by Lee Stephen
Hero
Lee Stephen
Stone Aside Publishing, L.L.C.
Copyright (c) 2009 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: 978-0-9788508-5-2
Editing by Arlene Prunkl
Cover Illustration by Francois Cannels
Book Design by Fiona Raven
Maps by John Sirmon Jr.
First Printing March 2009
Printed in USA
v1
Published by
Stone Aside Publishing, L.L.C.
Dedicated to
GOD
0
Wednesday, November 2, 0011 NE
2215 hours
EDEN Command
The light in Judge Benjamin Archer’s room was subtle. The only significant illumination came from a series of conch lamps mounted along the walls. Archer stood in the center of the room on a deerskin rug. It wasn’t a deer that he’d killed; he’d never hunted a day in his life.
Atop his cherry-stained desk sat a small audio recorder. “Message from Benjamin Archer,” he began. “Our situation has not changed. Before we proceed as discussed, there is additional information I require. If you cannot supply me with this information, I will be forced to pursue alternate sources.”
The judge’s amber eyes stared at the conch lamps, but he didn’t see them. His focus was elsewhere.
“There is speculation that Carl Pauling, the president of EDEN, will retire in the next four to five months.” His words were precisely pronounced; his British accent greatly subdued. “The most likely candidate to replace him is Judge Malcolm Blake, whom Pauling already considers his successor. Blake stands to gain a unanimous vote.”
He paced across the room as though it was his own personal amphitheatre. His gaze drifted from the conch lamps back to the recording device. He continued:
“Should this speculation hold true, we shall have the control that we need. I anticipate a fourteen-month campaign, beginning from the point of Blake’s ascendancy. By that time, we should be ready—though time has already become critical. As per our agreement, I expect your aggression to cease as soon as we’ve established control. Until the situation leads elsewhere.”
He paused. “I have not heard of the one whom you speak of, but I wish you well in your search. The cohesiveness of our undertaking cannot be compromised. Should we find him, we will kill him at once.
“End of message.”
He walked to the recorder and switched it off. Removing the tiny disk from its housing, he placed it on the stand by his bed. He lifted his comm to his lips. “Archer to Intelligence.”
Several seconds passed before he heard a response. “Intelligence.”
“Have a courier come to my room at once. I have something to be delivered to Kang tonight.”
“Tonight, sir?”
“Yes, tonight.”
The voice hesitated. “Sir, I believe Director Kang is asleep now.”
“I don’t care,” Archer said. “I expect your courier to arrive within five minutes.”
“Yes sir, right away.” The comm channel closed.
For the next several minutes, Archer scrutinized himself in the mirror. Despite the late hour, everything about him was precise—his hair, his wardrobe, even his posture and his alert, calculating expression.
When the knock finally came, he looked at the clock. Just over five minutes. He answered the door, where a short operative stood in proper wait.
“Judge Archer,” the operative bowed.
“Punctuality is of the utmost importance,” Archer said harshly, before his impatient expression collapsed. “I apologize. My tone was uncalled for. This is simply a very time-sensitive message.”
The operative lowered his head. “It’s my fault, judge. I’ll be faster next time. I promise.”
Archer placed the disk in the courier’s hand. “Deliver this to Director Kang. Deviate for no other task. We are the guardians of an entire species. Every moment of our existence is irreplaceable.”
“Understood, sir. Should I tell him it’s from you?”
“Tell him nothing. Simply deliver. I want the time of delivery catalogued and confirmed, to the second.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tarry not, dear courier.”
The operative nodded, turned, and walked hurriedly down the hall.
Archer stood in the open doorway until the courier disappeared around a far corner. Only then did he step back inside.
The new judge did not stay up for long. There were many other important matters at hand—matters that needed clarity of the mind. The kind of clarity only garnered from sleep. He heard nothing from Kang that night, nor from the courier who’d delivered the message.
He heard from no one at all.
PART I
1
Saturday, November 5, 0011 NE
0715 hours
Novosibirsk, Russia
Three months after Lake Baikal
The day began as bleakly as each one before it—at least, each one for the past several months. Leaning over the edge of his bed, Scott cupped his stubble-covered face in his hands. He pushed his palms up against his cheeks, distorting his face for a moment before his hands fell again. He massaged the back of his neck. He’d slept well that night; the nights of restlessness had passed weeks ago. With every sunset, rest came more naturally. His stomach and head knotted less. He could cope.
But waking up was still the worst part. It was always the same process. Pushing himself from the mattress. Mustering the willpower to stand.
Seeing her face for the first time.
Not a day passed for him without looking her in the eyes. Without seeing her smile, frozen in time, staring at him from the boundaries of her picture frame. She was there to find him with every sunrise, every single day.
