by Lee Stephen
“It’s their bodies, man,” Joe said. “It’s not that they got pretty faces…they just got some fine bodies. All that exercise.”
“Becan can tell you all about their bodies,” said David slyly.
Scott laughed. “Or at least Svetlana’s.”
Becan leaned back with a grin spread across his face. “Yeh just jealous. All o’ yeh.”
William looked around, puzzled.
“It’s nothin’,” Becan said. “Inside joke.”
“Hey guys,” Cole interrupted, “what time is it?”
Joe and William looked at their watches. Joe jumped up. “Oh veck, we got to go.”
“What is it?” Scott asked.
“We got a meeting at 8:30. It’s 8:15.”
Scott watched as Joe, William, and Cole pushed back from their chairs and picked up their trays.
“It was great talking to you guys,” Joe said. “Not a whole lot of Americans here if you haven’t noticed already.”
“Yeah,” William said. “We’re the only Americans in the Eighth and we’re a pretty Americanized unit. I think the Fourteenth is, too…how many you got in yours again?”
Scott had to think about that one. Jayden answered immediately. “Eight, counting us.” Scott was surprised. That was quick…he couldn’t even remember half of their new comrades’ names. Leave it to a sniper.
“Oh wow,” Joe said. “That’s a lot…that might be more than in any other unit here. I mean…we got a lot, and we only got three.”
“If you count Clarke, that’s nine English people,” Jayden said.
“Wow.”
Silence spanned the table for a second, and waves and handshakes were exchanged.
“Great meeting you guys,” William said.
Scott smiled. “Same here. We’ll see you around, right?”
“I’m sure of it.”
It wasn’t until the three men of the Eighth turned to leave that Scott fully took in William’s size. He towered above Joe and Cole as if they were children. He may not have beaten Captain Williams back at the Academy, but Scott was sure it must’ve been one beautiful fight.
Scott, David, Becan, and Jayden remained in the cafeteria together for a good while, as they talked about the conversation with their new-found friends. The Murder Rule was the primary topic. They found it astounding that such a rule existed, and more astounding that EDEN did nothing about it. The entire atmosphere of Novosibirsk took on a darker, evil persona. No part of it felt more evil than General Thoor.
The hours that followed were spent in personal endeavors, as they took valuable time to explore the base. If William was correct, they were destined for a fight later that evening. They weren’t sure whether to look forward to that or not.
13
Tuesday, April 13th, 0011 NE
1700 hours
When they rendezvoused with the Fourteenth in the gym at 1700 hours, they discovered that William had been right. The unit was gathered around an open area on the floor—a sparring circle. It was a fight night. As they approached, Scott tried to associate faces with names. Clarke. He knew Clarke easily. Ivan Baranov was the one William and Joe had spoken of earlier—the tank. He would be hard to forget now. As they neared the sparring circle, Clarke addressed them.
“How goes it, gentlemen? Glad to see you’ve found us. Today we’re going to partake in some hand-to-hand combat training.”
Scott’s gaze deviated from Clarke slightly. Svetlana stood out, equally for her beauty and the memory of her exposure to Becan in the shower. If not for Nicole, Scott would have been jealous. Maybe he still was, just a little bit. No—that wasn’t allowed. Then there was Travis Navarro. The pilot. He was the most average-looking individual, yet his identity stuck in Scott’s mind. Perhaps because he seemed friendly. Clarke continued.
“We dedicate each and every Wednesday to that very thing, as I’m sure you’ll grow accustomed. I’m sure you’ve all had your share of free sparring in the Academy, and Richmond as well. The same rules apply here. No ropes, no ring, no mat…just the floor and some space.”
For the life of him, he couldn’t remember the two lieutenants beneath Clarke and Baranov. One of their names started with a D. D…something. He remembered Varvara Yudina well, the youngest medic. She flashed a cute smile at them. It was very engaging.
“You won’t have a mat beneath you when you find yourself face to face with a Ceratopian,” Clarke said, “so you haven’t got one here either, sorry. All right ladies and gentlemen…please prepare yourselves.”
