by Lee Stephen
Scott was right. He knew Dostoevsky to the core.
“I will take Ryvkin, Axen, Jurgen, Strakhov, Harbinger, and Yudina. Cole will remain behind with Navarro and Evteev. And…the dog.”
So Scott had three of his slayers. Having Becan, Esther, and Svetlana would also be advantageous. Esther—he could use Esther. He was already thinking of how.
His mental planning was interrupted by Becan.
“Remmy,” he whispered, “yeh just have to trust me…but I need to go with Dostoevsky’s team.”
Scott raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve got to go with ‘em. I can’t tell yeh why. Jus’ trust me, please.”
Something was wrong. Why would Becan want to go with Dostoevsky? Only one answer came to mind, but surely the Irishman wasn’t dumb enough to try that. “Becan…”
“It’s not wha’ yeh think, I cross m’heart.”
“Then what is it?”
“I can’t tell yeh.”
Scott eyed him warily.
“Yeh know, you haven’t exactly been the grandest person on the face o’ the Earth the past couple o’ months, but I’ve been with yeh no matter wha’. I’m your friend, an’ I trust yeh. Righ’ now, I need you to trust me. I also need yeh not to ask why.”
Scott knew Becan hated Dostoevsky—that was no secret to anyone. There was bad blood between the two. “I’m not ready to be a captain.” Scott felt he needed to say it. “Don’t do me any favors.”
“Tha’s fair enough.”
After another moment of scrutiny, Scott sought Dostoevsky. “Captain?”
From across the transport, Dostoevsky looked over.
“I’d like to take Harbinger with me. Can you take McCrae?”
For a moment, Dostoevsky tensed. His eyes lingered on Becan’s back. “Very well.”
As Dostoevsky walked away, Scott turned to the Irishman again. Scott’s eyes expressed more than words could.
“Trust me, Remmy. It’s not wha’ yeh think.”
Max and David geared up in silence. Despite the fact that the two Americans sat side by side, checking the same weapons and wearing the same armor, they couldn’t have been more emotionally distant. It was Max who closed in the gap.
“I know this don’t mean scat to you,” he said, closing one eye as he looked down his rifle, “but I don’t hold a grudge.”
David adjusted his armor in silence.
“We all got reasons for doin’ what we do.” Satisfied with his E-35, Max slammed a magazine into place. “I know you got yours.” He shouldered his rifle and pulled a sprig from his pocket. “The way I see it,” he said, flicking his wrist and igniting the tip, “not one of us has been doin’ this right.” Sliding the sprig between his teeth, he inhaled a deep breath. He closed his eyes and breathed out evenly. “That includes you.”
David stopped working and angled his head at Max. But now it was Max who didn’t acknowledge him. Opening his eyes again, Max flicked his wrist and the sprig’s glow faded away. He slid it back into his pocket. “Just had to get one more good puff.”
David listened as Max leaned back, his rifle touching the Pariah‘s inner hull behind him. He listened as the technician quietly hummed.
Nothing more was spoken between them.
Scott stood prepped by the rear bay door with Auric at his side. He looked back at the troop bay and surveyed the other operatives. His former roommate and friend, David, was still sitting next to Max by the cockpit door.
David avoided eye contact with Scott; in fact, it seemed not even to be deliberate but as if from habit. He’d isolated himself from the unit completely, just as Scott had for months. He was part of the disconnect.
“Ignore him, commander,” said Auric. “He would kill you if he had the chance.”
Scott turned forward again. “No. I don’t think he would.”
“Coming down!” yelled Travis from the front.
The bay doors began to slide open.
Scott returned his attention to the mission. Rescue Pelican Squad. Make contact with Captain Gabriel. His first priority upon stepping outside would have to be hitting the comm channels—finding out Gabriel’s situation then and there.
The Pariah touched down in the middle of a sparse evergreen wilderness with about a foot of snow on the ground. Cold hit the troop bay; Scott turned on his heater.
Svetlana moved to his side. She said nothing, but he could feel her eagerness emanating from her body. She’d had a bad mission in Chernobyl and this was redemption.
