by Lee Stephen
“You have favor with us,” Saretok said. “I speak to you as one fulcrum to another. You have a chance to be relevant.” The colonel sighed. “I am urging you to make the smart choice. I do not wish to force you. You are young to have accomplished so much—do not lose it all here.”
It all became clear—why Saretok had been there all along. Not to provide temporary stability to the unit, but to find out if Scott was prepared to take the reins. All other motives had been a facade.
Saretok approached Scott in the troop bay until they were standing face to face. “Where Dostoevsky has failed, you can succeed. You wield fear like a sword. You can be strong.”
Fear and strength—the motivating tools of the Nightmen. Scott was a Nightman because of those two factors.
“That is why you are valuable to General Thoor. You have fire that few others have.”
Scott closed his eyes. Fire that few others had—that was why The Machine cared so much about him, enough to throw the more experienced, and maybe more skilled Dostoevsky in the trash. Scott’s violent propensities were more desirable.
“Your rule begins here.”
They wanted anger. They wanted force and vehemence and someone who would inflict pain at the drop of a hat. They wanted a lion of their own.
It was time to give them one.
Scott didn’t stifle the urge. In a single, fluid motion, he twisted, thrust forward, and kicked Saretok dead in the chest. The colonel flew backward and rolled all the way out of the ship. Everyone else jumped to their feet.
Scott stood at the edge of the ramp. In the thin layer of snow below, Saretok scrambled to his feet. But it was the American fulcrum—the Golden Fulcrum—who closed the debate. “You just told me my rule begins here. Who am I to disagree?”
“Remington!” Saretok yelled.
“Everyone, prepare for ascent. Travis, send a message to the Fifty-first and Forty-second. Tell them we’re on our way.”
“Remington!”
Scott turned around. Saretok was still standing in the snow, veins bulging from his forehead. “Do you think you will escape from this? Do you realize what you have done? You have destroyed all you have built up!”
“Do me a favor and watch the prisoners,” Scott said. “I’m sure they’ll send someone for you eventually.” He turned to walk away, but paused and looked back down the ramp. “Then again—some Nightmen aren’t worth saving.”
Every operative in the troop bay grinned.
At the bottom of the ramp, Auric and Egor turned to Nicolai and Viktor. Together, the slayers strode past Dostoevsky into the ship.
Scott had already moved on. One Cruiser and one Battleship. There could be a hundred Ceratopians. We have no idea how many Noboats there are. He addressed the crew. “We’re dropping into a very hot zone. Travis, I want every ounce of info you can get me.”
“Already on it!”
Svetlana touched Scott’s arm. She said nothing, but gave him a purposeful look. She motioned her head down the ramp.
Dostoevsky was still standing outside. As the icy winds of Verkhoyanskiy swept past him, his weathered black hair tossed about. He watched the unit that was leaving him behind.
Scott observed the Russian. Is this how you thought it would be, Yuri? Are you getting what you deserve? Scott angled his head down in consideration. Or do you deserve another chance, too? He stared at Dostoevsky for what felt like a full minute. Then he spoke. “We could use a hand, Yuri.”
The other operatives and slayers stared at the abandoned fulcrum. Dostoevsky slipped his helmet back on.
Redeem yourself, Yuri. Make yourself right.
As Dostoevsky stepped into the Pariah, Saretok was left in his wake. Behind the colonel, the bound Bakma prisoners looked confused. The Pariah‘s rear bay door slowly closed.
Max approached Scott. “What’s the plan?”
The plan? He hadn’t gotten that far yet. “There’s no way we can do this alone. We could be outnumbered twenty to one.”
“Tanneken,” Max said. “She’ll come if I call.”
Scott thought about it. Tanneken was only a lieutenant; she couldn’t dictate the actions of a squad. Furthermore, if she or anyone from the Thirty-ninth came to help, there was no telling what Thoor would do in revenge. She didn’t deserve that.
Scott needed someone else. He needed a leader who didn’t matter to The Machine. Someone with something to prove. He grabbed Max by the shoulder before he could call anyone. “Wait. Don’t call Tanneken yet.”
Max stopped in mid-comm adjustment.
“I know someone else.”
35
Friday, November 25, 0011 NE
0652 hours
EDEN Command
At the same time
Benjamin Archer was brushing his teeth when a knock came at his door. Leaning down, he spit out a mouthful of toothpaste. “Just a moment!”
It was the start of a new day at EDEN Command. With no meetings scheduled with the High Command until mid-afternoon, the morning was open for all the judges. Archer was a punctual 0630 riser.
Walking to the door with a freshly rinsed mouth, the blond Briton pulled it open. Still draped in his dark green bathrobe, he stared at the courier before him. “Is there a problem?”
The courier was struggling for breath. “Sorry, Judge Archer,” he said. He extended a hand that held a small letter. “Message from Kang. He told me to run.”
