Epic: Book 03 - Hero

by Lee Stephen

  In the end, those things didn’t matter. Humanity wasn’t involved with extraterrestrial politics. All that mattered to Earth was survival. If there was one silver lining in the Bakma pullout, it was that it gave Earth time to strengthen a chink in Europe’s defense.

  He stopped in the middle of that thought. If there was one silver lining? The fact that the Bakma pulled out alone was a silver lining. Why didn’t it seem that way? It was almost as if the pullout was worse than if the Bakma had advanced. Only because the pullout clouded the waters; an advance would have made sense.

  Pauling pressed the speaker again. After several moments, the woman’s voice reemerged. “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “Get me Carol.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  An advance would have made sense. For some reason, that thought stood out to Torokin. Were the Bakma intentionally trying not to make sense? What would that accomplish? What would be the point? And why had there been no attempts at diplomacy on the Bakma’s part? Or the Ceratopians’? No one wanted to talk.

  Judge June’s voice came over the speaker. “I’m here, sir.”

  Pauling wasted no time. “I know you’re busy at Novosibirsk, but I need to get this to you now. We need a major push for recruitment in Europe. It can’t wait until you get back, you’ve got to start now.”

  Moments passed before June replied. “Yes, sir. I’ll formulate a new recruitment schedule tonight.”

  “What’s our global headcount?”

  Her answer was confident and quick. “Our major facilities are still hovering at a half a million. But we’ve got eighteen million in our city stations. Philadelphia is averaging about two million a year.”

  “What were your percentages last month in Europe?”

  Her silence indicated her calculations. Or her hesitation. “Nine percent enrolled.”

  “Nine?”

  “Only in Europe, sir,” she said. “Global recruitment is up seventeen percent. Europe was the only continent that went down.”

  “And how many phased out in Europe?”

  This time her nervousness was blatant. “Over ten percent.”

  Pauling pounded his fist on the table as the judges near him flinched. “That is completely unacceptable! We can’t win a war if we’re losing more people than we’re bringing in. I want fifty percent for next month. Not a fraction less.”

  Torokin’s eyes widened at Pauling’s demands. He wanted June to convince half of the people she targeted to enroll? At least? Nine percent was a disappointing number, that was certain. But to have a fifty percent success rate—that hadn’t been reached since the start of the war.

  June’s voice was saturated in doubt. “Yes, sir. I’ll…I’ll…” Several seconds passed. “I’ll get it to fifty by the end of next month. I’ll…figure it out.”

  “Thank you,” Pauling answered, closing the line.

  Torokin saw the irony. Of all the continents to hit, the Bakma had chosen the right one. Only European recruitment had gone down. Humanity’s weakness was exposed. The aliens always seemed to hit Earth that way. But the weakness in Europe, like all others, would be fixed. Carol June was a devil in a dress, but she was a phenomenal recruiter. Novosibirsk had drained a lot of her time. She’d hit fifty percent—even if by questionable means.

  For the first time, Richard Lena spoke up. “What if it is just an experiment?”

  Every other judge turned to face him. Evidently, they’d been wondering the same thing. It had always been a question, since day one of the Alien War, but never one taken too seriously.

  “We keep thinking that they’re after Earth, but what if they’re not? What if they couldn’t care less about Earth? What if they’re simply interested in how we react?”

  “The Ceratopians or the Bakma?” Judge Onwuka asked.

  “The Bakma. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe both.”

  Torokin leaned forward and absorbed the words. An experiment. What a complete waste it would be if the war was just an experiment. He could not accept that.

  “I don’t see this being an experiment,” said Archer, shaking his head. “I understand the idea, but…”

  The other judges waited for the statement to be finished. It never was.

  The Bakma must have known what they had in their grasp in Europe. They must have known that they’d hit Earth’s most vulnerable region, and what would happen if they relented their attack. Humans would rebuild. EDEN would focus on the gap in their defense. They’d recruit more. They’d build stronger bases. They’d increase their response time. They’d learn—just as they’d been learning from the war’s beginning.

  This war was like a human body. The Bakma would find a weakness, make Earth hurt, only to have it grow stronger there. Like the building of scar tissue over a wound, or of muscle.

  Like the building of muscle.

  The thought struck Torokin unexpectedly. Before he could think further, he said it out loud.

  “What if they’re building us up?”

  Around the table, heads swiveled, none faster than Archer.

  Torokin collected his thoughts. “Think about this. There must be a reason to retreat. One attacks a weak point to exploit it. You must know what a pullout will do.”

  He realized that his thoughts were disorganized. He tried again. “Imagine you are a criminal in a city. You know everything about that city. You know where the police are, you know the patrols they run. You have to try to target a place with no police. But you must know—you must—that when the crime is finished, more police will be stationed to the place where the crime was committed. That is natural response of law enforcement.”

  Grinkov rubbed his chin, pondering this new idea.

  “The Bakma are not stupid,” Torokin said. “On the contrary, they are highly intelligent. They must have known what would happen after they left. We would return to the cities in Europe. We would recruit more operatives.” He slapped his palm on the table. “Don’t you see? That is exactly what we are doing now. They found a weakness in us, and we are making it strong.” He paused to let the statement sink in. “What if that is the whole point?”