“Do you think there are still Bakma here?” she asked.
The obvious answer would have been yes, but the attack on Europe had proved logic wrong. The aliens were inclined to leave at random. “I don’t know.” He surveyed his team. Three slayers, a demolitionist, a scout, and a medic. That was as diverse as a rescue team could get. According to the last transmissions of Captain Gabriel, Pelican Squad was two hundred meters east. No signs of Noboats had been reported, and Vindicator fighters were actively patrolling. The rest was up to Scott to discover.
As soon as the Pariah landed, Scott clamped on his black fulcrum’s helmet. It slid into place with a clunk. Hidden behind its featureless faceplate, Scott closed his eyes.
It never fails.
It didn’t matter what sense of optimism or revival he sought. When that fulcrum helmet came down—when those horns became his identity—the awareness of his sinful status burned through his heart.
Will this never change?
Scott forced the thoughts from his mind. “My team, out.”
Before disembarking, several feet away from Scott, Esther took a second to look back at Becan. The Irishman was already staring at her. They locked eyes for a moment, then she mouthed the words, “Do him in.”
Becan nodded his head.
The snow crunched beneath Scott’s feet and he sunk several inches, but it wasn’t as deep as he’d feared. This was manageable. The slayers were right at his side, and Svetlana and William fell last. William had been surprisingly quiet—probably because he was with Nightmen. William hated Nightmen. As the Vulture lifted away, Scott surveyed the scene through his view screen. Thick forest stretched in every direction. The spruce, cedar, fir, and pine trees surrounding them would certainly provide adequate cover.
“Nothing on infrared in the trees,” said Nicolai. The older slayer’s head twitched characteristically. Behind them, the Pariah lifted off to take Dostoevsky’s team to the second drop point.
Scott knelt in the snow. “The transport is ahead, east-northeast about two hundred meters.” He thought for a moment. “Auric and Nicolai, I want the two of you spread out to the north. Stay twenty meters away. Egor, spread south, same distance. William and Sveta, linger behind.” He trusted Svetlana with William, almost as much as he would have trusted himself. Scott was tempted to take her with him—but there was someone else he wanted instead. “Esther, come with me.”
The scout affirmed and joined him, and everyone else took their positions. Nicolai and Auric—they formed as consistent a pairing as could be made. Egor would be fine on his own. Everything was set.
Scott opened a comm channel to Pelican. “Captain Gabriel, this is Commander Scott Remington of the Fourteenth. Can you hear my transmission?”
No reply came.
The first red flags began to pop up. Nothing had been reported wrong with Gabriel’s comm. The Australian captain should have heard him. If EDEN had had contact with Gabriel since they’d been forced down, why was there no contact now? “What do you think, Brooking?” he asked in an attempt to keep Esther involved. He already knew what he thought.
The scout drew a stout breath. “I believe this is a hostage situation, sir.”
Scott blinked under his helmet. He turned to look at her.
“For whatever reason,” she went on, “Captain Gabriel is choosing not to respond. If there were any outward signs of a fight, not only would we have heard it on the ground, but it would have been seen from the Vindies in orbit
. Even if he’s under duress from hostiles outside his transport, he should be able to relay that to us.” She paused. “I think he has a gun to his head.”
That was much more in-depth than Scott had ventured to think. He’d simply reached the conclusion that something was wrong.
The scout continued. “That tells me there are Noboats on the ground, which in turn tells me they’re waiting for something—possibly for us to approach. I think it’s an ambush. If I may make a prediction, I believe we will continue to have no communication with Captain Gabriel until we’ve drawn close, literally in the Bakmas’ sights. The Bakma are extraordinarily cautious, particularly in ambush situations. They play things remarkably safe, when they can muster up the courage to gamble at all.”
Scott stared at her in silence. He had no idea how to respond.
“Bakmanese Tactics and Method.” The scout smirked. “It’s a 300 course.”
Scott looked ahead once again. “Well, there we go.”
As the Pariah descended with the other half of the Fourteenth, Dostoevsky clamped on his helmet. Max and Viktor stood ready behind him. “We have not heard anything from this transport,” Dostoevsky said. “There may be heavily wounded, if there are any survivors at all.”
