by Lee Stephen
Clarke shook his head. “No, not at all.” As soon as Scott’s coffee was poured, Clarke said, “How is your training going?”
Scott chuckled under his breath. That had been an unexpected aspect of the epsilon rank—personal sparring lessons from Lieutenant Dostoevsky. The purpose was to train Scott beyond his inferior, as Dostoevsky mocked it, education from the Academy. The lieutenant made it clear that imperfection was unacceptable, thus the personal lessons were born. They were daily and brutal. He had the bruises to prove it.
He slid the coffee pot back into its holder and dropped a spoon of sugar into the mug. “Painful,” he answered. “But helpful. Lieutenant Dostoevsky is a good trainer.”
Clarke nodded. “That he is. He says you’re picking it up quickly.”
“It’s hard work,” Scott said as he sat down. “But I enjoy it. I’ve always liked training.”
Clarke nodded. “That’s good. Effort will always pay off.”
Scott drew the coffee to his lips and took a sip. It tasted every bit as good as he’d expected. A kettle of tea—undoubtedly Clarke’s—sat beside the coffee pot.
As soon as Scott sat the mug down, Clarke cleared his throat. “Ivan and I were discussing the absence of activity lately. Since the attack in Siberia, there hasn’t been a single registered Bakma intrusion anywhere on Earth.”
Scott focused his attention to the captain. “What do you think that means, sir?”
Clarke sighed. “That’s what we were discussing. We’ve got no idea what that means. That’s over three weeks, coming on four, with nothing. Not so much as a reconnaissance craft, anywhere. It’s as if we’ve won the war.”
Scott knew it was a ridiculous claim. If destroying the outpost had defeated the Bakma once and for all, then EDEN had seriously overestimated one of its most stringent enemies. “What about the Ceratopians?”
“We’re at a bit of a lull right now concerning them as well,” Clarke answered, “but that’s come to be expected. For some reason or another their attacks are more sporadic. But we’ve had two Ceratopian hits this week…one in America and one in India, nothing unusual there. It’s the Bakma who’ve got us scratching our heads.”
“What does EDEN Command think?” Scott asked.
Clarke sighed. “Command are like us—they don’t know what to think. I, personally, believe they’re gearing up for something big. I’m afraid it will only be a matter of time.”
Something big? What did that mean? “Big like what, sir?”
“Of that I’m uncertain. An attack, a full fledged invasion. I’ve got no idea. I still don’t understand why we’re still here in the first place. Their technology is obviously superior, both the Bakma and Ceratopians. They can get here…why toy with us this long? Why not send an entire task force here to wipe out humanity once and for all, in a single sweep? Why send ships every now and then?” Scott didn’t have any answers. “Granted, most of the strikes are tactically placed…but we’ve got two separate species, both attacking Earth for reasons that we’re still unaware of, and neither bringing anything even resembling an armada of any sort to the table. Why shove when you can punch?”
Scott continued to listen attentively.
“We’re not winning these little skirmishes because we’re stronger. If anything we’re just good enough to compete. We’re winning because we can match them with numbers and because they give us the opportunity to beat them. I know they must have magnificent bombing capabilities, but we’ve yet to see them bomb anything. They always land and engage in ground warfare.”
“The Ceratopians have bombed before,” said Baranov.
Clarke eyed him. “Perhaps in one out of every ten incursions. But why not ten out of ten? Why land in a city when you could obliterate it from above? And as far as I can recall, we’ve never had a Bakma bombing.”
Scott thought for a moment, then ran a hand through his hair. “And you think the Bakma are setting up for something bigger?”
“I don’t know,” Clarke answered. “But I’m afraid that may very well be the case. We’ve never had such a drop in activity before, at least not after any defining event, such as what happened in Siberia. From that day forward, we’ve had nothing…and that’s making a lot of people nervous.”
“Whatever plan they had, many think we threw a witch into it. What they do next is what we do not know,” said Baranov.