“Very well. Thank you,” said Archer, taking the letter. He stepped back inside his room and closed the door. Unfolding the letter, he quietly read.
Moments later, the same door was flung open from inside. The courier, still outside in the hall, flinched and turned around. Archer sped past him up the hall, his robe flapping behind him. Clenched firmly in his hand was the letter.
“Jason! Malcolm!” Archer yelled into his comm. “I need you both in the War Room at once!” Dodging past the sparse crowd in the hallways, he ran full speed ahead.
A minute later, Archer burst through the doors of EDEN Command’s War Room. In the center of the room, a holographic globe of Earth slowly rotated. From various consoles along the walls, staffers turned to the intruding judge.
“Everyone, out!” Archer shouted. People jumped out of their chairs and rushed for the doors.
The War Room was the hub of all global operations for EDEN. Every incursion—every incident—appeared on the globe, which could be manipulated at will. It was rare when this special room came into use, but it was always ready. It had most recently been used for the massive attack on Europe.
No sooner had the last staffer exited than Judge Blake burst through the door. He was barefoot in a T-shirt and briefs. “What the bloody hell is going on?”
“Catastrophe,” Archer said, manipulating the globe so that it displayed Verkhoyanskiy from every angle. “They had him. They bloody had him.”
“Who? They had who? And who is they?”
Just then Judge Rath entered. He was the only judge in proper garb. “What the hell?”
Archer spoke into the console comm. “Security lockout, priority black, requested by Archer, Benjamin, authorization: Tango Delta Foxtrot.” The doors along the walls slid shut and their locking mechanisms engaged. The security cameras in the room deactivated themselves.
Rath and Malcolm rushed to the globe.
“They were leaving Earth with him when they got intercepted,” Archer said frantically. His voice was shaking. “Thoor’s already got two units there.”
Blake shook his head confoundedly. “I have no idea what you’re talking—”
“H`laar!” Archer shouted. “The Golathoch had H`laar!” Both the other judges stared in disbelief.
“They were intercepted by a squadron of Noboats. Thoor moved in to secure the whole thing.” Archer quickly worked the controls. “If he gets H`laar and he is alive…” He thrust Kang’s letter into Blake’s hands. “Read for yourself!”
“Where was he?” Rath asked. “Was he already on Eart
h?”
Archer shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“What time is it there?”
“Late morning, early afternoon.”
“Vector,” said Rath.
“Vector’s too clever. I’m contacting Platis.”
Over Archer’s comm, a Chinese voice spoke aloud. “Tracking fifth Vulture to crash site.”
“Fifth?” Rath’s brow arched straight up.
“The first four were grounded,” Archer growled as he opened a new comm connection. “General Platis, this is Judge Archer from EDEN Command. I need the Agema dispatched at once. Sending your orders now.” He transmitted the coordinates and parameters.
Moments later, a Greek voice replied. “Orders received.”
Archer spoke clearly and firmly. “This is a priority black assignment. You have clearance to engage Thoor’s forces if you must. The objective summary will tell you everything you need to know.”
“Understood, judge.”
The channel was closed.
For the first time in over a minute, Judge Blake spoke. He was still clutching Kang’s letter low at his side. “Platis will never make it in time. If Thoor’s already got transports en route and on scene…”
Archer ignored him and turned to Rath. “Meet them outside of Cairo. You know what for.”
The Canadian judge left the room.
Only then did Archer answer his British counterpart. Turning his eyes back to the orbiting globe, he rested his hands on the railing encircling it. “Never doubt, Malcolm. Never doubt.”
* * *
“Sir,” shouted Travis from the cockpit, “I’ve got a layout!”
Scott was already in the middle of another task. Adjusting his comm to a frequency he’d used only once before, he placed the call.
Rex Gabriel was in the middle of a cafeteria meal when his comm sounded. The remnants of Pelican Squad—those who remained at Novosibirsk—gave the sudden noise their attention as well. The moppy-haired Australian scrutinized his comm display. When he recognized Scott’s name, he furrowed his brow and answered. “Gabriel, mate.”
“You still want to repay that debt, captain?” Scott asked through the speaker.
In the background of the Pariah, Travis was yelling. “Five Noboats on the ground! I’m getting nothing from the EDEN units.”
“Where are you, Remington?” asked Gabriel.
For the next minute, Scott explained everything, from the initial callout to the trapped units’ ignored pleas for help. With every word he said, the operatives of the Pelican grew more and more anxious. Gabriel motioned to his crew to get ready, and they rose from their seats.
“Do you have a pilot?” Scott asked.
“Yes, but no ship.”
In the Pariah‘s troop bay, Max tapped Scott from behind. “Tanneken,” Max said. “Trust me, man.”
Scott had no choice but to give in. “Find Tanneken Brunner,” he said to Gabriel. “She’s a lieutenant with the Thirty-ninth.”
“She’s a commander,” Max corrected. “She’s a commander now.”