Varvara stared at the ground.
“Travis, ETA?” asked Dostoevsky.
“About fifty seconds!”
Viktor cursed. “Idiot pilot. Must everything always be shouted? Does he think he’s in American movie?”
“Watch your mouth when you talk about my friend,” said Max, glaring at the slayer-medic.
“Shut up.”
“Look at me and say that again.”
“Stop it,” Dostoevsky said, cutting them off. “Prepare to exit the ship.” Moments later, the Pariah touched down.
The rear door whined open. The frozen bog of Nizhnevartovsk, a wasteland of dead trees and decrepit earth, stretched to the north. As they stepped out, the stench of iced sludge hit their nostrils.
Back in the wilderness, Scott and his team slowly tracked east. They had yet to encounter any hostiles, nor had they heard from Captain Gabriel’s crew. Scott had commed the captain numerous times but was met only with silence.
William and Svetlana remained at the rear. The demolitionist was one step behind her as they quietly pressed on. William’s hand cannon was firm in his grasp.
Scott lifted a hand. Everyone stopped and looked at him. “We’re a hundred and fifty meters out,” he said. “I’m sending Esther to the south to mirror us from farther away. I want everyone on high alert for a possible ambush. Look for any signs of a Noboat.”
Several quiet affirmations came and Esther spurted away.
Dostoevsky’s team was still moving north through the frozen bog. The snow kept the normally moist ground relatively solid, a rare convenience—the terrain was more passable for them all. Everyone was prepared with their E-35s as they focused beyond icicle-covered remnants of trees. Dostoevsky led with Max and Viktor right behind. Varvara and Oleg took to the middle, and Becan and David covered the rear. Becan had not once spoken to David beside him, nor to Oleg and Varvara meters ahead.
“The ship is not far from here,” said Dostoevsky. “Under one hundred meters ahead. We should almost be in visual range.”
The team kept onward.
Scott could tell something was wrong by the silence of the forest. A natural evergreen forest was never this quiet, even in freezing temperatures. This silence was overwhelming. Every footstep was amplified to the tenth degree. There were no birds nor any signs of animals. He was still unable to identify the downed crash site, even with his display fully zoomed.
He thought about what Esther had deduced about the possibility of an ambush. What if she was right and this was some kind of trap? There was no reason for Captain Gabriel to go radio dark.
A pair of Vindicators streaked by. It was the only unnatural sound in the woods.
Max’s voice emerged through the comm. “Yo, Scott?”
“Go ahead.”
“We’re within a hundred meters of our crash site. No Bakma contact as of yet.”
“None here, either.”
“Just lettin’ you know.” The comm channel closed.
Egor spoke next through the comm. The slayer was still twenty meters south. “There is something very wrong here, commander.”
Scott agreed. “Stretch south thirty meters. Romanov and Broll, increase to thirty as well.”
“Yes, commander.”
“Will,” Scott said without turning. “Follow thirty meters behind.”
“A’right.”
Scott’s radio commands carried on. “Remington to Pariah.”
“Pariah.”
“Where are you?” He hadn’t seen Travis fly overhead.
“We landed five miles to the west, awaiting orders from you or the captain.”
“Is Derrick still with you?”
After a moment, Derrick’s country-hick voice emerged. “Yeah, I’m still here.”
“Stay vigilant. There have to be Bakma in the area.” Alone, Travis would never be able to defend the Pariah if the Bakma landed and attacked them. But with Derrick, they stood a fighting chance. They had the dog, too—that could be a plus. Scott’s thoughts stopped right there. Did I really just think that?
He closed the comm channel completely. Glancing both ways, he saw that his team had spread out. He gave them the signal to move on.
Dostoevsky’s team continued to trek through the bog. They were within sixty meters of the crash site, but still hadn’t encountered any Bakma.
Becan caught up with Oleg, leaving David alone at the rear. “I hate missions like this,” the Irishman grumbled.
“They are not so bad,” said Oleg.
“I hate bein’ ou’ in the sticks. Give me urban combat anny day.”