“Wrench.”
Baranov glanced to the captain. “What?”
“Threw a wrench. Not a witch.”
Scott looked from one officer to the other. “But this may be nothing, right?”
Clarke nodded. “It’s possible. But this is very odd behavior, even if on a large scale. It’s not to the point where it’s making headlines yet, but give it another week or so, and you’ll start reading about the sudden decline in the newspapers.”
That was the last thing the world needed. The rumor mill was already a driving force in media misinformation. “Have a lot of the operatives noticed yet?” Scott asked.
“I suspect those who pay attention have,” Clarke answered. “A lot of operatives don’t know what day of the week it is, let alone what’s going on across the globe. But it’s starting to draw some attention, even from standard operatives. People start noticing when none of the units get called out for Bakma attacks.”
“What about the general? Has he said anything about it?”
Baranov spoke up. “Thoor knows it. He does not have to speak of it to let others know he is aware. You can look at him and tell that something is not right. He is a smart man.”
Clarke nodded. “He’s had Vindicators flying to and from Siberia since the attack, checking to see if anything has picked up there. The site hasn’t been touched. It’s as if the entire Bakma army have decided to leave Earth completely alone.”
Scott sat up straight in his chair. Brain strike. “Maybe they can’t afford to.” Clarke and Baranov looked closely at the young epsilon. “Aliens have to have money too, right? Maybe every time they send a ship, it costs their government umpteen million dollars…or whatever it is for them. That outpost might have been the most expensive thing on their budget, and maybe they don’t have the money to send anything else right now.”
“It’s possible,” Clarke answered. “Anything is possible.”
“They questioned one of the Bakma in Confinement,” said Baranov. “One of their officers. We cannot understand much, but we’ve heard nothing of money up to this point. They don’t talk much. But it is possible.”
It was an idea, at least. It was better than nothing. The thought of his own theory at least gave Scott a sense of contribution, which was far more than anything he had felt since his promotion. Whether he was right or not, at least he was trying.
Taking his last sip of tea, Clarke set the cup down on the tabletop. “I’m sorry. I think I’m going to catch some zeds early tonight. I’ve been knackered all day.”
Scott looked at the captain as Baranov nodded. “Stress,” the commander said.
Clarke smiled ruefully. “May bloody well be it.” He stood up and walked to the sink, where he deposited his empty cup. “I’m going to my quarters tonight, Ivan. Make sure everyone’s in bed by nine.”
“Yes sir,” Baranov answered. “Good night, captain.”
“Good night, sir.”
“Good night Ivan, Remington. I’ll see you both tomorrow morning.”
Clarke straightened his uniform and stepped out of the lounge and into the bunk room. The door eased shut behind him.
As soon as he was gone, Scott asked Baranov, “His quarters?”
“Yes.”
“I thought everyone slept in here.”
Baranov shook his head. “That is usually the case, yes. But all officers have their own personal quarters. The captain has his, I have mine…Dostoevsky has his, and so will Max. They are just rarely used by us.”
That made no sense at all. If Scott had his way, he’d sleep in his own private room every chance
he got. “Why not?”
“It has more to do with the captain. In many units, all officers stay in their quarters…they are like small rooms, but they have beds, desks, and privacy. Clarke prefers for us to stay together as a unit, more so than many of the other leaders. If it were up to me,” he laughed, “I would sleep in my quarters every night. But it is not up to me, and if the captain asks us to stay here, we will stay.”
Since his first day at Novosibirsk, Scott couldn’t remember a time when any of the officers had slept anywhere else. “Why is he going to his quarters tonight?”
“Probably because he is very tired,” Baranov answered. “He does hard work, harder than most people think. He is responsible for this unit, and sometimes he simply needs to be on his own to sort things out. Tonight is one of those nights, I am sure.”
“Must be nice,” Scott said. “To have your own room.”
“It is.”
