Epic: Book 03 - Hero

by Lee Stephen

  In the first ten seconds of the assault, necrilids catapulted in every direction. They dropped from the ceilings and walls. Hatchlings scurried for the protection of their parent monsters, only to be mowed down themselves. Bulbous eggs, clustered in heaps in the corners, exploded as projectiles shattered their shells. Unborn aliens oozed lifelessly to the floor.

  All at once the necrilids’ panic came to an end. The adults, their numbers decimated in a matter of seconds, roared and leapt at the humans. Bullets struck the creatures in midair and some rolled lifelessly across the floor. But not all.

  The first necrilid to break the fortification had come from the corner. Its desperate lunge had not gone unnoticed, but there was no time to take aim. The creature crashed into Viktor from behind, pushing the slayer-medic into the open. Immediately Nicolai shot the necrilid and Viktor fell back into place.

  Next Scott was struck from behind. His rifle nearly flew from his grasp as he suddenly found himself on the floor, claws stabbing into his back. A shotgun slug saved him, and he took his place in the middle again.

  The battle lasted for almost a minute. Necrilids were chopped down by streams of firepower, even as the fortress was breached. The fortification fought to hold on.

  Then, as suddenly as everything had begun, everything ceased. Aliens stopped screaming, monsters stopped lurching. Skittering gave way to silence.

  Scott froze as he scanned the room. Through the fog of gun exhaust, he could make out mangled necrilid bodies strewn across the floor. Their entrails pooled in the floor’s low points. But even more nauseous was the smell—a mixture of gunfire and innards. It was the sickest thing he’d ever inhaled. The silence was oppressive.

  Auric was the first to speak. “Is that it?”

  No one answered. It seemed too sudden to be over, and Scott knew better. Necrilids were smart enough to flee. They wouldn’t simply stay to be slaughtered. He asked the impossible question, “Does anyone have a count?” No one did.

  As the smoke rose to the ceiling, the room began to clear. It was the bloodiest carnage Scott had ever seen. He felt surrounded by evil. Evil they’d annihilated, but evil all the same.

  A hatchling emerged from the corner. Auric’s shotgun blew it away. All was still again.

  Scott considered the situation. They aren’t all dead. They can’t all be dead. Some of them would have tried to escape.

  “I think we killed them,” Nicolai said, sounding surprised.

  “Stay in formation.” Scott had no idea how many necrilids still remained in the plant. Even an exact body count would mean nothing. What if this was one nest of ten? He knew exactly what he had to do.

  Comm The Machine.

  He adjusted his helmet and opened the link, ending radio dark. “This is Lieutenant Remington of the Fourteenth. We have uncovered and isolated a necrilid nest in Chernobyl Nuclear Plant. Requesting instruction.”

  What to do next? Somehow, storming the rest of the compound seemed premature. He hadn’t had a chance to think this far ahead.

  NovCom was quick to reply. “Hold your position, lieutenant. The Tenth is en route to your location.”

  The Tenth. That was the four slayers’ original unit. Scott knew why they were coming, and he was willing to bet that a team of scientists was coming, too. Novosibirsk didn’t want to clean out Chernobyl. They wanted to own it.

  Once again, Scott listened to the silence. For the first time, the thought entered his mind. What if we did kill them all? He knew better, but he wondered just the same.

  “What do we do?” Nicolai asked.

  It was Commander Dostoevsky who answered. “We wait for the Tenth.” The fulcrum commander said nothing else.

  Scott turned to look at Dostoevsky. You wouldn’t have had the nerve to do this, would you? You wouldn’t have had the courage. You’d have left Chernobyl a mess for someone else to clean up.

  Dostoevsky looked away.

  The wait for the Tenth lasted barely twenty minutes, when word of the unit’s arrival came from the Pariah. Scott’s earlier thought had been correct: an entire crew of scientists had come along, too.