Scott forced himself to look up—to acknowledge her invisible presence: the woman he’d betrayed. He forced himself to feel her hurt. It tore open old scars and ripped apart new ones. It brought those words to him again. Sinner. Hypocrite. Murderer. That was the hardest part. Knowing the disappointment behind her otherwise happy expression. Knowing he’d lost her forever. It was tortuous to face her, but it had to be done. He had to get it over with, every day.
It was the only way he could move on.
Reaching out without looking, he grabbed the top of the frame, turning it completely around until her smile no longer faced him. Now she watched only the wall.
Scott closed his eyes. It always came on very slow. First, it was a steadying of his heart. Then it was the purpose-laden calming of his breathing. Goose bumps broke across his back, tingling up his spine. His shoulders tensed; the ridge over his eyes lowered. Then he exhaled.
When he opened his eyes again, all sadness was gone. All remorse, all guilt, thrust away. Those were hindering emotions, and they were not allowed in a war.
Rising from bed, he stretched his neck to both sides. Both times, it violently popped. He flexed his shoulder muscles and chest. He turned to his closet.
It waited for him, as it did every morning—the antithesis to the woman he loved. Her rival for affection. It always beat her out. The fulcrum armor beckoned him like an irresistible curse, from its haunting blackness to the bold defiance personified in its horns. It gave him all the companionship he required.
He needed mere moments to don it. Each piece was assembled together like a mechanical monster covering his body. The helmet—a near-
featureless black mask w
ithout even a face—was the last part to go on. He latched it down over his head with a jarring clank, fastening it into place above his spiked collar. He stared through the interior view screen in front of his eyes.
He could see her through the minute cameras that observed the outside world from the surface of his helmet, which allowed otherwise eyeless fulcrums and slayers to see. Her picture still faced the wall. It always did when this time came around.
This side of him, she wasn’t allowed to see.
The morning was shrouded with stagnant fog. The sun wasn’t quite ready to appear, which was normal for a Siberian winter. The fog was not quite as common, though in the past few days, it had been dense. No stars could be seen through the mists. The air smelled stale.
The snowfall had been lighter the previous night, but there was still enough to cover the ground. Flakes still drifted in thin, gentle sheets. To anyone else, it might have been beautiful. To Scott, it meant nothing at all.
“Attention!” he barked out in Russian. He’d been in Novosibirsk for seven months, the past three of which were spent amid Nightmen. Conversational Russian had come with immersion. His voice, already booming, was made even louder through the vocally enhanced helmet.
Before him, lined in three perfectly formed rows of six, Nightman slayers and sentries snapped erect. There were no other fulcrums present.
Scott’s four slayers—Viktor Ryvkin, Nicolai Romanov, Auric Broll, and Egor Goronok—were in the back row. They were allowed to be there; they had the luxury of staying out of striking distance. Only because they were his.
Scott’s faceless gaze found two Nightmen in the front row—a slayer and a sentry. He turned to them. “Front and center.”
The Nightmen complied.
Scott paced before them. “Yesterday was a disappointment.” He stared at the slayer. “Can you tell me why?”
“Because we did not apply what you showed us, lieutenant.”
It was a programmed answer; it sought to appease. “Do I need to show you again?”
“No, lieutenant.”
He’d believe that when he saw it. “As you want it,” said Scott. “So you two show me.”
The slayer and the sentry faced each other. They took several steps back, assuming fighting stances. Then they waited.
“Go on.”
It took no second command. The two armored Nightmen stalked each other, then clashed together in a mechanized grapple.
Already, Scott felt himself fume. It was pitiful. This might as well have been backyard wrestling. The Nightmen could deliver solid blows to one another, that much was evident. They sparred with more proficiency than EDEN. But just “better than EDEN” didn’t cut it. The slayer and sentry had superior ability, yet there was a flaw. Both men alternated between defense and aggression. That was the problem.
“Hold!”
The slayer and sentry snapped erect.
Scott walked in front of them both, though he focused solely on the slayer. Without looking at the sentry, he ordered him, “Fall back and observe.” As soon as the sentry had done so, Scott assumed a combat stance across from the slayer. “Attack me just like you did him.”
There was a moment’s hesitation from the slayer, but he did as ordered. Rushing at Scott, he swung his right hand with a thundering blow.
Scott’s counter lasted barely a second. Grabbing the slayer’s arm, he twisted it around until he was holding the slayer from behind. The lesser Nightman’s arm was pinned painfully behind his back. His entire body tensed outward. He locked up in pain.
Scott made no attempt to speak to his captive. He sought out the sentry instead. “What is so challenging about this?” It was a proverb from centuries ago, adopted by a sport he barely thought about anymore: attack is the best form of defense. The best defense is a good offense. “You bring the fight to your enemy, all the time! From the moment they see you, they should only feel panic. Every time they press in, every hint of aggression they throw at you, you grab it and turn it around. That is how you dominate!”
The sentry looked at the ground.