There was still so much for Scott to learn. Up until that point, he thought he had seen everything Novosibirsk had to offer. Now he knew otherwise.
It struck him just how much he didn’t know, not only about Novosibirsk, but about everything. For one, aside from their reputation, he knew little about the Nightmen. Every rumor he had heard pinned them as monsters, but then here he was, in the middle of a pleasant conversation with Ivan Baranov, a Nightman himself.
A Nightman. Ivan Baranov was a Nightman. That meant, if the rumor was true, that he’d had to murder someone to become one. That was the Murder Rule. Scott thought about it for a moment.
No. That couldn’t be true. Ivan was a brute, but he was a pleasant brute. Outside of combat, he rarely saw the man in anything other than an easygoing demeanor. But William and Joe had heard about the Murder Rule. They’d heard about it from someone who knew. And then they’d told Scott about it. Joe had told him about it. Joe was dead.
It hit him right then. Joe was dead. A chill broke out across Scott’s skin. Had the Nightmen found out? Had they found out that Joe had unveiled their secret, and had they killed him for it? Scott had never heard of the Silent Fever before. But he had heard of covered-up homicide.
Wait. No. Joe hadn’t told him. It had been William who’d told him, and William was still alive. William was in perfect health.
Before Scott could reflect further, the first sounds of life came from the bunk room. A brash laugh erupted, easily recognized as Becan’s, and the once quiet room livened with activity.
Baranov smiled. “Time to settle everyone down.”
Scott watched as the commander pushed from his chair and stood. Ivan was a Nightman. The Nightmen were murderers. Ivan was a murderer. He couldn’t stop those thoughts from running through his head. “Good luck, sir,” Scott said, offering a smile.
Baranov smiled wryly. “I can always just knock them out.”
Scott chuckled as Baranov made his way out. He heard the commander shout a stream of Russian words, only to be rebutted by an Irish drinking song yelled from Becan at the top of his lungs. Scott chuckled further as the bunk room erupted with laughter.
Scott stayed by himself in the lounge for several minutes as he listened to chatter flow freely on the other side of the door. Eventually the showers were turned on one by one, and the volume level descended into sporadic waves of conversation. By the time Scott returned to the bunk room, the rowdy behavior had declined into pre-sleep whispers.
Baranov ordered the lights out soon after, and the operatives filed into their beds. Some found sleep quickly, while others struggled with the ever-familiar restlessness of a night in the barracks. Some laid still, while others tossed and turned on their mattresses. Ultimately, they all fell asleep, and Room 14 of Novosibirsk found itself once again surrounded by silence.
Sunday, May 8th, 0011 NE
0134 hours
That night
It was cold and late. The main airstrip of Novosibirsk stretched out in front of the hangar’s giant doors, and the fresh scent of arctic stillness hovered in the calm of the night. Aside from the faint dusting of snowfall that drifted onto the ground, the airstrip was a desolate span of frozen emptiness. It was almost pitch black, and if not for the dim illumination of the guard shack and the hollow glow of runway lights, only the moon and the stars would have cast their glow down upon Earth.
It was in that guard shack that the only signs of life outside of Novosibirsk were found—two Nightmen, outfitted in their black sentry armor, huddled in the warmth of the primitive building. One was complacent, his feet propped on a desk and his body eased back in a metal chair. He was listening to a radio at low volume—the rebroadcast of a soccer game; there was nothing else to listen to.
The other Nightman was taller and watchful. He was staring out through the window, his arms folded across his chest and his zombified helmet set aside on the desktop.
The man in the chair laughed quietly as he listened to the voice of the radio announcer. “They will not win this game,” he said in Russian.
Beyond the static, the announcer’s tone grew more intense. “Chernenko passes forward, it’s a dangerous situation in front of Moscow’s goal…”
The watchful soldier, arms still folded, turned to his companion. “You’re going to be short another two hundred tomorrow.”
