by Lee Stephen
Torokin was floored, despite the fact that before the meeting had begun he’d convinced himself that nothing should surprise him.
Grinkov looked at him. “Novosibirsk is lost to us,” he said under his breath.
Richard Lena rose from his chair. “I want to get this straight, because right now, I think I must be confused. Are you tellin’ me almost half of that base belongs to Thoor?”
“That’s correct,” Blake answered. “Carol performed a full headcount. She’s literally looked at every roster. There are entire units that are unregistered—all full of Nightmen.”
“You’re gonna have to explain to me how this is possible. Last I recall, that base can’t house seventeen thousand soldiers.”
“Do you recall our spies’ report concerning the ‘Citadel of The Machine?’”
“Yeah,” Lena said, nodding.
“It’s an underground labyrinth—the remnants of Fort Zhukov.”
“What the hell is Fort Zhukov?”
“It’s what Novosibirsk was built atop,” said Blake. “It was a fort dating back to the Old Era. The underground foundation of the base is very much intact. Unfortunately, I’ve been there myself.”
Javier Castellnou asked, “Were you actually allowed into the Citadel?”
“We were allowed everywhere. I’ve seen their torture chambers, where they keep their own stock of alien captives. I’ve seen where they thrive. It is worse than you could possibly imagine.”
“Were you able to make contact with our spies?”
“Our spies are dead.”
The room fell silent. A barrage of wide-eyed stares hit the judge.
Blake continued. “Before we left Novosibirsk for home, General Thoor requested our presence. We were then taken to his own personal throne room.” At the words throne room, several judges raised their eyebrows. “We were attacked physically and forced to watch as our spies were executed by a Nightman firing squad.
“And that is the focal point of my report,” Blake went on. “Thoor was aware of our agents, and he murdered them before our very eyes. He attacked us. He grabbed me by the throat and lifted me a meter off the ground. Then he told me—and I remember it word for word—’You have no authority over The Machine. If you make any attempt to interfere with our operations, you will behold a massacre like none the world has seen. We will slaughter your soldiers like sheep.’”
The room was mesmerized.
”’Do not regulate this facility. Do not send us new personnel. We have personnel of our own. You will continue to supply us with equipment. We will continue to cooperate as we see fit. This is not a declaration of war. That is something you cannot afford.’” When he finished, he turned to June. “Was that correct?”
“That was it,” she said somberly. “That was the message.”
Blake turned to the others. “And that is the gist of my report, as brief as it may be. If you want to read specifics, take a copy of the whole report for yourself. This is the reality of Novosibirsk. What happens next is up to the Council.”
As Judge Blake took his seat, the room’s occupants were plunged into numbness. Suddenly all hell broke loose.
“We must go to war!” Castellnou shouted. “He has declared it, whether he denies it or not!”
“Mr. President,” said Archer, “we must take immediate action.”
Only Torokin said nothing as an onslaught ensued. The judges spoke one over the other. The volume escalated to rarely heard heights.
Lena rose to his feet. “If he has the nerve to murder our agents, to attack our judges, what won’t he stop at? What if he goes after part of the world?”
“We’ve got to act now!” said Castellnou.
“Everybody be quiet!” Pauling said. “I’ve heard enough to make up my mind. I am ordering a full scale withdrawal of EDEN operatives from that facility, beginning right now.”
The room plummeted into stunned silence.
“Our soldiers’ lives are in danger,” Pauling said. “Should Thoor choose to do so, he could kill every operative we have there.”
“Mr. President,” said Archer, “surely we’re not giving up the base?”
“That’s exactly what we’re doing, Ben. Our operatives’ lives are at stake.”
Torokin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was too flabbergasted to respond.
“Sir,” Archer said, “I understand your anger. But it’s not quite that simple a request.”
“Nor is it right!” added Grinkov vehemently.
Archer went on. “We’ve got ten thousand operatives there. It would take days to evacuate them all even if we worked around the clock.”