  Grinkov tilted his head. “But why?”

  “I do not know. But what other explanation do we have?”

  “If you want to capture a planet,” mused Lena, folding his arms, “why poke it with a stick and tell it to get ready? Obviously they’re not here to help us. When they attack, we die. If they’re trying to strengthen us, they’re defeating their own purpose every time they kill a man. And that doesn’t explain what the Ceratopians are doing.”

  Torokin was aware that it didn’t make sense, but neither did anything else. “Have you ever wondered why the Bakma attack villages in the middle of nowhere, almost completely out of EDEN’s protection zones? They attack towns we do not even know exist. But when they attack, we learn they exist. And we protect them better. Could that not be what they are doing?”

  “I understand what you’re saying,” Lena said, “but it still doesn’t make a lick of sense. What would that accomplish?”

  Archer listened intently to the exchange.

  “Perhaps,” Torokin said, “for some reason, the Bakma want to protect us from the Ceratopians.” The moment he said it, he knew it was wrong. But he kept going anyway. “They are at war with one another. Perhaps they want us to be better prepared to repel attacks in general.”

  “Do you even hear what you’re saying?”

  The ex-Vector narrowed his eyes. “Yes, Richard, I hear what I am saying. And even as I am saying it, I am thinking it is the most ludicrous idea I have ever heard.” He could frankly admit to that. “What I’m trying to do is think in a different direction, because the direction we have been going has gotten us nowhere. What if, somehow, the Ceratopians’ and the Bakma’s plans contradict each other? What if one specifically needs the other to fail?”

  Suddenly Archer spoke up, almost cutting off Torokin’s words. “You may be on to something.”

&nbs
p; Rath threw Archer an impulsively shocked look, but quickly concealed it.

  Archer went on. “We have never considered that we may very well be the variable. What if one of them solely requires strength on our part to succeed?”

  “That could make sense,” said Torokin. “You cannot look at the casualties we suffer as proof against this. Casualties take place on a very small-scale level. Per mission, per incursion. They may not be a factor in the larger goal that one of the species hopes to accomplish. Perhaps, in their eyes, casualties are worth it if we are stronger in the end.”

  “We need to pursue this immediately,” Archer said. “Now that it’s been brought up, even the start of the war makes sense to an extent. It began with one single attack on Hong Kong, with enough time between it and the next attack for us to form a global military. What if that’s all they were trying to do? Make us aware that a threat existed, so we’d prepare ourselves?”

  Lena scratched the back of his head. “Who was that Ceratopian you and Kang were talking to again?”

  “Ceratopian No. 12. Don’t ask me to pronounce his real name.” He turned to the president. “We need to look at new avenues of questioning. We’ve probed in a hundred directions, but to the best of my knowledge, never this one. For that, I blame myself. But nonetheless, this is more than worth looking into.”

  It didn’t take Pauling long to answer. “Do it. Now. You can go.”

  Archer rose from his chair. “Thank you, sir.” He looked at Torokin before turning to leave. “Judge Torokin, would you care to come with me? Perhaps we can plot a course together.” He cast a questioning look back at Pauling. “That is, if the president allows.”

  “I have no objections. Leonid, you can go with him if you wish.”

  Torokin looked across the table at Archer. He’d never worked hand in hand with the new judge, at least not on a project like this. Offers had been made, but he’d never accepted. This time would be different. “I will join you,” he agreed.

  The Russian rose from his chair and slid it back into place before stepping away. He glanced briefly at Grinkov and Lena before leaving the room.

  Archer snuck a look of his own to Jason Rath. The exchange lasted barely a moment as the British judge made his way out.

  Torokin waited for Archer outside the room. “Do you truly believe that this is a possibility?” the Russian asked him.

  Archer’s bristled pace never slowed. “As you’ve defined it in there? No. But as a direction to explore, absolutely. You were correct in saying that this is a completely new avenue of study. That may be precisely what we need.”

  Torokin looked back for a moment, then hurried to keep up with the brisk-paced judge. “What have you learned from your interrogations? Who is Ceratopian No. 12?”

  “He’s the most promising capture we’ve ever made. The Bakma seem to embrace psychological torture, as if it were some sort of release. But the Ceratopians simply resist it. Their willpower is as strong as their physical power. Not so with No. 12.”

  “Not so?”

  “He is weak-minded. He can be manipulated, convinced.” Archer stopped for a moment, turning to Torokin. “Mind you, by ‘convinced,’ I don’t mean to a great extent. Our ability to manipulate him into cooperation has been minimal at best. But minimal is far better than nonexistent. He is not valuable because of what he knows, but rather because he is not mentally durable. It’s the proper way of saying he’s daft.”

  The usefulness of their captives was inversely proportional to their intelligence. It was ironic to say the least. “What have you learned from him?”

