by Lee Stephen
The two groups of guests still chattered quietly. No one seemed to notice him standing there. Sliding the card into his pocket, he ducked his head and walked farther into the room.
There was a funeral planned for the late captain. Svetlana had mentioned to the Fourteenth that it would be held the next night. Dostoevsky wasn’t sure how many from the unit were going, if anyone at all. Clarke had always kept himself at a distance. He let everyone be.
Walking hesitantly to the casket, Dostoevsky peered in and saw Clarke’s body for the first time. The fallen captain’s skin was an odd, waxy white—it almost didn’t look human. After mere seconds, Dostoevsky averted his eyes to the photo-laden bulletin board behind the casket.
Despite the banality of the pictures, they were Clarke as the fulcrum had never seen him: a photo of him sitting before a fireplace with what looked like an aging dog at his feet; a photo of a younger, shirtless Clarke, holding a woman of equal age in his arms; a photo of him as a child.
The clown-nosed photo was there, too, though now it could be seen in its entirety. Clarke was outstretched on a sofa, that same goofy grin on his face, as two young girls lay laughing on his lap. The girls’ eyes were solely on their father. Dostoevsky recognized one as the girl who’d given him the card.
He tore his eyes away, closing them just long enough to turn away from the casket and find his way out. As he scanned the room instinctively, he locked eyes with one of the women. She appeared quaintly old-fashioned in a simple black dress. Her hair, a mix of burnt auburn and brown, was tied back in a neat coil. She watched him with an unabashed stare.
Dostoevsky almost tripped, but he quickly caught his footing and quickened his pace. Breaking his eyes away from the woman—the widow—he shoved his hands into his pockets and hurried to the exit.
The frozen air bit at his face the moment he stepped back outside. He blew out a breath and rubbed his gloved hands together.
“Wait!”
He knew who it was the instant he heard her. It was Clarke’s wife—she was close behind him. He pretended he hadn’t heard her.
“Wait! Please!”
Dostoevsky took several steps more, then paused. His car was still a ways down the street—he couldn’t escape. But even as her footsteps approached from behind him, he resisted turning around. Only when he heard her stop mere meters away did he finally pivot to face her.
“I know who you are.” She looked at him with sympathetic eyes.
Her words caught him off guard. It was the first time he’d seen her before. No one from the Fourteenth had ever seen Clarke’s family—at least, not that he knew of. How could she know who he was?
“He always respected you,” she said, “even when the two of you didn’t see eye to eye.” She pressed her lips together softly. “He believed you could be a better leader than he was, if only you could break free.”
He didn’t know how to respond. He felt more uncomfortable than at any other time in his life.
She took a step closer. “God can forgive every one of us. He can forgive you, too.”
Dostoevsky was in shock at her words. Why was she telling him this? He was the worst kind of murderer—a calculated, cold-blooded killer. Of all the fulcrums in The Machine, he had always been among the most notorious. His name and ‘God’ had never been in the same sentence.
She reached out to gently touch his cheek. It was the most compassionate touch he’d ever felt. His face fell unguarded; his defenses crumbled. He felt his soul snap.
Until she spoke again.
“I am so sorry about your fiancee.”
Dostoevsky blinked. He cocked his head as if he didn’t understand.
“What they did was a terrible thing.”
It took a moment for reality to set in. Her sympathy wasn’t intended for him, nor was her compassionate touch. Not for him. Never him.
She thought he was Scott.
Her concerned expression lingered for a moment before she slid her hand from his cheek. Offering him a final smile, she turned and walked back inside.
As Dostoevsky climbed back into the driver’s seat of his hoverquad, he trembled violently. He shook as he turned on the ignition and pulled out in the street. As soon as his wheels brought him to minimal speed, they retracted and his driftdrive engaged.
He drove for several blocks—past the funeral home he’d just left and around an intersection far up the road—until he could drive no further. Slowing his Dovecraft, he pulled alongside a curb and shifted to park.
