Epic: Dawn of Destiny

by Lee Stephen

A ray of hallway light cut through the darkness of the room. As it widened, the four men poked their heads into their new home. It took several seconds for their eyes to adjust, but soon the features of the room came into view. It was not the view they expected, or wanted, to see. Bunks. Rows and rows of bunks. Slumbered breaths reverberated through the room, and Jayden summed up the scene. “Barracks,” he whispered. “B-1…barracks number one.”

  A groggy voice mumbled in the blackness. Scott eased the door shut, then turned to stare at his comrades.

  “Aw, man,” Jayden said.

  Scott almost laughed. If not for the fact that he was cold, wet, and miserable, he might have laughed out loud. “We’re going to have to sneak in and find empty bunks. We might end up on the floor tonight.”

  Becan snorted. “If I were mad, I would!”

  “Would you rather sleep out here in the hall?”

  Becan’s gaze narrowed. “Righ’, well how abou’ this? I’m knackered an’ wrecked as all bloody hell, an’ I don’t exactly consider barrelin’ around in me underrods with a bunch o’ torn off Russian hardchaws suckin’ ion.”

  “First of all,” Scott answered, “I have no idea what you just said. Second of all, whatever it was, I don’t think there’s anything we can do about it.”

  Becan opened his mouth to reply, but Jayden cut him off. “We’re all tired, man. We’re all freezin’, we’re all soakin’ wet, but the thing said we’re in Room 14, and Room 14 is right here. Personally, I don’t care if I get those people mad or not. I’m draggin’ tired, and they didn’t just fly across the world after packin’ up everything they own at the drop of a hat. If they have a problem they can talk to their supervisor, but it ain’t my problem. Let’s just find some hot showers, get warmed up, and find beds. All right?”

  Becan eyed Jayden for a moment and remained silent for just as long, before he drew in a breath and gave a single nod. “Yeah. All righ’.”

  Jayden nodded, and David cleared his throat. “Let’s find some showers, then,” he said. “Do we all have dry clothes?” The other three men motioned to their duffle bags. “Okay. Let’s get warmed up before we catch hypothermia.”

  They ventured as a group throughout the maze of hallways, though soon realized that there was no shower room to be found. They explored every inch of the building, on both the ground level and sublevel, but came across only sporadically placed restrooms. After twenty minutes in search, they settled on a dark corner of their floor, where they removed their wet clothes and changed into multiple layers of dryer, warmer outfits. Through the entire ordeal, the corridors stayed secluded and silent. Once they were in dry clothes, they returned to Room 14.

  Upon entrance to the room, they discovered that, though not spacious, there was sufficient space between the bunks to allow reasonable movement. A brief count by Scott revealed twelve bunks, in four rows of three, half of which were occupied. The quest for a place to shower came to a conclusion as well, as they discovered three open stalls along the far side of the room, all of which drained through holes in the floor. Only beige curtains sheltered the stalls from the rest of the room.

  After a brief search, they found two empty bunks on the far side of the room, one next to the other. They set their bags on the floor, claimed their mattresses, then nestled warmly under their covers. Jet lag was not an issue that night, as they all fell asleep in a matter of minutes.

  12

  Wednesday, April 13th, 0011 NE

  0510 hours

  Becan had never felt so tired. He had never felt so out of it. As his eyes squinted and opened, a cold head-rush washed across his brain. What time was it? He had no idea. He knew it must have been early still—the windowless room was still dim. His head rang. He could hear the constant tone assault his ears. Russia? Why the hell were they in Russia? It felt like a dream, and for a moment he wondered if it might have been. No. It was real. Yesterday really did happen, and today he was halfway across the globe.

  He muttered under his breath as he pressed a palm against his forehead. He knew he was out of it. He could feel it in his equilibrium. It felt as if he just awoken from a merry-go-round. He continued to squint between partially opened eyes. It was painful. God. He felt like a miserable dog. He felt cold. None of them had been given the chance to warm themselves before they snuck into bed, and now it showed. No bloody showers, Becan thought. Don’t want to wake up the bloody Russians, do we? His palm pressed harder into his forehead as he clenched his teeth. Bollocks. I’m takin’ me bloody shower. Drag ‘em to hell.