“Be quiet,” the Nightman at the desk answered as he focused on the radio. “I still haven’t been paid for last week.”
The radio announcer continued on. “Kamov dodges the defender, now it’s just him and the goalie. He kicks the ball…goooal!” Shouts and applause erupted in the background.
The Nightman at the desk slammed down a pen. “Terrible!”
“Pavel is never going to let you forget this,” said the other.
“Be quiet.”
“That’s why you shouldn’t brag before the game is played.”
Clunk.
Both Nightmen flinched. The sound was barely audible over the crackle of the radio, but it was there and their ears perked up. The Nightman by the window scrutinized the landscape, while the other turned off the radio. “Did you just hear that?”
For several seconds, both men fell quiet and listened.
There was no more sound. There was nothing at all. The Nightman by the window moved to the edge of the door.
The one behind the desk stood up. “You did hear that, right?”
“Yes.” The watchful man twisted the knob and eased the guard shack door open. Coldness crept into the room, and he stepped to look out. “Where did it sound like it came from?” he whispered.
The Nightman from behind the desk inched over to the window. “It sounded like it came from right outside.”
The airstrip was empty. The snow continued its steady downward drift, as the dim runway lights shone an evanescent hue over the ground. The silhouettes of wide hills loomed in the distance. There was nothing else.
Both Nightmen peered outside until the taller one finally stepped from the doorway to the desk, where he retrieved his assault rifle and slung it over his shoulder. “I’m going to take a look.”
The other man glanced his way, then returned his gaze out the window. The watchful one slipped out of the door and onto the airstrip.
What little wind there was howled around the corners of the guard shack; aside from that and the sound of the Nightman’s footsteps, there was nothing. The air burned with cold, and he winced as the frost bit at his eyes. Nonetheless, he continued forward as his comrade watched through the window.
The airstrip was empty. He swiveled his head in all directions as he marched on. There was nothing. There was nobody. His pace declined until he drew to a stop halfway down the strip, his attention drawn to the hills that loomed in the distance. Snowflakes floated down around him, barely swayed by the gentle breeze that hung in the night and disappearing as soon as they touched the ground. His gaze narrowed on the hills. He reaffirmed his grip on his assault rifle, and strode forward once again.
Clong!
The sound was simultaneous
with the force that slammed into his face. His nose and mouth contorted; he stumbled backward and toppled onto the ground.
Back at the guard shack, the other Nightman raised a brow.
The fallen Nightman scrambled to his knees and reared his assault rifle. Then he froze.
There was nothing there.
He propped one hand on the ground and pushed himself up; his other hand hovered over his face. His fingers touched the end of his nose and he felt wetness. Withdrawing his hand, he focused his jostled gaze on his fingertips. Blood. His nose was busted open.
He shot up a sharp glance, his eyes flitting in every direction. But there was nothing there. Only hills loomed in the distance, and only the snowflakes drifted in the air. There was nothing there at all. All was quiet. He was alone.
Then he stopped.
In front of his face, splattered unceremoniously against the surface of the air, was his own blood. He blinked as it dripped down the surface of nothing whatsoever, and trickled into invisible indentations and unseen curves. He stared at it for several seconds, then he took a step back. His gaze widened the moment he did.
None of the snow that fell over the airstrip reached the ground. Something stopped it before it could.
He sucked a breath and spun around to the guard shack. “Noboats! We have Noboats!”
Before he could scream another word, an army of unseen doors opened across the airstrip, and he was riddled with plasma.
The other Nightman’s jaw hung open as he reached out to sound the alarm. At that moment, a wave of plasma missiles screamed toward the guard shack.
20
Sunday, May 8th, 0011 NE
0136 hours
A wail reverberated from the walls of Room 14, and its occupants were brutally awakened. Half of the room lurched upright.
Travis groaned and slammed his head against his pillow. “Not this tonight…”
Under his breath, Fox muttered and wrapped up in his covers.