by Lee Stephen
“Y’hello.”
“Max, is everyone in Room 14?”
“I don’t know. I’m in the hangar, washin’ the dog.”
Washing the dog. Scott should have known. “In an hour, I want to talk to the unit. Make sure everyone’s there.”
There was a delay in Max’s response. “Sure thing, Scott.” He sounded as if he was trying not to be surprised.
“I’ll see you there.” The comm channel closed, and Scott slid the device back into his belt.
He had one hour to figure out what to say and how to say it. One hour to fix three months of hurt. It was better late than never.
31
Saturday, November 19, 0011 NE
1000 hours
The walk to Room 14 felt like an epic journey. With every step, Scott’s feet became heavier. It was as though some kind of unseen force was fighting to hold him at bay—to prevent him from moving ahead.
The hour before his meeting had been both a blessing and a curse. It had given him time to collect his thoughts and prepare himself for what he was about to say. At the same time, it served as a doorway for doubt and reservation. Despite his apprehension, he kept moving.
When he finally arrived in front of the door, he stopped. This is what I have to do, he thought. But it has to go beyond that. Is this what I want to do?
For any other occasion, necessity would outrank desire. But for him—for this—it was different. The very nature of who he was demanded desire. He would be perfectly safe with The Machine. He’d hate himself, but he’d be safe. To do this right—to heal while humbling himself—would require going in with both feet. Was that really what he wanted to do?
Yes it is.
Reaching out, he opened the door.
The immediate absence of operatives surprised him, but he soon saw that everyone was in the lounge. He could hear their rustling and quiet conversing around the tables, and he could see the shadows move beyond the open door.
There was something about the simple satisfaction of knowing his teammates were there that brought him a measure of joy. He fought to restrain it and for the most part succeeded, but it refused to dissipate entirely.
As he walked through the bunk room to the lounge, he glanced at the beds. He could recognize everyone’s bed—the neat ones of the women, Travis’s strewn with comic books, Jayden and Varvara’s matching cowboy hats. David’s photos. He stopped there, thinking about the older American who had once been like a father to him. How much things had changed.
He noticed a silence emanating from the lounge. The chattering had stopped and movement had ceased. They knew he was there.
Closing his eyes, Scott lowered his head. It might have been a prayer. Whatever it was, it prepared him. It encouraged him enough to walk forward.
The moment he stepped through the door, all eyes were upon him. For the first time since visiting Jayden, he remembered how terrible he looked with his swollen cheek, black eye, and horrible burns. He must have appeared almost grotesque, but he didn’t care. He had a feeling neither did they.
He scanned the room, taking them all in. Max was there, sitting at a table with Travis and Boris. Becan was sitting with Esther, William, and Derrick. Everyone was there—even David and the slayers. But the new captain was nowhere to be seen.
Dostoevsky is gone. For a moment Scott felt disappointed, which almost surprised him. But it didn’t matter where Dostoevsky was, or if he was merely absent or abandoned for the long haul. He resumed his scan of the room until he found Svetlana. She smiled at him warmly, her blue eyes sparkling.
Scott smiled back. Her whole purpose in returning to Novosibirsk had been for this—to see him redeemed. This was as much for her as himself. She deserved it. Clearing his throat, he began. “Thank you guys for coming…I know this isn’t something we’re used to lately. I don’t really know how to begin, so I’ll just start without beating around the bush…”
Back in the bunk room, the door to Room 14 silently opened. Dostoevsky crept inside. He looked at the lounge hesitantly, then quietly eased the door shut behind him.
“I want to ask for forgiveness,” Scott said bluntly. At those words, the slayers exchanged perplexed glances. It was impossible for Scott not to notice. All four of them were unmistakably intrigued.
“There is no justification for how I’ve behaved over the past several months. Not anger, not unfairness. Not personal loss.” He could feel the heaviness of the anger and guilt, feelings he’d rehashed repeatedly in his mind. But he’d never addressed them to the unit.
“I went wrong when I stopped listening to you,” he said. “The compassion you’ve shown me when I needed it the most…” He shook his head in wonder. “The way I repaid you was awful.” He had to convey his next words straight from his heart, despite their simplicity. “I am so sorry.”
They stared at him with a mix of emotions. Some of them looked upon him with hope—Svetlana, Varvara, and Esther chief among them. Some of them watched with respect, while others looked suspicious.
“You deserved a better leader than you’ve gotten from me.”
Dostoevsky was still in the bunk room; he hadn’t stepped any farther inside. He stood by the door—hidden by a half row of bunks—as he listened to Scott.
“I realize what I lost,” Scott went on, “and that was all of you. I let anger and guilt take over my life, and I ran from the very people I needed the most. I’ve also been incredibly selfish.” No elegant words weaved through his address. He tried to speak plainly. “So far as I’m concerned, I have two options now. I can keep doing what I’ve been doing, which isn’t working. Or I can try to change—work to make myself right. With you, with myself. With this team.”