  Still groggy-eyed and disoriented, Becan twisted over to the side of the bed and set his feet on the floor. It was frigid. It was absolutely frigid. He drew in a breath and pushed up. He could hear the constant tone in his head still; it was as if this were a hangover that had nothing to do with alcohol. It was a sleepover. He grumbled at the thought of the word as he stumbled forward and to the showers.

  Trashin’ Russians, he thought. Trashin’ Russians and their stupid trashin’ barracks. One foot in front of the other. One heavy thump forward after the next. His vision was blurry. The tone in his ears still rung. Trashin’ Russians. He reached forward with reckless abandon and whisked open the curtain.

  She whipped her wet head around as soon as the curtains exposed her. Her eyes shot open as the downpour of water plastered her golden locks to the sides of her face. Becan gasped. She screamed.

  “Ahh!” Becan back-peddled and stumbled onto the floor in an explosion of thumps and bangs.

  Scott jolted up from his bed as the shower curtain was yanked shut. “What in the world?” Several others had leapt up around him, and he focused his attention to the floor, where Becan was a tangled mess.

  “I decided to take a bloody shower,” Becan grumbled.

  Scott gaped across at the showers in time to see a green towel jerk down from behind the shower stall.

  Russian words were mumbled out loud from farther back in the room. The woman behind the curtain yelled something back as the showerhead twisted off.

  What time was it? Everything felt like a blur. Seconds ago, Scott had been off in some distant dream, none of which he could remember now. And now, crashing, yelling, people suddenly rousing all over…it was too early for this. Was it too early for this?

  “God,” Becan said as he staggered to a stand. “Top o’ the mornin’ to yis.”

  Scott blinked as a woman dressed only in undergarments stormed out from behind the shower. A towel whisked through her wet hair as she glared at Becan, and Russian fury poured from her mouth.

  Before she could finish her spiel, a male voice farther back in the room cut her off. “Zatknis, Sveta.” More Russian ensued.

  “English!” someone hollered. “Speak English, you Commies!”

  The Russian voice groaned. “I said it’s almost time to get up anyway.”

  The Richmond transfers cringed as an overhead light flicked on, and various men and women slid out of their bunks. They made their way toward a long closet that ran along the wall opposite the showers. Scott droned in his morning-deep voice, “What’s going on?”

  David rubbed his eyes as he sat up. “I think…we just woke up.”

  Scott pushed a hand through his unkempt hair and regarded David. “Were we supposed to wake up?”

  “I want to sleep,” mumbled Jayden from beneath his covers.

  Scott’s attention returned to Becan. “What in the world were you doing?”

  “Nothin’!” Becan said. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

  “How do you do, gentlemen?”

  The new voice came from directly behind them. It was a voice laden with a distinct British dialect. Scott, David, and Becan turned to face it, where they found a brown-haired man dressed in an officer’s uniform. After a brief moment of scrutiny, Scott saw that he was a captain. The captain offered a courteous smile as he trained his eyes on Jayden’s bunk, where the Texan was still completely beneath the covers.

  “Aah,” Becan sa
id as he jerked the covers from atop Jayden. “Get up.”

  Jayden mumbled something inaudible, then raised his head. When he saw the captain, he briskly sat upright.

  “Sorry,” the captain said. “It looks like you’ve all had a rough night. You needn’t beetle around the room getting organized, but do get showered and get into uniform as soon as you’re able. When you’ve finished, please join us through that door.” He pointed to a door along the back wall, where several Russian operatives were already passing through. The four transfers nodded as the captain excused himself and made his own way through the indicated doorway.

  By the time they had woken up, taken showers, and donned their uniforms, they were the only four left in the bunk room. Everyone else had passed through the indicated door. As soon as Scott stepped through it, he realized what it was.

  It was a small lounge, complete with a culinary counter and several tables, all of which had a full complement of occupied chairs. The mingled smell of tea and coffee floated through the air as conversation in both English and Russian bustled, accompanied by an occasional burst of laughter. Scott noticed right away that there were no other doors in the room—it must have been specifically designed for this unit. He wondered if every unit had its own lounge.

