew the handwriting well.

She stared at it for several long seconds before placing the stack back on the table. She offered her mother a brief, forced smile, then quickly fled from the kitchen. She made her way up the stairs to her bedroom, where she closed and locked the door.

Her bedroom was painted sunflower yellow, with white molding along the ceiling and floor. She’d painted it herself, very recently. Though the paint’s fresh scent had since passed, the room nonetheless smelled brand new. Souvenirs and photographs lined the dressers, with an occasional bright-colored sticker pasted between them. Everything was set up in a girlish display, but it was one that she liked. She enjoyed the memory of youth. It reminded her of a time when life was innocent.

Before Novosibirsk was ever a thought.

She pulled open the curtains of her bedroom window, allowing sunlight to warm her through the glass. Sitting on her bed, she crossed her legs and held the letter in front of her. She had an impulse not to open it—an urge not to know. But her fingers persuaded her otherwise.

She opened the envelope, slipped out the letter, and slowly unfolded it.

To my dear friend,

I am sorry I have not written you sooner. I hope that everything is well.

There is something I have to tell you. I do not know how to say it, and I do not know how you will feel, but I know it must be said.

Things have been bad for us here. I am so sorry to write this. Galya has died. She was killed at Lake Baikal. I write to tell you this, but I write to tell you something else, too.

Scott’s fiancee came here to visit him, but the Nightmen killed her. She was dead in his arms. I was there.

I do not know how to say what has happened, but I must try. He has become one of them. He tried to avenge her death, but killed an innocent man instead. Yuri lied to him to get him to murder.

I fear for him and this unit. I have never seen a man fall like this. His hurt is destroying us all.

He is not the man whom you knew. But he can be saved. I know what he needs to be saved, but I cannot do it. I do not know if any of us here can. We do not understand what he feels. I do not know what else I can do.

I cannot find it in me to ask you. But I suppose you already know. Only one other person has lost love here. Only one other knows how he hurts. Please, Sveta. Remember him. It is he who now needs a hero.

I am sorry I have not written sooner. Please forgive me. Please tell your mother hello.

Your dear friend,

Varvara

She read through the whole letter without stopping. Then she read it again. As she focused on each single word, a fondness recaptured her heart—a pain that had never truly gone away. It was of someone who had once saved her life, and of the debt that was yet to be paid. It was the one who wasn’t allowed.

If you will be there for me, I will be there for you. I promise.

She read the letter over and over, until she could read it no more. She read until her vision went blurry. Until her ocean-blue eyes overflowed.

E P I C * B O O K 3

HERO

www.epicuniverse.com

WANNA TALK ABOUT IT? SO DO WE.

The Official Epic Community Message Board

Located at www.epicuniverse.com/forums/

For series updates, exclusive interviews, and insider

material, be sure to register with the Epic mailing list!

Sign up under the Community section of:

www.epicuniverse.com

GET YOUR GEAR ON.

www.epicuniverse.com/purchase.html

Acknowledgments

Many noteworthy acknowledgments were made in book one, and they apply here as well.

To God, for loving me when I don’t deserve it, and for making me who I am. You are everything.

To my fiancee, Lindsey, for standing with me throughout this endeavor. Thank you for saying yes! I love you.

To my family and friends, thank all of you for your support. You’re the backbone behind my creative confidence, and I cherish every one of you.

To my four-person production team of Arlene Prunkl, Fiona Raven, Francois Cannels, and Justin Durban, thanks once again for your tremendous efforts. Without you, this series doesn’t happen.

To Mike Eckert, once again, for always being willing to lend a helping hand.

To Ken Rousseau, for setting me straight medically and proving that, as is often the case, reality is more fascinating than fiction.

To Robert Fanney, for your wisdom, friendship, and encouragement. Luthiel would rock with an assault rifle!

To Robert Osborne and Adamma Ubasineke, for setting me straight with those names.

To Earl and Denise, for your constant encouragement and behind-the-scenes involvement.

To Aaron Spuler, for being an incredible fan and friend. Your excitement blows me away!

To the TBBBB, once again, for being as unbelievably supportive as you’ve been. You guys and gals are out of this world. I’m still not converting, though (who dat!).

And once again, to every fan who picked up book one, thank you tremendously for your willingness to take a chance on an unknown author. We’re just getting started.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lee Stephen is a native of St. Charles Parish, Louisiana, and a graduate of Louisiana College in Pineville. Along with writing, he has worked in the fields of education, entertainment, and emergency preparedness.

To read Lee’s Christian testimony, please visit his website at http://www.epicuniverse.com/testimony/.

Table of Contents

Start