Folding his arms over the steering wheel, he buried his face. The first sobs that came out were heavy. They poured out in heaves. Then the worst of it came out.
He hammered his fists against the steering wheel, screaming at the top of his lungs. He flailed his head and thrashed his arms wildly. When his emotions finally ceased their assault, he pressed his fist to his mouth and bit hard. He stared at the bleak cityscape before him, his reddened eyes lost somewhere else.
The Dovecraft remained parked for almost ten minutes, before it restarted, pulled out, and went on its way. At no point did it pull over again. At no point did it deviate at all. It simply drove on until it disappeared down the road—the road that led back to damnation.
Back to The Machine.
25
Thursday, November 17, 0011 NE
0756 hours
EDEN Command
Archer marched into Confinement from the security checkpoint, not even slowing to acknowledge the guards.
“Judge Archer!” One of the scientists hurried to his side. “I did not know you were coming. Is there something I can—”
“The Bakma I spoke to, Nharassel. Bring me to him at once.”
“Yes, judge. Right away.”
Within a minute, Archer was outside Nharassel’s door. The Bakma had been transferred to a low-end security cell. The low-end cells were smaller and less hospitable than higher-classified ones, and meant for less important captures.
As soon as the cell door slid open, the Bakma lifted its head. Upon seeing Archer, it sat up.
“Close the door. I need privacy again,” Archer said to the scientist. The scientist complied without argument. For several seconds, Archer and Nharassel simply stared. Archer’s hands were on his hips, his lips pressed together in restraint.
“They hit us, Nharassel,” Archer said in Bakmanese. “Harder than ever before. They came in like a swarm. What does that mean?”
Nharassel remained silent.
“I said, what does that mean?”
The alien turned away and looked at the wall. Its bulbous eyes were hardened like stones.
Archer paced along the closed entrance. “This was faster than you claimed. Unless you misled me. They ravaged whole cities—almost a million are dead. We’ve spent the last two days trying to convince the world we’re not utter fools.” His hands were as animated as his words. “You said less than two full revolutions. How do you expect me to believe that now?”
“That was not the tribulation,” the alien said, still looking away.
“How do you know?”
Nharassel turned back to him. “If it were, we would not still be here.”
The British judge approached him. He stopped barely a meter away. “Then why? Why strike us like never before? Is it a warning? Are they trying to send us a message?”
“I do not know.”
Archer’s jaw clenched. His hands remained on his hips. “I need to know what will happen, Nharassel. I need to know what to look for. Does your species stop first? Will there be a lull?”
The Bakma’s bulging pupils constricted. Slits of deep black could be seen. “When the Nerifinn appear, you will know. They will proclaim the coming of the Khuladi. There will be no uncertainty. That is the purpose.”
“Who are the Nerifinn?”
“They are the declarers.”
Archer stopped pacing. “So the Nerifinn come to declare the tribulation? Do they come to fight as well?”
For
the first time during the exchange, Nharassel showed a glint of emotion. His gnarled mouth curled up at the corners, exposing a jagged-toothed smile. “If you wish.”
For thirty seconds, neither spoke. They both watched each other—one in anxiety, the other in scrutiny. It was Nharassel who broke the stalemate.
“When will I be free?”
Not a muscle on Archer’s face moved and he seemed to have ceased breathing. “Not yet.” Backing away from the alien, he walked toward the door. “Not soon enough,” he added.
As Archer left the cell, the Bakma sat back down on its metal cot. The door sealed it in.
Archer spent no further time in Confinement. Walking past the guards and out of the security checkpoint, he went about his way.
His scowl never changed.
26
Friday, November 18, 0011 NE
1230 hours
One day later
Scott was in the middle of a meal when the mission tone sounded. Though promptness was always standard for a callout, this one required special urgency. It wasn’t a call to a crash site, it was a rescue. Two Vultures from EDEN had been shot down.