  It was another fifteen minutes before the Tenth arrived at the necrilid nest. There were twenty-four operatives from the unit in total, and just under a dozen scientists. None of them reported seeing any creatures on the journey, though it was obvious by their expressions that the sheer number of dead necrilids there stunned them. After the initial uncomfortable silence, an exchange of more jovial nature took place between Viktor, Nicolai, Auric, and their former comrades in the Tenth.

  A fulcrum elite approached Scott to begin his own exchange. Scott couldn’t see the man’s face—everyone was still hidden by their helmets—but he did catch the man’s nametag. His name was Axelos. Scott recognized him as the Tenth’s captain.

  “Remington, how did you accomplish this?”

  “We were aggressive,” Scott answered firmly. “We came in hard before they could react. We forced them on the defense.”

  Axelos looked about the room, then turned to Scott. “I have never seen this many dead necrilids before. There must be a hundred.”

  Scott knew there were not a hundred. But the tally might have pushed as high as seventy or eighty. The significance of the event hadn’t escaped him. “We learned a few things. They mimic human sounds. They also recognize danger. That can work to our advantage.”

  Axelos laughed under his breath, casting a sidelong look to Dostoevsky. After confirming that the commander was out of earshot, he whispered to Scott. “Now that Clarke is out of the way, it is inevitable that the Fourteenth will be yours.”

  For a moment, Scott was taken aback. He’d completely forgotten about Clarke’s death.

  “I wish to train my men with you,” Axelos said. “If I recall, you used to train with the Eighth. Will you have my unit instead?”

  But now Scott’s mind was stuck on Clarke. He was shocked by his own numbness to the captain’s demise. A familiar knot formed in his bowels. I did all this after the captain was dead. I didn’t even stop to think about it. I didn’t even acknowledge his death.

  Axelos had said it so casually. Clarke is out of the way. In fact, that was exactly how Scott had thought of it, too. The moment Clarke died only one thing had come to Scott’s mind. The captain was out of the way. He was in command. It was as if Clarke had been nothing but an obstacle.

  Did I really just do that? Did I really just spit on Clarke’s death?

  He could scarcely believe it. In the aftermath of what had to be one of the most brave and brazen things he’d ever done, he couldn’t believe his own heartlessness. It stabbed him to the core of his soul.

  Oh my God. I’m really one of them.

  Axelos never got his answer. He simply watched as Scott quietly turned away, leaving the Tenth’s captain standing awkwardly behind.

  Scott walked out of the compound alone. He didn’t wonder about the presence of necrilids, outside of a general awareness that they could be near. If they were, they wouldn’t attack him. They’d be too afraid.

  He couldn’t shake Clarke from his mind. He couldn’t shake his own lack of remorse. Leaders had to react coldly sometimes, of course. Sometimes it was critical to the survival of others. But this hadn’t been one of those times. He hadn’t stormed Chernobyl out of necessity. He’d stormed it out of rage.

  He remembered the first time he’d met Clarke. The captain had been so pleased to have him there.

  How could I have done this? How could I have responded so ruthlessly? Who am I?

  For the first time in a long while, he remembered the rest of the world. The Bakma had assaulted northern Europe; they had attacked Stockholm and Copenhagen. They had come with their army. And the Fourteenth had missed it…for this.

  Was what I just did worth Clarke’s life?

  When Scott arrived back outside, the rest of the Fourteenth was there. He hadn’t realized it until he hit daylight, but his armor was dripping with blood. He looked like a
robotic butcher.

  When Scott removed his helmet, everyone’s eyes were upon him. Radio silence had been broken the moment Scott had called Novosibirsk. His teammates knew what he and the slayers had done without needing to see for themselves. Svetlana stared with total disconnection as Esther struggled to look away. David seemed to have aged ten years.

  Gradually the truth dawned on Scott. He had proven David wrong, but triumph belonged to neither man. Scott had shown the Fourteenth that, yes, the Nightmen were on a whole other plane of superiority. And in the process, he’d shown them why. Because they didn’t care. They rejected what it meant to be human. Clarke had warned him of that from the start. He’d warned Scott not to let The Machine change him.

  But that was exactly what Scott had let it do.