“Then let it take days!” Pauling shouted. “I’m sure General Thoor won’t complain! Carol, I want you to look at alternate placements for the evacuees.”
This was insane—Torokin could think of no other way to describe it. Pauling seemed to have lost his mind, and the Russian could no longer hold his tongue. “I understand your sentiment, Mr. President, but there are many problems with this solution. I, for one, do not want the Russian people solely protected by the Nightmen. If we leave Novosibirsk, it could be a disaster.” He was in wonder. He’d never seen such an impassioned response by the president, nor such a poorly thought out one. “There is Leningrad, yes, but it is not of the caliber of Novosibirsk.”
Grinkov spoke immediately after. “I am afraid I must agree with Leonid, Mr. President, and not only for Russia. Novosibirsk is the protector of a large region. Mongolia, China, much of the Middle East. We cannot abandon that part of the world. The Nightmen will most certainly not have the lives of innocent civilians as their priority.”
The next one to speak was Judge Yu Jun Dao. It was the first time in what seemed like months that Torokin could remember the Chinese judge participating.
“I will not support any decision to abandon Novosibirsk,” said Jun Dao. “I would sooner support military action, despite the risk to our own operatives.”
Before Pauling could respond, Archer spoke again. “We must—must—respond with military action. If this goes unpunished, how will it look to the rest of the world? We already look like fools for what happened in Europe.” He almost scoffed. “If you think recruitment is down now, wait until we abandon The Machine. We’ll lose potential operatives in droves.”
Pauling shook his head. “You all heard Malcolm’s report. The moment the general is threatened in such a way, he’ll massacre our forces there. We’ll invade a base full of EDEN corpses.”
“Then don’t give him time to react!” Archer answered. “We move our forces into position and we attack. We don’t give Thoor a chance to counter. Our forces at Novosibirsk could join our fight against him.”
“Out of the question. There’s too great a risk.”
Archer threw his hands up. “Of course there’s a risk!”
Torokin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. As the room again erupted with shouts, he stared at the desperately defensive president of EDEN—the man entrusted to lead the defense of Earth, whose military record was laced with heroics. That was why he had been chosen as president: because he was a strong man. Or, perhaps more accurately, he had been a strong man. The past was the past. Almost before thinking, Torokin said above the din, “Perhaps now is the time for you to retire.”
The arguments stopped. The glares, the angry retorts—all ceased instantaneously. Every judge turned to face Torokin, who knew the impact of his words the moment he said them. He’d just started a ripple.
“I respect you greatly, Mr. President. I respect all that you have done. Earth is safer because of you, but this is an issue that has gone on for too long already. Novosibirsk should have been resolved months ago, perhaps even years.
“We are at war with alien species. We have grown stagnant bickering over General Thoor. I understand there are lives at risk there, and your concern is admirable. You are more compassionate than anyone here. But we will not survive with compassion. We will survive
only with strength. If we cannot stand up to one man and his infinitely smaller army, how will we stand up to the Bakma and Ceratopians? You are a good man, and despite our differences, I will always look upon you with respect. But if you cannot resolve Novosibirsk and prepare us for the war that truly matters…perhaps we need to be led by someone else.”
Pauling glared, and his aged, weary expression began to lift. It was replaced by something fiercer. “I expected more from you, Leonid. I expected more from one of Klaus’s best.”
The ex-Vector sighed.
“You’ve missed the entire point of this!” Pauling said. “From a man who once was a soldier, you should know more about loyalty. I don’t mean to me, I mean to your fellow comrades at Novosibirsk.”
Torokin knew what was coming.
“We have to care because we’re not like General Thoor. You want to go in guns blazing? Well, what about our troops? Where does that leave our men and women there? Dead? Executed in cold blood just like our spies?” Pauling’s nostrils flared. “We owe it to the families of every one of those operatives to do everything in our power to keep them alive.” He turned his fury to Archer. “You want to give Thoor no warning? Don’t you think he’d find out our plan? He found our spies, for God’s sake. He’d have our operatives killed before we touched down.”