It marked the unit’s first post-Clarke mission, and it rested solely on the shoulders of the fulcrums. Scott had met with Dostoevsky only once during the last two days. They and Max had met to discuss the vacancy at the lieutenant position. It was a brief but heated debate. Scott and Max recommended Oleg, but Dostoevsky’s objection was vehement—his choice was Viktor the slayer. A verdict was never reached, and no decision was made. The open lieutenant slot was left for speculation.
That wasn’t the only moment of awkwardness in the two-day span; the other had come at Clarke’s funeral the day before. Everyone in the unit had attended, with the exception of Dostoevsky and the slayers. Scott had felt obligated to go. The awkward moment came when he met Clarke’s widow. She’d given him a peculiar look when he introduced himself, then she opened her mouth as if to say something, only to step away and leave as if she’d changed her mind. The brief exchange had struck Scott as odd.
By the time Scott arrived in the hangar, Dostoevsky was already waiting, along with Travis and Boris and several of the Nightmen. Scott walked to the Pariah in full stride.
“Scott!”
Svetlana’s voice came from behind him; he recognized it immediately. He waited for her to draw near.
“What is the situation?” she asked.
He hadn’t seen her in almost two days, since the talk they’d had in his room. He had not had an opportunity to tell her how his attitude had improved since saving Tauthin and reconciling with Esther. How there was perhaps just a glimmer of hope.
She stood before him now, golden strands of her hair caressing the sides of her face just as they always did. He looked into her eyes—eyes that stared at him expectantly, waiting for his answer.
Two days ago, she’d told him he made her feel worth it. But she didn’t need anyone to make her feel that. She was worth it without any help.
“Noboats shot down two Vultures,” he finally answered.
“Are there any survivors?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
It was a Bakma mission yet again, but this time he didn’t view it as mundane. Over the past several days, the crimson-purple aliens had become vastly more intriguing—ever since he’d saved Tauthin from execution. He was anxiously awaiting the day the Bakma captive would be able to communicate. He’d checked in with Petrov several times; the alien was still recovering.
Another surprise had come with Tauthin’s rescue, this one concerning something that hadn’t happened. No one from Thoor sought Scott out. No one questioned him about Tauthin’s release. According to Petrov, no one had spoken to him, either. Fortunate or not, it struck Scott as strange.
Svetlana interrupted his musings. “Scott, about the other night…”
He gently cut her off short. “Don’t say it.” He had a feeling she was about to apologize. “You may have been right.”
A smile touched her lips.
At that moment, another operative caught Scott’s attention. It was Becan. The Irishman was wearing full combat armor, minus the helmet he held in his hands. His typically unkempt hair was now noticeably shorter. It looked freshly cut.
Even Scott couldn’t hold back his excitement. “Welcome back, McCrae.”
“Wise up, dope. I’m tired o’ yeh callin’ me ‘McCrae.’”
“Then Becan it is.”
“Righ’. An’ welcome back to you, too.”
When everyone was gathered in the Pariah, Dostoevsky began the initial brief. Despite his aura of untrustworthiness, the operatives gave him attention. “Two Vultures were intercepted while en route to Sydney.”
At first, the name Sydney took Scott by surprise. That EDEN base hadn’t officially opened yet. But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. It couldn’t be more than a few months away from operation; it was probably moving units in early.
“They were shot down north of Nizhnevartovsk, then engaged from above. All contact was lost with one Vulture after it crashed. The other has reported minimal casualties—for the moment. Our job is to engage and extract.”
“Who are the units?” Scott asked.
“They are called Frogmouth and Pelican. That is all I know for right now.”
An extraction operation. The last time Scott was involved with one of those, it was in the Battle of Chicago. Extraction defined his career.
He scrutinized the other operatives. Of his four slayers, he was most pleased that Egor was there. The horse-faced ogre was, of all things, a reliable asset. Scott never wanted to go without him again.