As Scott geared up with the rest of the unit, his mind continued to compare the Fourteenth’s faces with his memory. He couldn’t remember the medic with the butch haircut. He remembered Boris Evteev, the technician with the black beard. He remembered Fox Powers, the sniper. And Max. Something about Max had embedded itself in his mind. It was the way Max had looked him over when he was introduced to the unit. Was it anger? How could it be? He didn’t even know Scott. Before he realized it, he was fully equipped in proper sparring attire, and so was everyone else. He joined them in preparatory stretches.
Scott surveyed the room, when William Harbinger caught his eye. The giant demolitionist stood in the distance, where a crowd gathered to observe. God, William was huge. He stood out like a titan.
As soon as everyone was finished, Clarke began. “We might as well hold a proper initiation since we’ve got newcomers to the unit. Typically, we all just partner up on our own and spar as we wish, though occasionally I like to do specific bouts, as we’ll do today. Here’s how we’ll run things this evening. I’ll have each of our new arrivals, McCrae, Remington, Jurgen, and Timmons match up against three operatives. They shall act as a tag team, while you,” he motioned to the operatives, “remain in the ring alone. They are free to tag as often as they’d like.”
Three-on-one? That was worse than mean. It was disgustingly awkward. They hadn’t even met everyone yet, they hadn’t had a single conversation with anyone other than Clarke. Now they were going to fight them three-on-one? Scott didn’t like that idea at all. Maybe it would bond them. Somehow, he doubted it.
“I’ll just observe today,” Clarke said. “I’d like to see how the four of you handle yourselves. Any questions?”
Tension prevailed.
“Very well then. Anyone care to offer themselves out first?”
Scott stared at David, Becan, and Jayden. They all stared back at him, then at each other. None of them said a word. Scott almost laughed. He didn’t know who the first fool to volunteer himself would be, but it sure wasn’t going to be him.
“Well then, let’s observe Remington first, if he’ll please. I’m curious to see how the Golden Lion composes himself.”
Scott’s eyes rolled shut. Typical. Four transfers. Three-to-one odds of not being the one singled out. It figured.
“Lieutenant Dostoevsky, please give the good gamma private a run, will you?”
Dostoevsky. That was the D-name. Yuri Dostoevsky. Like the old Russian writer.
Dostoevsky nodded as he stood. “Yes sir.” He scanned the rest of the unit. “Does anyone want to fight Remington?”
There was no hesitation, as Max leapt to his feet. “I do.”
Max stepped into the circle. What was it with him? That response was a little too immediate to be general submission.
Dostoevsky smirked in Max’s direction. “Anyone else?” No response came, and he motioned to Varvara. “Varya, come.”
The cute one with the compelling smile. Scott didn’t want to have to fight her.
“Da, lieutenant,” Varvara answered as she stood and stepped to the circle.
Scott flinched as David and Becan slapped his back. The support was a good touch, but he knew what they were thinking. They were glad it wasn’t them.
Scott stepped to the center of the circle. Dostoevsky spoke again. “Max will go first, I will follow, then Varya. Ready?”
Scott nodded. “Yes sir.” He was as ready as he’d ever be. A
ll EDEN cadets went through sparring drills in Philadelphia. This couldn’t be much different. Max was tall, athletic. Experienced. He’d be a good fight. Max approached the center of the circle, where his eyes locked onto Scott’s. That familiar gleam was there again. Scott recognized it. It wasn’t anger. It was hatred.
“Ready,” Max said.
Dostoevsky nodded. “Go. Tag if you need to, Max.”
Scott bounced as soon as Dostoevsky spoke. His eyes focused on Max, who lightened on his feet as well. From beyond the circle, Scott heard Becan’s chant.
“Come on, Remmy, take him down…”
Attack first. Take the initiative. Scott danced forward to jab in Max’s direction. Experimental jabs. Testing Max’s speed. Max was sure to do the same.
Or not. As soon as Scott’s first half-speeded jab reached out, Max slammed it out of the way and cracked his fist against Scott’s face. Before Scott could register a reaction, he was hammered with a dead-solid hook. His feet buckled. He fell backward to the floor.
From the edge of the circle, Becan, David, and Jayden cringed.