Archer said nothing.
“I will not attack Novosibirsk. Not while I’m president, and not under these conditions.”
“Sir,” Lena said, “we cannot withdraw.”
“We can and we will.” Everyone was quiet as Pauling surveyed the room. “I retire in four months. I intend to remain president until those four months are over. Contrary to belief, I am not a coward.”
Torokin’s heart hurt at Pauling’s words.
“Before I retire, we will have evacuated Novosibirsk. Bit by bit, piece by piece, until the Nightmen are all who remain.” The president looked up again. “We will do it by transfer requests. We’ll find any excuse that we can, though I doubt Thoor would mind even if we announced our plan to the world. We’ve already starting moving some units to Europe, and he hasn’t had a problem with that.”
Pauling breathed heavily and concluded. “In four months, when I walk out this door for the last time, Novosibirsk will belong solely to the Nightmen. Our men and women will be safely removed.” His expression became rigid with finality. “Then you can all do with The Machine as you see fit.”
Torokin knew the damage he’d caused. He knew he’d created a rift between him and the president with whom he’d always gotten along, as well as casting doubt on the president’s efficacy. But his words to Pauling had been necessary.
Pauling did not open the floor for discussion, nor did he ask any other questions. Instead, he turned to Judge June. “Formulate a relocation plan. Start tonight.”
She nodded.
“Archer, you help her. Blake, as well.”
Torokin knew Pauling was incensed. The president never referred to judges by their last names.
“Meeting adjourned.”
The exodus was completed in under a minute. The judges rose from their seats and left the room without saying a word.
34
Friday, November 25, 0011 NE
1002 hours
Six days later
They heard the comm sound at the same time: Scott and Dostoevsky from their private quarters, and Max from the hangar. The tone-out spanned the Fourteenth from one end to the other. Only the incapacitated Jayden was spared.
Scott was just stepping out of the shower after a morning session. He had led the sessions every day since his speech to the unit; they’d gone as smooth as was possible given the unit’s circumstances. Cohesion would come with time. Only Dostoevsky had been absent from the sessions—he hadn’t been seen once all week.
Scott’s hands had healed to the point where they no longer hurt. They’d be scarred, but he could live with that. The swelling in his face had gone down, though the bruise had become darker with healing. Shirtless, he grabbed the comm and acknowledged. Dostoevsky did the same from his end.
A voice Scott had never heard before emerged from the channel. It was as monotone as Thoor’s, but unmistakably Russian. “All operatives of the Fourteenth, report to the hangar at once.” That was all. No explanations, no formal end of transmission. The channel closed.
Turning to his closet, Scott stared at the vacant space where his fulcrum armor had once hung. It had been taken away for repairs after their last mission and had not been returned.
Scott reached for an undershirt and slipped it on. A minute later, he was dressed. Before he walked to the door, he allowed himself a look in the mirror. Despite his battered appearance, the man he saw was quietly assured.
He took to the halls.
Max, already in the hangar, was the first to notice that the Fourteenth wasn’t alone in the callout. Several other squads—squads made up almost entirely of EDEN personnel—were rushing to their own transports to gear up. Max did the same. By the time other operatives of the Fourteenth began to arrive, he was in his armor outside the Pariah.
Svetlana was the first to approach him. “Max, what do you know?”
“Nothin’ yet. I just got the callout.”
Behind Svetlana, the rest of the Fourteenth trotted in—Captain Dostoevsky among them. The only one absent was Scott.
Max intercepted Dostoevsky immediately. “So that’s it, huh? You just show up again like everything’s normal?”
Dostoevsky removed his helmet. “Have you heard anything from Command?”
“You’re the captain, shouldn’t you know?”
“They have not told me anything. I do not know what to think.”
“It’s not the first time,” Max quipped.