Leaving Egor behind in Chernobyl was Clarke’s error. It will never be mine.
Becan and Esther sat side by side in the ship. Scott observed them both. Becan would be rusty, and probably surprised by his own lack of athleticism. That happened when you stayed in the infirmary. He’d better know his limitations. Esther, on the other hand, looked sharp and energized.
William and Derrick were also present. Derrick was not in combat shape, despite the fact that he’d returned to active duty early. There’s no way he’s leaving the ship—he’ll stay with Travis.
Suddenly Scott’s eyes locked on the floor by the cockpit, where the small laika watched the operatives above. The dog’s tongue hung from its mouth.
“What’s the dog doing here?”
Max leaned against the cockpit door. “Dog’s got a name, Scott.”
Svetlana smiled at the mention of the animal. “He is good for the Pariah, is he not? He matches the picture on the tail wing.”
The dog on the tail wing looks diseased, Sveta. This animal looks nothing like that.
Kneeling on the floor, Svetlana opened her arms. The dog eagerly padded her way. “Little Flopper will be good in the ship, won’t you? You will watch over Travis and Boris.” The dog wagged his tail, licking her face.
“I wouldn’t let him do that if I were you,” Max said.
She gave him a look. “Do not worry, I am not afraid. He will not bite me.” She giggled as the dog licked her more.
“It’s not that,” said the oily technician. “Five minutes ago, he was eatin’ his own poo.”
Svetlana’s face froze. She pursed her lips in disgust, stood up, and held out her hand.
Max tossed her a wet cloth. “Bad dog.”
As the Pariah lifted from the airstrip, Dostoevsky addressed the unit again. “Evteev, bring up a map.”
A display screen came alive on the wall. The Russian captain pointed at it.
“The two Vultures were shot down approximately thirty kilometers from each other. Frogmouth Squad was shot down to the north, here in the bog. Pelican Squad is east, in the forest. There are several inches of snow in both areas.”
Scott listened to how Dostoevsky spoke. He wasn’t as eloquent as Clarke, but few people were. Dostoevsky seemed matter-of-fact.
“Commander Remington will lead a te
am into the bog. This is the Vulture that has given us no communication. It may not have any survivors.” He gestured at the Vulture in the forest. “I will lead a team here, to the transport with minimal casualties. There may be Noboats in the area, but if they are there, they are invisible. There could be heavy resistance upon our arrival.”
Scott decided to be tactful. “With your permission, sir, I would like to lead the team in the forest. I’m familiar with this kind of thing.”
The truth was that Scott didn’t trust Dostoevsky with an extraction—not with shipwrecked EDEN operatives’ lives at stake. Dostoevsky would always put his own safety first.
Dostoevsky thought for a moment, then agreed. “I grant your request. I will take the team through the bog.”
Scott was surprised—he hadn’t expected acquiescence from Dostoevsky.
“We do not know how many Noboats were in the area,” said the Russian, “but the first transmissions indicated two. Three to four are not out of the question. There are Vindicators patrolling above the forest, but they have not had enemy contact.” He looked at Scott. “Your contact with Pelican Squad is Captain Rex Gabriel.”
Scott affirmed. Now he was waiting to hear the team breakdowns. The fact that both teams would be led by a Nightman made the decision interesting. He had an inkling he knew how it would fall. Dostoevsky was a fulcrum, but he was probably paranoid, too. Scott had a feeling the slayers wouldn’t be assigned to Dostoevsky, but to him. He was willing to bet Dostoevsky would want EDEN’s operatives at his side to make sure there wasn’t a conspiracy to kill him that would be discussed as soon as he was away.
No…he won’t leave all the slayers with me. He’ll take one slayer with him, just to be safe. Just to make sure someone there has his back, in case the EDEN members decide to kill him off.
“Remington,” Dostoevsky said, “you will take Romanov, Goronok, Broll, McCrae, Brooking, and Voronova.”