Across the room, every eye was fixed on him. The women’s smiles had faded, but so had the looks of suspicion and uncertainty from some of the others. They no longer stared at him like a man awkwardly attempting to redeem himself; instead, they watched him to see where he was going with his words.
“Becan,” Scott said, looking at the Irishman. “Esther…” He then went around the room, saying the names of each of his EDEN comrades in turn. When he settled on David, his former roommate and friend, he tried to smile. David’s face was blank. “I can stand up here and make a million promises about my behavior, but it doesn’t matter what I say. It matters what I actually do.” He paused while he formed his request. “Please give me the chance to right what I’ve let get out of hand. I hope you can forgive me that much.”
Outside of the lounge, Dostoevsky’s eyes trailed to the floor.
Scott switched his attention from his EDEN counterparts to the slayers. “I have some words especially for you.” The room tensed as the Nightmen looked at him. “We’ve each failed humanity in our own way. We all know the guilt that comes with that.”
The slayers’ reactions were mixed. Viktor looked wary. Nicolai looked worried. But Auric and Egor seemed to be listening intently.
“Every one of us lives with a vice. I live with anger. You each know what your own vices are. But we need to be different. The way we are now…it doesn’t work. Look at Dostoevsky and Oleg—role models for our sect. Neither of them are here.
“We can’t segregate ourselves and expect to survive. The things we should be doing together, we must do together. Training together, fighting together. Even relaxing together. Believing in each other, together.” He no longer spoke to only the slayers.
“We can’t afford to be a torn-apart unit. We are the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk. If any part of this unit fails, we all fail together. We all have a lot of work to do.”
At those words, his tone noticeably changed—it became bolder and more forceful.
“Svetlana and Esther.” He looked squarely at the two women. They looked back with surprise. “The two of you need to settle your differences. Find the problem, then sort it out. Let it go.”
They glanced at each other, then back at him.
Scott turned to the pilot. “Travis, you n
eed to improve.” Travis blinked as he was isolated. “Being competent once in a while is not good enough. You need to raise your own bar.” The pilot looked genuinely hurt.
“Varya, the same goes for you. Ask yourself if you really want to be here. If you do, crack open the books, get lessons from Sveta, and get Esther to teach you about composure—she’s learned that very well.”
The room fell deathly quiet. It was as if a hammer of judgment had been hurled tactlessly down.
His focus turned to Nicolai—one of his own. “Nicolai, hear this and hear it well. You will not make perverse comments about your teammates. You will not threaten innocent citizens. The next time either happens, it will be the last.”
“Da, commander.”
Scott took in their expressions—their surprise and their hurt. Their uncomfortable stares of apprehension. His next words were damning and low.
“Scott Remington,” he said aloud. The operatives who’d lowered their heads lifted them again. “You need to stop acting like a child. You need to stop feeding your sense of self-pity. You need to stop your grudging anger and resentment. You need to be the officer you should have been for the past three months.” He paused for a moment. “And if you don’t, whatever mutiny you receive will be well-deserved.”
Scott knew how effective that last part would be. He would have never been able to lay down such criticism of the others had he not chosen to add in his own. At least, that was the gamble he took.
“None of us are above improvement. Especially not me. Let’s improve together. Let’s be what we should have been all along.”
That was it. That was the whole of his speech. He had to show them that he was sincere while showing them that he was still capable of being a respectable leader. Now it was their turn. Without another word, he relinquished his command of the floor—to give them a chance to speak.
Outside the lounge, Dostoevsky’s expression remained stoic. Until he overheard the next question.
“Are you and I the only officers left?” Max asked.
For a moment, Scott didn’t answer. He knew the issue was unavoidable. Where did Dostoevsky stand? Was he still a part of the unit at all? Scott didn’t know. “Until we hear otherwise, Dostoevsky’s still the captain of this squad. I know a lot of people here are holding a grudge, maybe none more so than me. But if I can look past what he’s done, and give him that respect, so can anyone else here. For the sake of us all, I’m letting it go.” The words stung him at first, as if he was giving up an addictive habit. Perhaps he was.
Max’s response was less gracious. “I sent him a message about the meeting. I know he knew about it. As far as I’m concerned, this room is it.”
Auric, the German Nightman, said firmly, “You are the one we will follow, commander. I believe I speak for us all.” The other Nightmen quietly affirmed.
Several seconds later, Scott heard a click come from the bunk room—the sound of the bunk room door opening and shutting in a way not meant to be heard. Glancing into the room, he saw that no one was there. But someone evidently had been moments before. He frowned when he realized who it must have been.
Yuri…did you just hear that? It had to have been the captain. Oleg wouldn’t have dared to show his face. He turned his attention back to the room, forcing thoughts of Dostoevsky out of his mind.
His operatives sat expectantly, but Scott simply concluded, “So let’s get to work.”
Though he stepped away from the front of the room, the unit remained silent. Finally, the first glints of subdued conversation emerged.
Max approached Scott immediately. Though the technician spoke louder than most in the room, his voice was nonetheless low. “That was good, man.”
Scott regarded him with genuine concern. The affirmation made him feel good, as if the short speech had been worth it. “I think Dostoevsky was in the other room.”