It was at that point when a new set of footsteps emerged in the hangar. Dostoevsky and Max turned around. Soon everyone else did, too.
It wasn’t a member of the Fourteenth who approached. It was someone—a fulcrum—none of them had seen before. With the exception of one. Behind his faceless helmet, Dostoevsky’s mouth fell.
The stranger was as large as Egor and William. His helmet was in his hands, his face exposed. He was older with a face etched with cracks and wrinkles. His graying hair was pushed up like a tousled mohawk. The EDEN operatives stared in bewilderment.
He marched past Dostoevsky, scrutinizing the fulcrum captain harshly. Then he faced the rest of the unit.
“I am Colonel Saretok,” he said, his voice at once peculiar and grating. “You have been placed under my jurisdiction.”
After receiving the initial callout, Scott had gone to Room 14 in search of his armor, thinking it had been delivered there by mistake. He’d found nothing. The delay in its return had tried his patience in the past several days, but now it had become a legitimate emergency. Now he needed it and it wasn’t there.
He walked into the hangar wearing only his uniform. It wasn’t the best way to make an entrance, but what other choice did he have? He couldn’t fail to show up at all.
As soon as he neared the Pariah, Scott spotted Saretok at the same time as Saretok saw him.
“Where is your armor, Remington?”
Scott had no idea who the man was. Before he could ask questions, Dostoevsky said, “This is Colonel Saretok, Remington. He is one of Thoor’s personal guards and overseer of Novosibirsk‘s security.”
Saretok addressed Scott again. “I will ask you again. Where is your armor?”
“It was damaged during our last mission,” Scott answered. “It hasn’t been returned yet.” Why would such a powerful fulcrum as Saretok be addressing the Fourteenth?
“Scott,” Max interrupted, “your armor’s in the ship.”
Scott blinked. Why would his armor be delivered to the ship? It made little sense, but at least it was somewhere. As his mind posed new questions, he entered the Pariah.
It was the first time Scott had encountered a colonel at Novosibirsk. Colonels ran platoons, which Novosib
irsk didn’t have. The Machine marched to its own squad-based drum. Perhaps that rank was reserved for fulcrums of unique stature.
The young dog Flopper was lying by the door. His ears lay flat as he rested his chin on the floor of the ship. He stared at Scott with observant eyes.
Stepping to his locker, Scott grabbed the latch and pulled the door open. His mind was still churning, even as he registered the fact that his armor was indeed there. How will the unit react to a third fulcrum? How will Saretok react to them?
Suddenly, his thoughts slammed to a halt. His awareness was thrust straight ahead, into the locker he’d so carelessly flung open moments before—at the armor he’d only barely perceived until then.
…oh my God…
Outside the Pariah, hands clasped behind his back, Saretok began his mission brief. “I will tell you about our operation, then I will tell you why I am here.” Everyone paid him attention—except Max and Svetlana. Their attention was solely on the Pariah‘s troop bay.
Nothing prepared Scott for what faced him inside his locker. His fulcrum armor was as black as it had always been. It still had its menacing horns. But there was something else about it that captivated his eyes. Something impossible to miss. It caused the hairs on his arms to stand on end. Reaching out, he ran his hand along its glossy surface.
How did this happen? That question was the first to hit his mind, though others immediately followed. Who was responsible? And why?
He registered Saretok speaking, but he didn’t hear the man’s words. His focus was fixed straight ahead.
“Ten minutes ago,” Saretok continued, “two Ceratopian vessels—a Cruiser and a Battleship—entered Earth’s atmosphere over Verkhoyanskiy. They were traveling at a very high speed. Vindicators from Novosibirsk were sent to intercept them. Something happened before the Vindicators reached them—something we have never seen before.
“Six Bakma Noboats materialized behind the Ceratopian ships. The Ceratopians were then shot down. The Vindicators arrived in time to assault the Noboats. They shot one Noboat down before the others disappeared.”