  They stood in the doorway for several moments before the captain noticed them. He regarded them with a proper smile. “I see you’ve finally got up and about then? Welcome to the lounge. While you’re in here, there’s no need for formalities. We wouldn’t survive without a casual atmosphere once in a while.” Scott nodded, and he and his comrades assumed more at-ease postures. Scott allowed his eyes to scan the operatives clustered around the tables.

  Smiles were few and far between. Most of their expressions were blank, with the captain a rare exception. The only other familiar face belonged to the blond-haired woman from the shower, whose pointed glare narrowed at Becan.

  The captain continued. “I’m sorry, you four must be zonked out…I’ll go ahead and explain to you why you’re here. Just to be certain…you are David Jurgen, Becan McCrae, Scott Remington, and Jayden Timmons, correct?”

  They nodded.

  “Brilliant,” the captain said. “As you may or may not be aware, Novosibirsk Command are in the process of restocking our base. A few units, ourselves included, have received entirely new sections in addition to the personnel already in place. You’re ours. I apologize that your transfer seems to have come in quite the inconvenient manner for you, but you’re here, and that’s all that matters now.”

  He motioned his head to the nearest table of operatives. “I suppose introductions are in order.” Introductions. A whole new unit. Scott had just become comfortable with everyone back in Charlie Squad. “At my right is Gamma Private Fox Powers, our only resident sniper until now.” Scott glanced toward Fox. He was a tanned, black-haired individual. His expression was stoic, yet not uninviting. He fit as a sniper.

  “Technician and Delta Trooper Matthew Axen, otherwise known as Max…” Scott’s attention swung to Max. He was a taller American with short dirty blond hair, complemented by a thick brush of five o’clock shadow. There was something else that stood out about him, though. His eyes. They locked onto Scott with a pointed stare. More than a stare. Almost angered. Before Scott could scrutinize it further, Clarke went on.

  “Delta Trooper Travis Navarro, our pilot.”

  Travis. There was an amiable look to Travis. It was an ordinary look. Brown hair, brown eyes, not overly handsome or repulsive. Ordinary. The pilot smiled and tipped his head.

  “And Beta Private Kevin Carpenter.”

  Another average looking, somewhat smaller man.

  “At the next table is Commander Ivan Baranov, our second in command…”

  There came the change. Baranov was massive. Larger than General Thoor. His dark crew cut was trimmed to perfection; it was completely militant. There was another distinct feature about him. His uniform…it was different. It was dark, almost free of emblems. Except for a red triangle. A Nightman. Baranov nodded as Clarke continued.

  “Lieutenant Yuri Dostoevsky.”

  Smaller. But just as militant as Baranov. Maybe more so. His eyes stood out. They were blue, yet they pierced toward the transfers with bridled fury. Not…not toward the transfers. Toward Scott. Dostoevsky too was a Nightman.

  “Lieutenant Anatoly Novikov, our head technician.” Less stout than the previous two Russian officers. Blond-haired, blue eyed. Handsome. Another Nightman. The three officers beneath the captain, all Nightmen. Scott looked around at the other tables. Everyone else was standard EDEN.

  “Beta Private Konstantin Makarovich, otherwise known as Kostya.” Scott watched Kostya. He was young. Younger than…was he younger than Jayden? Kostya smiled as he waved.

  “And Beta Private Boris Evteev, our final technician.” There were three technicians in the unit. That was different from Charlie. This unit was more versatile, perhaps all-purpose. Boris tipped his mop of curly black hair to them as the captain directed to the final table.

  “And at our very last table are the three women you don’t want to see, because if you do, that means something’s gone gammy.” He nodded to the first woman. It was the blond-haired woman from before. The one from the shower. “We have Delta Trooper Svetlana Voronova, our chief medic…”

  She was beautiful. Despite the daggers in her eyes. Her body was gracefully athletic, and her cascade of golden-blond hair fell damply to her shoulders. As soon as she was mentioned, Dostoevsky murmured in her direction. The men around him chuckled.

  “Zatknis,” she spat back.