Varvara chuckled from Oleg’s other side. “Last time you were in the city, Becan, you got hurt. You are lucky to be alive now.”
“I’d rather die in the city than in the middle o’ the bleedin’ woods.” Shouldering his rifle, Becan nudged Oleg. “By the way, guess who I ran into while I was in the infirmary? Vladimir Lennikov.”
“Oh, really?” Oleg asked, still scanning the perimeter. “And who is he?”
“You been here all this time an’ yeh haven’t met Vlad?”
“Not yet. Was he a comrade?”
“Not a comrade, really,” Becan said, slowing his pace. Oleg and Varvara continued ahead. “He’s been a lieutenant in the First for three years.”
Oleg froze.
It took a moment for Becan’s words to set in. But when they did, everyone stopped, equally paralyzed. At the front of the group, Dostoevsky went rigid.
“Wait a minute,” Max said, turning to Oleg. “Weren’t you…?”
“Weren’t you in the First before you came to us?” David finished the question.
Oleg opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Becan aimed his E-35 at the flustered soldier. “Don’t worry, Strakhov. Vlad didn’t remember you, either.”
Dostoevsky lowered his head.
Oleg laughed nervously and began to speak, but Becan cut him off.
“I saw what yeh did in the federal building, in Krasnoyarsk. I saw yeh drop a half a dozen Bakma who got the jump on yeh without a second o’ warning. I know a little bit abou’ scrappin’.” His finger hovered over the trigger. “They don’t teach tha’ kind o’ thing back in Philly.”
Varvara took a step back toward Max.
“But yeh know wha’, Oleg?” Becan went on. “I saw somethin’ even more tellin’ than your knack for reefin’ up aliens.” He narrowed his eyes with conviction. “I saw the look on your face. An’ it wasn’t the look we’re accustomed to seein’. At least, not from annybody in EDEN.”
Max made a time-out sign with his hands. “Hang on, back up the truck.”
“Why’d they put yeh here, Strakhov? To make sure everythin’ went accordin’ to plan? To make sure
Remmy fell into place?”
Viktor interjected. “Wait! What do you people try to say? That Oleg is eidolon? He cannot be. If he was, Dostoevsky would know.” He turned to the captain.
Dostoevsky was staring at the ground. When Viktor faced him, he lifted his head to match Viktor’s gaze. Even with his face hidden by his fulcrum’s helmet, his body language said more than words could.
Viktor gasped.
Oleg looked squarely at Becan, his caught-off-guard gape melting away. The glare that replaced it was brazen and clear.
Simultaneously, Max and David lifted their assault rifles.
Oleg shook his head. “You do not know the mistake you just made, Irishman.”
“Save it for Thoor,” Becan said. “I assume you know him fairly well.”
“Yuri, you knew this?” Max shouted at Dostoevsky. “You trashin’ knew this?”
Dostoevsky had nothing to say.
“All this time, Strakhov,” Becan said, “you were here. Sleepin’ in our room. Seein’ wha’ we were abou’.”
“McCrae…” Dostoevsky said lowly.
“It was to get Remmy, wasn’t it? It was to make sure he did wha’ yeh wanted? Everythin’ you told us in the lounge, abou’ the Murder Rule an’ how yeh heard abou’ it from a Nightman in the First. Tha’ was all part o’ the script.”
“McCrae, stop.”
Max suddenly turned. He no longer aimed his weapon at Oleg, but had Dostoevsky alone in his sights.
The fulcrum began to speak, but Max cut him off.
“I don’t wanna hear it, Yuri. You’ve been let off the hook long enough. I don’t care if you didn’t kill Nicole. I don’t care if you had nothing to do with Oleg. You still knew. You trashing knew.”
Dostoevsky raised his hands in defense. “Max, you must understand…”
“Shut the hell up.”
Oleg’s glare stayed solely on Becan. “The repercussions you face cannot be imagined.”
The Irishman ignored his threat. “Did yeh murder Clarke, too? Were yeh clearin’ the ranks for your good mucker Yuri?”
“I swear upon the throne of God, I will be the last voice you hear.”