Scott finally found his focus and stared at Max. That wasn’t an attack. That was a passion. His gaze narrowed as he pushed to his feet. That was a bad start. A rushed start. Now he’d be more tactical. He cocked his arm and prepared for another jab. Another half-speeded pop. A decoy. As soon as Max stepped forward to intercept, as he had before, Scott withdrew the jab, bent to the side, and slammed his other fist into the side of Max’s headgear.
Becan pumped his fist at the edge of the circle.
Before Max could regain his footing, Scott sent a left hook straight into his face. Max stumbled and fell onto the floor.
They exchanged glares, and Max slammed himself to a stand. He leered and gritted his teeth. “All right…” As soon as he was up, Max started forward and stomped on the ground. Scott flinched. Max attacked. The next thing Scott knew, Max was upon him. His fists struck ahead as Scott tried to counter them. Scott blocked a jab. Max popped him in the cheek. Scott parried an uppercut. Max pounded him in the ribs. For every attack that Scott blocked, Max landed another. Scott never had a second to retaliate.
What was going on? This wasn’t an exercise. This was a brawl. No one in training attacked like this. Scott was pushed to the edge of the ring as his defenses faltered. The next thing he knew, Max grabbed him around the waist and hurled him back toward the center of the circle.
Scott skidded to the ground and spun his head around. Then it happened. Something slammed into his face. His lips erupted. His vision blacked. He flopped flat on his back.
It didn’t take long for his senses to reemerge, and for him to realize what happened. Max had kicked him in the face. Max had kicked him in the face while he was on the ground. Everything about practice etiquette just flew out the window.
Get up. You have to get up.
Scott staggered to his feet, but Max was on him. He grabbed Scott’s head with both hands and slung him around and away. Scott’s feet tripped up, and he fell at the edge of the ring. Before Max could attack again, Dostoevsky’s voice broke the fight.
“Tag.”
Max glared at Dostoevsky, then leaned his mouth next to Scott’s ear. “Nice work, Golden Lion,” he spat under his breath. He shoved at Scott’s head, then strolled to the edge of the circle.
“Get ready, Remington,” Dostoevsky said.
Scott couldn’t even think straight, despite his slow rise from the floor. What just happened? He got his tail torn off, that’s what happened. God, his jaw hurt. No time for that. Only time for Dostoevsky.
Dostoevsky.
As soon as Scott moved to face the lieutenant, the attack was there. A jab stung him in the face. Scott flew back, and the assault followed. Face. Chest. Ribs. Strike after strike, Dostoevsky pushed Scott to the edge of the ring again. The lieutenant was fast. Faster than Max. More painful than Max.
He had to do something. Defend yourself! Even an effort was better than a total beating. He mustered his pride and surged forward with a fist. Dostoevsky snatched it in mid-flight. His fingers curled around it, and he twisted it. A simple, effortless twist. The pain was electric. It sparked through Scott’s body like ten thousand volts, and he found himself completely paralyzed, arm outstretched and pathetic like a captive, helpless fool. Dostoevsky’s grip tightened, then he swept Scott’s feet out from under him.
A groan emerged from the crowd of spectators.
Scott clutched his wrist and pushed to his feet. This was bad. This was total shame. Defend yourself, you idiot! Fight back! He struck out again, though his wrist was grabbed again in mid-flight. Dostoevsky flicked it, and Scott flipped flat on his back with a loud thud.
His spine throbbed, but there was no time to register the pain. Dostoevsky kicked him in the face, just as Max had, then stomped on his chest and stomach with vehement force. Nightman force.
Scott’s head rolled backward and he rasped, his breathing uneven. He couldn’t move. Everything hurt. Everything felt battered. He knew he was bleeding, he could feel blood oozing from his lips and his eyebrow. His body was bruised. It was over.
Dostoevsky murmured something to Varvara, then he stepped past Clarke. “This is a joke.”
Clarke half-frowned.
The next touch Scott felt wasn’t a kick to the face, or a foot to the stomach. It was a hand as it slid gently beneath his head and neck. Varvara. He hadn’t wanted to fight her, and now he didn’t have to. What happened? How could this have happened? This all had to be a dream.