  The captain went on. “And her medical staff. Gamma Private Galina Lebesheva.” Galina seemed the oldest of the three women. She might have been as old as David. Her hair was shorter, almost butch. Definitely butch. But her body was toned. She smiled cordially, but was otherwise uninspirational.

  “And Beta Private Varvara Yudina.” Varvara had blond hair as well, though slightly longer and slightly darker than Svetlana’s. And unlike Svetlana’s shoulder-length bob, Varvara’s hair was curly. As she smiled, two miniscule dimples emerged from her cheeks. Scott tilted his head and grinned. She really smiled. No daggers, no cordiality. Genuine. He liked her already.

  The captain stood abrupt. “And I am Captain Nathan Clarke, your commanding officer. We make up the Fourteenth. When we asked for additional operatives, I must admit I was slightly concerned when I heard they were sending us men not even a month out of the Academy, but when I looked at your records and what you did in Chicago, I was most impressed.” Clarke’s focus shifted to Scott. “Congratulations on your promotion to gamma private, and for the Golden Lion. I know that’s only a medal, but, well, it’s never been earned like this before. We’re going to expect a lot out of you, out of all of you. You’ve all earned excellent marks from your superiors at Richmond. Now…I know Remington from the news…who else is who?”

  David, Becan, and Jayden briefly introduced themselves. They were met with continued apathy from the tables. Aside from a handful—Clarke, Travis, Varvara—perhaps one or two others, it was a relatively cold reception.

  “Welcome to the Fourteenth,” Clarke said. “There are a few things I still need to discuss with you, so I’ll go ahead and tend to that right now. The rest of you may go about your business,” he said to the other operatives. “We won’t hold a session this morning.”

  A sporadic round of affirmations murmured forth as the operatives rose and filed out of the room. Several of them nodded in departure to the four transfers. Most just walked by without acknowledging them. After several moments, the lounge was clear.

  Clarke waited several seconds before he stepped to the door, closed it, and sighed. “That was a giggle.” He smiled half-heartedly and meandered to one of the tables.

  “Have a seat, please.” They joined him as he sat down.

  “I’m sorry. I wish I could say that your arrival here will be a fantastic opportunity for you, but I’m not sure tha
t’d be entirely honest. Any rumors you’ve heard about Novosibirsk are probably true. This place is a hellhole, and a tense one at that.”

  Scott was puzzled—this was different. The atmosphere shifted from the confines of the military to the casual sensation of a fireside chat.

  “I’m sure you were given a proper greeting when you first arrived.”

  A proper greeting? He had to be talking about the general meeting them on the airstrip. How did he know about that? “Do you mean General Thoor, sir?”

  “Yes, General Thoor. He personally meets every individual who sets foot on this base. He and his Nightmen.”

  David spoke up for the first time. “I thought the Nightmen were disbanded years ago. Why are they working with EDEN?”

  “The Nightmen aren’t working for EDEN,” Clarke answered. “They never have and they never will. They officially don’t even exist, but they’re still here. When Novosibirsk opened her doors, a lot of Nightmen flocked here to sign up. Thoor was already well known in the Nightman circuit, so when he got the role of general, it was added incentive to join. Make no mistake…this base may be owned by EDEN, but it’s run by the Nightmen.”

  “Why doesn’t EDEN stop it?” David asked. “Why don’t they enforce their own regulations?”

  “Because Thoor is too effective to risk losing,” Clarke answered. “And they know he wouldn’t readily give up Novosibirsk without a fight.”

  Without a fight? Was Thoor an EDEN general or a madman? “You mean to tell me he’d fight EDEN?”

  “Abso-bloody-lutely. But that will never happen. He stays within EDEN guidelines just enough to keep Command out of his business. They’re not going to risk losing Novosibirsk over which uniform he and his men decide to wear.”

  Scott shot a look in the direction of the lounge door, still closed. He couldn’t help but wonder if all new arrivals got this conversation.

  “How many Nightmen are there, sir?” Becan asked.

  Clarke shifted in his chair. “This facility has slightly over ten thousand operatives…I’d say about three thousand of those are former Nightmen.”