by Lee Stephen
Closing his eyes and drawing a breath, his forearm flexed one final time. His lips parted to reveal still-clenched teeth. A week of gec-related activities had set him behind. He felt out of shape.
His body began to tremble frantically as his chin hovered just beneath the bar. His legs bent up by the knees. He groaned softly.
Someone was behind him. He could sense it, even in mid-lift. Someone was watching him from the door of the weight room.
His subtle cries turned into moans of sheer agony, as he bellowed out loud from deep in his throat. He was still beneath the bar.
“You can do it, comrade,” the observer said.
He recognized the voice of Grinkov, his friend and fellow judge. Nonetheless, he ignored the man and strained to pull up. His knees bent farther and his lower torso twisted. Finally, he released the bar, his right hand burning. He landed on his feet, cursing out loud.
Grinkov laughed. “So close, but so far.”
“How many one-handed pull-ups can you do?” Torokin retorted.
“How many did you do just now?”
Torokin crouched down in exhaustion. “Nine.”
“Ah. Last time, I did ten.”
The ex-Vector scoffed. The day Grinkov could do a single pull-up of any kind would be a day worth inscribing in history. “What do you want?”
Grinkov was wearing a gray and blue sweat suit. It made him look fatter than he already was. The overweight Russian had been attempting to jog himself into shape. He averaged two runs a week. The large judge held out a newspaper. “The GEC is officially a success—Mariner is mocking it.”
Torokin grunted in disgust and reached for the paper. “Let me see.”
“Page six.”
The sweaty judge took the paper, turned to page six, and began to read from his crouched position on the ground.
There was a notable absence at EDEN‘s annual global conference. Group Captain Jon Mariner of Atlanta’s Flying Apparatus Squadron was a surprising no-show, considering the announcement of a new interceptor fighter at the event. When asked about his absence, Mariner was brief in response, stating only that he had “more important things to do.”
Torokin threw the paper aside. “More important things to do. Like what? Build a statue of himself?”
“He probably already has one.”
“He probably does.”
Jon Mariner was as household a name as Klaus Faerber—for good reason. There wasn’t a better pilot on the face of the Earth. There wasn’t a bigger ego, either. Mariner was well aware of the fact that he’d redefined modern air tactics. His personal squadron—the Flying Apparatus—was the Vector Squad of the sky. He was one of the most peculiar personalities in all of EDEN, known for one-word answers and cold-shoulder arrogance. He embodied everything Torokin hated about pilots and Americans combined. Mariner thought he owned the sky. The worst part was that he practically did.
“He will be the first to get a squadron of Superwolves,” Grinkov said. “Wait and see.”
Torokin didn’t doubt it. EDEN Command had probably asked Mariner’s permission to design a new fighter in the first place. He had probably helped design it.
“He makes me sick,” Grinkov added. The fat man walked into the weight room, eyeing the pull-up bars briefly. His focus returned to Torokin. “Would you like to run with me today, Leonid?”
Torokin brushed back his hair, then looked at his hand. It glistened with sweat. “Not this morning. I need to go take a shower before the meeting.”
“You do not need to shower. Tell them you just got back from a mission. I am sure they will believe you.”
“Right,” Torokin said, laughing quietly. “I am sure they would.” The meeting later that morning was one of necessity. It was a progress report on Novosibirsk‘s financial audit. Torokin already knew what would be covered—he’d heard the grumblings for weeks. It had been a total failure. Nothing conspicuous had been discovered. No wrongdoing at all. Judges Rath and Onwuka hadn’t found a money trail anywhere. It was as if Thoor and his Nightmen were forging their equipment from scratch. For all anyone knew, maybe they were.
“I am losing weight,” Grinkov said. “I have lost four pounds in two weeks. That is progress. I think I will ask Tamiko on a date. It has been a long time since I have been out with a beautiful woman. Even you are beginning to look attractive.”
Torokin couldn’t restrain a chuckle. “Go run your laps. I am done talking to you.”
The larger Russian walked to the door. “I will see you at the meeting.” Several moments later, he was gone.
Torokin stayed crouched for some time, his heart finally catching up with his slower breaths. Another day, another meeting. It was like that every day. They were allowed ten days off a year, and he had yet to use any. He was tempted to blow them all at once. The Caribbean sounded pretty nice.
For all he knew, he could already be there.
Approaching the pull-up bar once more, he gripped it with his right hand, closed his eyes, and drew a breath. Flexing determinedly, he tucked his knees and pulled himself up. As soon as his chin passed the bar, he let go and fell back to his feet.
“Ten.”
Walking away from the pull-up bars, he felt as if he’d just gone through a dirty washing machine. His body was on fire. But something felt wrong.
He stopped, looked at the pull-up bar again with an irritated stare, and tightened his lips. Marching back under the machine, he reached up and clenched the bar again. Without giving doubt a moment to rise, he flexed, growled in agony, and pulled himself up. After a brief struggle, his chin crossed the bar.
Falling back to the floor, he almost toppled, but maintained his balance. He allowed a brief sigh.
“Eleven.”