She slipped Scott’s headgear off him and rolled it to the side. As Scott opened his eyes for the first time since he last fell, she smiled at him. It wasn’t quite the cute smile she had given him before. Now it was a smile of apology. The Fourteenth watched in silence as she aided him upright, then to a stand.
A joke. That’s what he was now, so said his new lieutenant. He was a joke in front of everybody…his friends, his new unit, even William and everyone who had observed this disgrace of a fight. Scott wanted to disappear. To be dug down in a hole would have been to dwell in paradise. Sheer determination allowed him to carry himself out the circle, though Varvara remained at his side the entire way. He lowered himself to a seat, and she took one beside him. The apologetic smile remained as she slid a cloth to his lips and dabbed away the blood. Scott’s gaze remained downcast to the floor.
Clarke finally spoke up. “I’m very sorry…that was one of the most heartfelt initiations I’ve seen in my life….” Silent tension hung in the air. Nobody said a word, until Clarke resumed. “Anyone care to go next, please?”
Becan hopped to his feet, slid on his headgear, and trotted into the ring. “I do.”
Scott blinked as he watched Becan. That eagerness…why?
Clarke opened his mouth, but thought the better of it and stifled his words. He cleared his throat and turned to Lieutenant Novikov. “Very well then. Anatoly, will you please entertain the good beta?”
Lieutenant Novikov—the third Nightman—nodded. “Yes, captain.” He rose and motioned to Travis, the pilot, and Boris Evteev, the technician. “Come. Either of you want to go first?”
Becan cleared his throat before they could answer. “All.”
Novikov shot a look to him. “What?”
“All three. Same time.”
Scott couldn’t believe it. Becan wanted to fight all three of them at the same time? Was he insane?
Clarke laughed. “I’m sorry, but you can’t be serious.”
“Am are, sir,” Becan answered.
Clarke and Novikov eyed one another; everyone else stared at Becan in astonishment. Farther away with the rest of the spectators, William Harbinger looked impassive.
Clarke half-smiled. “Well, if he desires a three-on-one punch up, by all means give him one.”
Scott watched Becan as he made his way into the circle on the floor. Travis and Boris weren’t Nightmen, but Novikov was. Becan was up to something. He had to be up to something. If he
wasn’t, then he had lost his mind.
Novikov, Travis, and Boris grouped themselves into a semicircle in front of Becan, who tilted his head to flex his neck muscles. Otherwise, he seemed unprepared. No other stretches, no loosening up. Nothing.
“Are you ready?” Novikov asked.
“Yes sir,” Becan answered as he assumed a loose stance. His eyes darted to the edge of the ring, where they found Svetlana. He winked at her.
“Go.”
Before Travis or Boris could acknowledge with a yes sir, Becan leapt at Lieutenant Novikov and flung his foot through the air. It collided with Novikov’s face. Novikov spun in a circle and dropped to the floor.
Svetlana gasped.
Next, Becan lunged at Boris, grabbed him by his headgear, and punched him square in the face. A mist of red exploded from Boris’s lips as he stumbled out of the arena.
Jayden’s jaw dropped. “Holy God.”
As Novikov stammered and attempted to stand, Travis thrust a fist at Becan from behind. Becan swirled around, snatched it in mid-flight, and balanced against it as he popped three kicks at the pilot’s cheek. Travis teetered as a final kick slammed into his chest. He toppled to the ground.
Novikov had staggered to his feet, but before he could gather his bearings, Becan dashed at him, spun around, and smashed an elbow into the center of his forehead. Novikov’s head cocked backward and he collapsed. Still. He was out cold, and both of the other men were sprawled on the ground.
The fight was over.
There was no sound. If a pin had fallen, it would have echoed throughout the gym. Scott’s swollen lips parted as he watched in a dead stare. Three men against one. The one had won. How could that be? Novikov was a Nightman. Becan was a beta. Scott had barely scored a hit on anyone. Becan never missed. This was all wrong. None of this was supposed to be, and yet there the Irishman was, standing in the center of a ring like a prize-winning boxer among children. A point had been made with thundering authority.