  “Very little, at least to this point. Barely enough to warrant a report, though that’s precisely what I’ve been working on for the past several weeks. I was hoping to have it finished by our next meeting.” He lowered his voice. “You’re the first person outside of Kang and myself to hear this, but…the Ceratopians are desperate to get Earth. Apparently much more so than the Bakma. You’ve heard the term, the ‘Great Race for Earth.’ They mean it literally. Whatever it is they want here, they want it before the Bakma. It may be they want this planet. It may be us. It may be something altogether different. But whatever it is, it’s time-critical to an extent we can’t possibly imagine. They’re desperate to beat the Bakma here.”

  For a moment, Torokin couldn’t speak. He was stunned, not at the information Archer had given him, but at how the information had been given. He realized in that moment how much he’d underestimated Archer as a capable judge.

  “Of course,” Archer said, “I tell you this in strict confidentiality. Everyone will hear it in due time. But for now, it should stay between us. You’re hearing a hodgepodge of thoughts, but soon, I should have a formal analysis to present to the Council.” He paused as they turned down the hallway. “It’s ironic that this attack on Europe happened when it did. We were about to show our headway on this very topic.”

  Torokin kept pace. “Neither species wants to destroy us.” It was more of a question than a statement.

  “That is as it appears. Our extinction is not their agenda. Whether some things are worse than extinction—that remains to be seen.”

  It was one of the first times Torokin had felt actively involved with something new. His role with the High Command had been limited to military tactics in the past—not that he minded. Military tactics were what he did best, even if his expertise was underused. But it was refreshing to take his mind into uncharted waters. At least for the moment.

  He had no idea what to expect from Archer’s research or what it would be like working in Confinement. But he didn’t care. They would be gaining new ground. Time would tell if that new ground was solid.

  Anything was better than the quicksand they were in.

  18

  Monday, November 14, 0011 NE

  1739 hours

  Novosibirsk, Russia

  Shortly after Chernobyl

  The Pariah‘s wheels rumbled on the runway as it touched down. None of the operatives had said a word since leaving Chernobyl.

  The flight home had been one of the longest and most unsettling Scott had ever endured. While the Tenth worked to secure the dilapidated nuclear plant, the Fourteenth had been asked to wait outside in case assistance was needed. None was. Despite the fact that several necrilids had supposedly been discovered by the Tenth, there were no human casualties to report. The mission was an on-paper success.

  The grotesque remains of the researchers’ bodies had been found. Their small dog—the East Siberian laika—was officially orphaned. The animal lay quiet during the entire ride back to The Machine, its nose buried beneath its paws.

  Clarke’s corpse had been placed in a body bag shortly before the return flight began. It sat awkwardly propped in the corner, where no one had ventured to look for longer than a few seconds. Strangely, no tears had been shed.

  It had been one of the eeriest and most uncomfortable flights Scott could remember. Never before had the line between ally and enemy felt so tangible. EDEN and the Nightmen were no longer forced comrades. There was no sense of camaraderie at all.

  News about the European attacks had come over the airwaves during their return. Cities had been razed to the ground. Countless homes were destroyed and hundreds of thousands of people were dead. Rumors flew that even several members of Vector Squad had been killed. It had been the worst attack in all of Earth’s history.

  Still, Scott wished he could have been there.

  As the rear door was finally lowered with its familiar mechanical whine, Scott slowly rose. No one else near him stood. He stared at the ground as he stepped past his teammates, his expression a mixture of confusion, anger, and remorse. When he finally mustered the strength to look up, he was already halfway through the hangar. It didn’t take him long to find Max. The lieutenant technician was walking toward him from the opposite end of the hangar, where he’d apparently been waiting for them to return.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on, man? I been tryin’
to comm you guys for an hour!”

  An hour. It felt as if the flight had been ten times longer than that. What was Scott supposed to tell him? Just filler. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” He turned his head to the Pariah. “Why isn’t anyone else getting out?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Max watched, motionless, as Scott walked away. After several seconds, he called after him.

  Scott slowed to a stop. Max needs to know. He deserves to know. “Clarke is dead.”

  At first, Max offered no response. It was as if he hadn’t understood the words. Then his stoic demeanor crumbled. “How?”

  “He got killed by a necrilid.” He offered the only reassurance he knew. “Only Clarke died.”

  He waited for Max’s response—whether there might be a span of confusion or denial. But there wasn’t. Instead, he heard the most collected response from Max since the first day he’d met him.

  “We can fix this,” Max said, looking Scott straight in the eye. His expression was genuine. “We can try.”

  Scott’s gaze swept past Max’s shoulder, back to the ship. Several members of the Fourteenth were removing Captain Clarke’s body. The black body bag hovered over the ground as the operatives carried it out.

  He felt the same uneasy silence as when Axelos from the Tenth had addressed him back in Chernobyl. And again, he offered the same response—he turned and walked away.

  This can’t be fixed, Max. Today crossed the line.

  Max watched Scott leave the hangar, then turned back to the Pariah—to the body bag that lay on the floor. He didn’t say anything, nor did indicate to the Fourteenth that he was even there. He just turned and walked away, too.

  The rest of the Fourteenth mechanically attended to their myriad tasks. David and Oleg prepared Clarke’s body for departure, while Svetlana tended to Derrick’s leg. Although she was quaking inside, her hands remained steady on his wounds. She escorted him to the infirmary alone.