  No one said a word to him as he trudged back to the Pariah and took his seat, intentionally avoiding looking at the captain’s body. His actions in Chernobyl had been comparable to his heroics in Chicago, but the aftermaths couldn’t have contrasted more. In Chicago, he’d felt like a champion.

  Now, he was a fool.

  PART II

  17

  Monday, November 14, 0011 NE

  1322 hours

  EDEN Command

  One hour later

  This one caught even Torokin unaware. For the first time in his career, not only as a judge but as a member of EDEN, he was at a loss for rationalization and words. This one scared him.

  It had happened so fast—out of nowhere. There wasn’t a moment’s warning, not a second to prepare. It struck like an invisible hammer blow.

  The Bakma had attacked. No, not just attacked. Invaded. Their Noboats materialized, not by the dozens, but by the hundreds. Their Carriers poured into Europe like locusts. Stockholm was razed. Copenhagen was decimated. Half of Europe had been completely overwhelmed. EDEN’s response, although no fault of its own, had been totally inadequate. EDEN simply didn’t have enough operatives to respond. Legions of Bakma warriors stormed through the cities like ants. Courier fighters fired plasma missiles into buildings and streets. And for the first time ever, Bakma Coneships had bombed. They bombed with a ruthlessness that suggested the war was about to end. The death toll was now well beyond the hundreds of thousands. It was verging on millions. With timing that only the Bakma understood, they had unleashed the full force of a fury that had never before been witnessed by humans.

  In a single stroke, humanity had been completely overpowered. The human species had been shown that, even with its near-perfect ability to react, its forces paled in comparison to the alien threat. An entire continent had been thrust to its knees. But that wasn’t what scared Torokin. What scared Torokin was what happened next.

  The Bakma didn’t press forward. They didn’t fortify their positions, nor did they make any effort to advance. Instead, they boarded their spacecraft and launched into space. They just left.

  That scared him more than anything else.

  Never before had President Pauling seemed so embittered or disturbed. He wasn’t alone. The entire gathering of judges was at a loss for an answer. Not even Javier Castellnou had words.

  The president did not offer them a formal greeting to kick off the session, nor did he request opening statements. The meeting of judges began with one question alone.

  “What in the hell is going on?”

  Torokin and Grinkov exchanged stoic looks. The same question was on their own lips.

  “I’m serious. What in the hell is going on?” He glared at the Council members around the table, then focused on Judge Rath. “Jason? Do you know?”

  The Canadian offered no explanation.

  “Leonid? Dmitry?” Pauling turned to face Archer. “Benjamin? Anyone?”

  No one spoke.

  Torokin returned to deep thought. The Bakma had them right where they wanted them. They had reached out with their fists and grabbed Earth by the throat. If there was ever a moment to claim a stronghold for themselves on the planet, that had been it. Then for no reason at all, they let Earth go. They released it like a cat toying with a mouse. ‘What the hell?’ didn’t begin to cover it.

  Pauling propped his hands against the table and lowered his head. “I am the first person to admit when I’m wrong. I am the first person to admit when I don’t know. But God help me, I cannot understand this. This is not like a war. It’s like some kind of damned experiment.”

  Archer looked at Pauling for a moment, then turned away.

  “Everything else goes on hold,” Pauling continued. “Forget the Superwolf. Forget Novosibirsk. Forget everything. Right here, right now, we are going to get some kind of answers. I don’t care if we brainstorm for twenty-four hours. There’s coffee outside.”

  Get answers. That seemed obvious to Torokin. To the rest of the world, it must have seemed ridiculous. Nine years of war and no explanations. But what people didn’t understand was that this was an enemy that couldn’t be explained.

  The Alien War had begun like a normal campaign. After Hong Kong, the Bakma turned their sites to near space. Shackleton and Peary—the two lunar outposts—had been destroyed. Malapert Junction, not even an outpost, met a similar fate. cmf-1 was obliterated from Mercurial orbit, and Arsia Mons was annihilated before it began. It made tactical sense: squash man’s attempts to spread beyond Earth; stop humanity’s expansion. It was a logical first step for a campaign.