“We have gone over this, again and again and again.” Scott flexed his arm muscles against the slayer’s back. The slayer cried in pain. “The problem is not what you know. You all know how to kill. But it’s not enough to know it. You have to want it! Then you have to take it. Change your mindset, and your body will comply!”
Scott slammed the slayer down with his knee, still holding the man by the arm. The moment the slayer hit the snow, Scott ripped his shoulder straight out of socket. It popped, and the slayer let loose a blood-curdling howl.
Scott left the slayer—dislocated shoulder and all—writhing on the ground. He made his way to the sentry. “Come at me.”
The sentry stared for a moment, then assumed a fighting stance. Lunging forward in a different way than the slayer had, he tried to grab Scott with one hand.
The American fulcrum leaned to the side, grabbing the massive sentry by his extended arm. But instead of twisting the sentry’s arm back, something the sentry was clearly expecting, Scott careened an open-palm strike against the Nightman’s chin. The sentry’s head snapped back.
Then the twist came. Scott clutched the sentry’s arm, turned it around, and pinned it straight against his back. He wrenched it ninety degrees, and the giant fell to his knees in torment. The massive man wailed.
Scott’s anger turned on the others. “You should all feel this by now! This shouldn’t have to be taught. Learn how to kill!” His arm clutched the sentry’s neck. Lifting the massive Nightman to his feet, he flung him back and over his shoulder onto the snow. It was a sentry almost twice his size, yet Scott threw him as if he were a rag doll.
That was why they listened when he spoke.
Scott kicked the grounded sentry’s chest, then jabbed his foot down on his neck. He pushed back the Nightman’s chin with his metal-tipped boot.
Scott switched from Russian to pure English—for those who could understand. “For damned men, not many of you seem to care about staying alive.” He slowly freed the sentry’s neck. “Pair up. Fight until you get it right. I will observe.”
The fulcrum from America. The black-maned lion. The monster. All were names associated with Scott Remington. In the months that had passed since he’d joined the Nightmen’s ranks, he’d become a notorious figure. He was as physically exceptional as any of the Nightmen—that wasn’t what made him unique. What made him unique was what burned in his heart. He had vehemence. He had a lust for the infliction of pain. He had a drive for violence that had rarely been surpassed.
Despite his training with Nightmen, Scott was still part of the Fourteenth. He was still their ranking lieutenant. Besides his own slayers—Viktor, Nicolai, Auric, and Egor—none of these Nightmen in his morning sessions could be considered teammates. But they may as well have been—they were the ones he associated with. The only exception was Commander Dostoevsky, who was never present for these exercises. The Russian fulcrum was still in the Fourteenth, but Scott never associated with him. Scott had his own reasons for that.
But with these Nightmen, during these sessions, Scott could unload. He could release every ounce of his wrath and not deal with a moment’s regret. He could strike. He could torment. He could beat within an inch of a life. He could take them to hell. And every time one fell prey to his violence, the question surfaced again.
Is this the one?
That question was the crux of it all. With that question, it was all justified. He asked it to himself every time he came across a new Nightman. He’d even asked it about the four slayers from the Fourteenth, though their innocence—at least in the case in question—had long been confirmed. But someone in Novosibirsk wasn’t innocent. Someone out there needed to die.
But that wasn’t the infuriating part. The infuriating part was that no matter who Nicole’s murderer was, deep in his heart Scott couldn’t hold murder against him.
Because Scott was a murderer, too.
When training was over, Scott’s public presence came to an end, as it always did. Though he usually accompanied his four teammate Nightmen to the cafeteria, they rarely stayed there. They usually took their food and went their own ways. On occasion, when something needed to be discussed, some of them would accompany Scott back to his quarters. Today was one of those days, as both Nicolai and Viktor followed him out.
The sect of Nightmen had little semblance of a ranking system. It comprised those who ordered and those who obeyed. Slayers obeyed fulcrums. Fulcrums obeyed Thoor, as did the hidden eidola. Sentries—the heavily armored guards—fell somewhere in the middle. That was the chain of command.
Viktor and Nicolai were veteran slayers. Viktor was in his mid-thirties, as was Nicolai, though the latter looked much older with deep crevices on his face. But outside of being long-enduring Nightmen, the two men were nothing alike.
Viktor was slender and tall. He was by far the most arrogant of all the Fourteenth’s slayers. He was strikingly handsome, with black hair that shone glossily as it slicked past his shoulders. He was handsome and lethal—and well aware of both.
Nicolai was a walking paradox. He laughed, but at disturbing times. He was brave, yet inexplicably paranoid. He was amiable, and he was obsessed with blood. While few Nightmen openly discussed their rites of passage, Nicolai flaunted his like a trophy. He wore a blackish-crimson-stained necklace he claimed had belonged to the man he’d murdered. He’d dipped it in the murdered man’s blood until it crusted. From that day on, it had never been washed nor absent from his neck.
“The session was good today,” Nicolai said in Russian. He had a raspy, unsettling voice. “The air was very cold.”