The sense of something wrong was now gone, as he walked to the weight room bench to claim his towel. He ran it over his hair and face then flung it over his shoulders. He turned to exit the room.
The next day, the pain would set in, especially after that last extra pull. He’d barely be able to get out of bed. But he knew it was necessary. He wouldn’t be able to sleep had he stopped at ten—eleven simply had to be done.
Just in case Grinkov had been telling the truth.
* * *
Later that morning
The conference room quieted with President Pauling’s call for attention. Every conversation drew to a halt.
Torokin stretched his head all the way back. The numbness from his workout was already starting to penetrate. The pain was going to feel soothing.
“I want to thank all of you for a wonderful week,” Pauling said. “The gec couldn’t have gone better. I almost hate getting back to normal business.”
“There’s no need to rush,” said Judge Blake. “I’m more than willing to push Novosibirsk back another month.”
The judges laughed, all except for Torokin. Judges Blake and June wouldn’t be leaving for Russia for another week, and Torokin couldn’t help but feel they were lagging behind. Nonetheless, their timing didn’t matter. Thoor had no idea the visit was coming. They had already hit The Machine with a surprise inventory count. It worked like a diversion to the judges’ real plan: to go there themselves. Thoor wouldn’t expect two surprises in a row. He probably wouldn’t care, either.
“I received a message this morning from General Fuller,” Pauling said. “He expressed his appreciation for everyone’s hospitality at the conference. He plans to come here again soon.”
Fuller was the general who would operate the new base of Sydney. Torokin had had an opportunity to chat with him briefly. He seemed like a nice man. Torokin hated him.
“This is the most cohesive we’ve felt in months,” said Pauling. “I couldn’t be more proud of our progress. With that said, let’s get right into business.” He turned to Jason Rath. “What’s the word on the audit?”
Rath swapped a worried look with Judge Blake. He then turned to Judge Uzochi Onwuka, though his words were directed to Pauling. “Uzochi and I
have scoured literally everything. There is no record of any spending outside of what Novosibirsk is allotted.”
The smile on Pauling’s face melted away.
“Obviously, we know they’re spending something to get Nightman equipment, but…”
Judge Onwuka finished the statement. “General Thoor is a very smart man.” His Nigerian accent was at times almost impossible to understand. “It is not surprising that all of his deals would involve the black market. We know that he’s as rich in reputation as he is in finances. But no money is coming in or out of Novosibirsk. We have to consider that they could be forging their own armor, and transporting the material there by some other means.”
“There is the case of the ‘Citadel,’ as some of them call it,” Rath explained. “According to our agents, it’s their secret base of operations. But as for where it is, that’s anyone’s guess. They could be operating a forge there.”
Pauling looked thoughtful as he listened to their report. After several moments of absently tapping his pen on the table, he finally replied, “If they’re forging their own armor, and they’re not using EDEN funds to do it…is that breaking the law?”
Onwuka frowned. “Unless they are selling it for profit, it is legal. It would be no different than if you had made something for yourself in your room, like carving a wooden doorstop. You are not selling it for profit, and you are not using EDEN’s money to carve it. All you need is your own wood, your own knife, and your own time. It is perfectly legitimate.”
Torokin sighed from his chair as he listened. He had mixed feelings about the whole mess. The Council was going through so much trouble to pin something on Thoor. Was Thoor even the right enemy? Novosibirsk was effective for a reason. This all struck him as a waste of time.
The Machine. A modern marvel of terror, dominated by one of the most ruthless tyrants the world had ever known. But what if that was what Earth needed? What if the ends did justify the means? Was it better to survive with Thoor—the Terror—or potentially die without him? As horrible a human being as Thoor was, his ability to muster an army was almost beyond compare. The fact that one man at one base was such a topic of conversation said it all.
He snapped out of his reverie and refocused. The judges were still talking about finances and forges, and Rath was still trying to soften the blow of the financial audit’s failure. Torokin knew the end result. They’d find nothing on Thoor—he was too smart for that. There was only one way to challenge a general like him: face to face. Thoor would cover everything but the front door. He wanted EDEN to come knocking. Torokin refused to believe anything else.
“Don’t stop looking yet, gentlemen,” Pauling said to Rath and Onwuka. “Even if they do forge their own equipment, they have to get resources from somewhere. Who is their supplier? Payment could go beyond monetary means.”
Castellnou spoke for the first time. “What happened to the talk of attacking him? Has that just disappeared? Why are we still talking about audits and resources?”
Torokin reverted to his own thoughts again. Castellnou wanted to attack Thoor. Castellnou was an idiot, but he was brave—at least he could be credited for that. EDEN versus The Machine. That would be an interesting brawl—and a complicated one. The ex-Vector had a feeling it was inevitable, too.
Conversation stopped when Torokin rose to his feet. Every judge and the president turned to the Russian. “Where are you going?” asked Pauling.
Torokin was tired of the infighting. He was ready to focus on the alien threat—the one that actually mattered. “This goes nowhere. Over and over, we talk about Thoor. Why must we do this?”
It was Archer who issued the retort. “Do you not believe it’s necessary? We must face our enemies with a united front. If Thoor divides us, we will certainly fail.”