“I hope he heard every word.” The chatter around them began to reach normal levels. “How you feelin’?”
“All right. Looks worse than it hurts. I’ll be ready again in a few days, so says Svetlana.”
“She cares about you, man.”
Coming from Max, it startled him. “She cares about you, too,” he said, knowing it sounded hollow. Svetlana had never told him one way or the other how she felt about Max. He just didn’t know any other way to respond.
“Just between you and me…it’d do you good to get over Nicole.”
Scott stared bluntly at the technician.
“Don’t take that the wrong way.”
He didn’t take it the wrong way. He knew Max wasn’t being deliberately offensive, he just wasn’t sure he was ready to hear it.
“I’m headin’ back to the hangar. Givin’ the ship a tune-up. Again.”
Scott was still stuck on Max’s previous statement, but he forced himself to move on. “That dog still in the ship?”
“You mean Flopper? Yeah.”
Flopper. Scott couldn’t think of a less-intimidating name for a dog. “Toss him a few pillows in the corner of the bunk room. Let him stay here.”
“You kiddin’ me? I thought we were takin’ him to the pound.”
“Could you really take that dog to the pound?”
For several seconds, Max said nothing. Finally, he sighed, putting his hands on his hips. “No, hell. You know how it is.”
Scott knew the sentiment all too well. He’d had dogs, too. “Just housebreak it good. Don’t feed it scraps—that’ll make it worse.”
“As if any living creature could enjoy the junk they serve here, scraps or not,” Max said, laughing and stepping back. “Thanks, man. I’ll get it set up.”
“Do it right.” Scott watched as Max left the room, then he surveyed the other operatives. They were all going about their own business, which was probably the best thing that could have happened. For the first time in months, there was no tension in the room. His awkward speech appeared to have struck a chord with the other members of the unit. He’d made it right as best as he could, just as Jayden had suggested.
Suddenly he recalled the message Jayden had wanted him to pass on. “Varya,” he said, calling her over quietly. The medic turned to face him.
“Jayden said he loves you.”
The look she gave Scott was not the one he’d expected. She didn’t smile, nor did she look happy. Her face turned pale. She must have realized how she looked, for in the next second, she faked a grin. It came out looking horrible. “I love him, too.” She took a step back and walked away.
It was impossible for the question not to surface in Scott’s head. What was that about?
Scott didn’t stay in Room 14 long, nor did many of the others. Ultimately, only Becan, Esther, William, and Derrick remained behind. “Together” wouldn’t happen overnight, but that was something Scott was prepared for. He was now confident that it would come in due time.
As for him, though, he had other business to tend to. He had a reinstatement request to write for a friend. He knew the reality of his chances; they didn’t look good. But he didn’t care.
Some risks were worth the gain.
* * *
Dostoevsky’s room was like a tomb; only a dim light illuminated the corner. The faint amber glow was just enough to allow the fulcrum captain to see.
He sat still on the edge of his bed in just shorts and an undershirt. Taut, deadly muscles covered his body, yet there was nothing threatening about him at all. He was leaning forward, his elbows bent on his knees and his head lowered. He stared obsessively at his open palms.
He turned his left hand over and stared at one finger in particular. The ring was there—so beautifully innocent, yet so silently terrible. Were it not for the hair-thin sliver that stuck up from its frame, it would have looked like a wedding ring.
No one had knocked on his door or hailed him through his comm since he’d left Room 14. No one had cared, as no one should’ve. He was alone.
He lifted his head to look across the room. His e
yes closed with a determining wince. Then he moved his hand. It drifted to the side of his neck. The ring and its needle—the tool of the Silent Fever—hovered over his skin.
His breathing grew deeper as he held his hand in place, mere millimeters from inflicting the ring’s wrath. His mouth hung open as he inhaled and exhaled, his palm wavering but never pressing forward. For a full minute he was unable to move.
Finally he collapsed, his palm falling as he lowered his head. Pulling the ring off with his free hand, he threw the small object across the room. It rattled as it bounced on the floor. He covered his face.
No one had knocked on his door or hailed him through his comm since he’d left Room 14. No one had cared, as no one should’ve. But contrary to what he’d previously believed, he wasn’t alone.
Something else was in the room with him. Something was keeping him alive. It had stopped his hand from moving, as it had told him to go to Room 14 shortly before. It tore him apart, but wouldn’t let him die.
It gripped him like fear.
32
Saturday, November 19, 0011 NE
1915 hours
Novosibirsk, Russia
That evening
The day passed for Scott with an optimistic sense of renewal. As evening approached the world of Novosibirsk, he felt anything but ready to turn in. He felt refreshed—as if he’d just awakened from a well-deserved sleep.
After speaking to the unit in Room 14, Scott had looked through the Fourteenth’s roster as if he was in command, poring over each operative’s history, trying to find new ways to use them. Though he opted not to eat with the unit’s members, he did pass them several times in the halls. For the first time in months, he was met with looks of approval and respect. He offered both courtesies back. It was the first good day he could recall in a very long time. But it wasn’t over yet.