  But then logic stopped. The Bakma destroyed Earth’s orbital telescopes, but left communication satellites untouched. In effect, they were allowing mankind to coordinate and to organize a response. It made no sense.

  Pauling pulled out a notebook. Of all the technology around him—wall-sized monitors and computers—the president of EDEN was reduced to paper and pen. “Here is what we know,” he said, scribbling as he spoke. “The Bakma and Ceratopians do not work together. The Ithini work independently of themselves. No one presses to win.”

  Still no judge spoke.

  “I am pleading with someone to make sense of that.” Pauling dropped his notebook on the table. “I’m starting to feel like we’re the punch line of an interstellar joke.”

  It wasn’t a joke, thought Torokin. It wasn’t a game. He refused to believe that either was true. He had fought the Bakma and the Ceratopians. He had fought the Ithini among both. He had experienced their wrath, fervently fighting for…what? For Earth? They could take Earth if they wanted it—that much was proven in Europe. They wanted Earth for something, but not enough to take it. What were they waiting for? What was the point?

  “I want Kang in here, now.”

  Collective surprise registered around the table.

  Pauling pressed in the speaker comm button. “Kang Gao Jing, report to the conference room at once.”

  A response came quickly, but it wasn’t from Kang. It was the voice of a woman. “Sir, Director Kang is in interrogations.”

  “Then get him out of interrogations.”

  Archer sighed and turned to the president. “Sir, the director is not responsible for this. This falls on our shoulders. It falls directly on mine.” Rath stared at Archer oddly. “I have been working hand in hand with Director Kang since my arrival. I have been in interrogations. I am as responsible for our failures as much as anyone else. There’s no need to bring him into this.”

  The woman’s voice emerged from the speaker again. “Sir, the director wishes to know if it is urgent.”

  “He’s doggone right it’s urgent.”

  “I’ll tell him right away, sir.”

  As Torokin’s mind raced, he ignored the mounting tension in the room. Two extraterrestrial forces, the Bakma and the Ceratopians. Both were working for their own purposes, sharing a common ally in the Ithini. Of late, the Ceratopians had hardly been a factor. Their attacks had drastically slowed since the summer. And as the Ceratopians pulled back, the Bakma pressed harder. Was that a coincidence? It had to be. The Ceratopians and the Bakma weren’t working together, which was something the general populace didn’t
know. The two species weren’t allies at all.

  They were at war.

  It had happened only two recorded times—a Bakma Noboat and Ceratopian Cruiser crossing paths. Both times, the results had been the same: the Ceratopians blew the Bakma out of the sky. No one outside of EDEN Command knew that—they didn’t need to.

  The speaker crackled on again, and a voice rarely heard addressed the room. “You call for me, Mr. President?”

  Director Kang’s Chinese accent was unmistakable. Kang: the most obscure man in all of EDEN. A man who didn’t exist.

  “I need you here, Kang,” Pauling said. “Right this very minute.”

  There was a pause. “I apologize, Mr. President, but I cannot come now. I am making progress with Ceratopian No. 12.”

  “Ceratopian No. 12,” Pauling repeated in frustration. “Refresh my memory on Ceratopian No. 12.”

  Archer cleared his throat. “Ceratopian No. 12, we believe, is a ranking officer. I’ve been working with him for some time. Or, trying to, at least. If the director is making progress, well, that’s very good.”

  Pauling looked at Archer briefly, but Kang spoke again before the president could.

  “Would you like me to cancel this interrogation, Mr. President?”

  For several seconds, Pauling deliberated. After reaching a decision, the older man sighed. “No. If you’re making progress…then no.” He rubbed his eyes.

  “Very well, Mr. President. I will get a report to you soon.” The speaker clicked off.

  Torokin continued to think. Two species, at war with one another, fighting over the same world. Was Earth the sole reason for their war? Or was this spilling over from something else? Where did the Ithini fit into the picture? Those were questions that had all been asked before.