“That is fine, whatever. Malcolm and Carol go there in a week. Let us talk about it when they return.” He motioned cordially to Rath and Onwuka. “The financial audit has failed. There is no other way to put it. Why must we continue to discuss it? We should move on.”
Pauling let loose a sigh. “Leonid—”
“I know, Mr. President,” Torokin said. “You think this needs to be discussed. So, discuss it as much as you need. Invite me back when you are finished.” He was sick of it, and there were too many other important topics at hand. Like the Alien War. He pushed in his chair.
“I respect Judge Torokin’s opinion,” Archer said, looking at Pauling for a moment, then at the retreating judge. “We look forward to your return.”
With no further words to deter him, Torokin left the room.
As he walked through the halls of EDEN Command, Torokin felt his soreness strike again. He couldn’t get enough of it. He almost wished it hurt more. The ache of battle. The burn of striving to make a difference—that was what he needed. The politics, he could do without.
He was halfway down the hall when he suddenly stopped, his mind struck by an unexpected thought. Since when does Archer give me permission to leave?
After a short pause he resumed his walk. In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter. Archer loved politics. So did Pauling, despite the fact that he’d once been a soldier. It was only natural that their kind shared the spotlight.
Maybe Archer thinks he will be president.
That thought brought Torokin a smile. Archer as president. That was almost cute.
When Torokin arrived in his quarters, he resumed his workout. Pushups. Sit-ups. Leg raises. Lunges. He did everything—the more ways he found to hurt, the better he felt. That was how he wanted it to be.
The other judges did not call him back.
10
Monday, November 7, 0011 NE
0800 hours
Novosibirsk, Russia
Scott squinted as his alarm clock went off. With an almost instinctive slamming of his palm, he shut off the device. His room was silent again.
Closing his eyes, he brought a hand to his face. The motion was painful, and the burn marks on his shoulder caused him to groan. Rubbing his hand across his forehead, he exhaled slowly.
Was yesterday real?
The moment he tried to sit up, he winced. His stomach felt as if it were being ripped apart. Lifting his shirt, he looked at his bruise. It stretched almost clear across his torso. It looked like he’d been hit by a log.
I guess yesterday was real.
Gathering the mettle to sit, he carefully leaned his neck to each side. After a series of satisfying pops, he leaned his head back. It didn’t feel like morning. It didn’t feel like anything familiar. It felt as though he was existing in a personified premonition of horrible news.
Jayden and Becan are hurt. Maksim is dead. What other tragedies await?
He’d heard no updates from anyone upon returning to the base—not that he’d sought any out. He couldn’t help but recall the last time one of his comrades was in the infirmary. Galina. He’d learned of her death when David knocked on his door. When David told him he no longer cared. There was a part of Scott that was convinced another knock would come at any moment. But none did.
Pushing up from his bed, he stumbled to his closet. Removing his Nightman uniform from its hanger, he dressed methodically. He gave little attention to his grooming, sparing nothing more than a quick look in the mirror to ensure that he didn’t appear completely unpresentable. Partially unpresentable was okay. For a moment, he actually considered shaving. But the moment came and went without action.
As he crossed the room, he looked briefly at his desk. The manila folder still sat there, untouched since he’d last taken it to Confinement, but not out of his mind. It never was. Scott opened the door and stepped into the hall.
Krasnoyarsk hadn’t been the largest battle he’d ever fought, nor the most important. His entire contribution had involved only two buildings, and not full buildings at that. Next to the Battle of Chicago or the Assault on Novosibirsk, it paled. It would probably not even be named for historical purposes. Nonetheless, it had bee
n one of the hardest to endure—a war unto itself.
No one else was in the infirmary when Scott entered—at least, no one else from the Fourteenth. He wondered for a moment if he was the first to arrive, but he knew better: he was probably the last.
He made his way to the nurses’ desk, where he learned of his teammates’ conditions. Becan was expected to recover, though he would remain in the infirmary for at least two weeks, which was longer than Scott had initially thought. Plasma had burned much of his chest, and his body would forever be scarred. There’d be skin grafting involved. That was as much as Scott wanted to know.
It was the news Scott heard next that hit him in the gut. Jayden would be at least partially sightless. His left eye had been removed, and his right eye was still on the verge. The question was not whether the Texan could return to active duty; it was whether he’d be able to see at all. His family had already been contacted, and preparations were being made to send him home after his recovery. After that, none of the nurse’s words registered as real. Scott felt as though he were dreaming again.
Jayden was not allowed visitors. Not even Scott’s fulcrum status could garner him rights. According to the nurse, Jayden was being kept sedated while under their care. Scott was instructed to return in two days.
It wasn’t until several minutes later, as Scott was returning to the officers’ building, that the information he’d received actually processed. Jayden might be totally blind. Jayden—his friend from Richmond. Their first encounter replayed in Scott’s head.
He was slender, though height compensated for a lack of size. His arms were folded across his chest as he leaned against the doorway arch, and his shadowed gaze scrutinized them beneath a tuft of dusty brown hair.