A commander? That changed things considerably. Max motioned for the comm and Scott handed it to him.
“Gabriel, this is Matthew Axen. I know Tanneken real good…”
Scott didn’t hear whatever else Max said. After a third request for his presence from Travis, he went to the cockpit, leaning in between the pilot and Boris. “What do we have?”
“Check out the map. The Ceratopian ships are surrounded.”
The wall monitor showed that the two Ceratopian vessels were not far from each other. The Battleship sat in the center of the display, with the smaller Cruiser within walking distance to the southeast.
The four crashed Vultures were split into two pairs. There was a pair to the west of the Battleship belonging to the Fifty-first. The two Forty-second Vultures were west of the Cruiser.
It became immediately apparent why the EDEN units had been overrun. Bakma Noboats surrounded the Ceratopian Battleship in a wide circle, encompassing the Vultures as well. Three Noboats were to the west, and two to the east. Humans were the only barriers between the Bakma and the Ceratopians. They’d been mugged from behind and forced inside the Ceratopian vessels—surrounded by two apparently antagonistic species.
“Do we know who’s where?”
“I’ve had brief contact with Captain Tkachenok of the Fifty-first,” answered Travis. “He has two teams at opposite ends of the Battleship. Both teams are cut off from each other. As far as the Forty-second, I’ve only been able to reach one small team in the Cruiser. Talked to a guy named Torban—he’s a medic. He said he’s got heavily wounded.”
“What are we looking at?” Max asked.
Every crew member looked to Scott for direction—both EDEN and Nightman. He stepped back in the troop bay. “I’d love to give you all a rousing speech, but the Fifty-first and Forty-second don’t have time. We need to be perfect.” He pointed to the map. “We have six locations that require immediate attention—four Vultures and two Ceratopian ships.”
As Scott spoke, Dostoevsky watched, his emotions hidden behind his helmet.
“Sveta,” Scott continued, “your responsibility will be to treat the wounded in these two Vultures,” he pointed to the southernmost pair of transports, the ones belonging to the Forty-second by the Cruiser. “We have to assume they’ll have the heaviest wounded.”
Svetlana acknowledged.
“Becan and Auric, you’re in charge of keeping her safe. Secure the crash sites, hold off the Bakma, and let her do her job.”
Scott turned to Varvara. “You’re in charge of the Fifty-first, directly between the Noboats and the Battleship. Nicolai and Derrick will go with you. Are you okay to go?” he asked the still-wounded Derrick.
Derrick hobbled to his feet. “Just prop me up and gimme a gun.”
“I will go too,” said Boris. The technician climbed from the cockpit and removed his handgun from his belt. “Four is better than three, yes?”
Scott didn’t have time to feel moved. He sought out Max. “You’re taking the Cruiser. Your contact is Torban, he’s a medic with the Forty-second. He’s got heavy casualties.”
“Like a day in the park,” Max grimaced.
“Take William and David with you. The rest of us will take the Battleship. Captain Dostoevsky…”
All eyes turned to Dostoevsky.
“Captain Tkachenok is trapped in the front of the Battleship. I don’t know how many he has with him. Can you reach him with Egor and Viktor?”
Dostoevsky nodded.
It was set. Svetlana had the Vultures from the Forty-second. Varvara had the ones from the Fifty-first. Max would handle the Cruiser, and Dostoevsky would take the front half of the Battleship to find Captain Tkachenok. Everyone had their tasks. Almost.
“Esther,” Scott said. The EDEN scout sat erect. “You and I will hit the back of the Battleship alone. There’s a team pinned inside by the two eastern Noboats. This is more than two people can handle alone—I need us both to be more.”
She gripped her pistol.
“We’re making our approach!” Travis cried.
Moving through the troop bay, Scott leaned into the cockpit again.
The battlefield came into view.
* * *
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Tanneken lifted her eyes from her newspaper. She watched her door through a pair of small spectacles.
Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!
Removing her glasses, she placed them on the top of her nightstand. She wasn’t in uniform; she wore a simple white tank top and black pants, her brown pigtails hanging over her shoulders. She rose and opened the door to find a small crowd gathered in the hall. She blinked in surprise.
“Tanneken Brunner?”
“That is me…”
“I’m Rex Gabriel. We need to talk.”
* * *
The Pariah nosed down as the warzone appeared. Visible on the ground, the Noboats provide
d a striking contrast to the endless white snowscape. They surrounded the Ceratopian vessels, neither of which seemed irreparably damaged. The Vultures were also in sight. A barrage of plasma and projectile flew back and forth on the ground.
“Survivors,” Travis said, pointing to the E-35 gunfire on the ground, “from the Fifty-first.”
In the center of the battle, the Vultures belonging to the Fifty-first were being attacked from the west, where three of the Noboats had landed.
Scott whipped around. “Varya, get ready!”
“How do you want to do this?” Travis asked.
“Descend near the southernmost Vulture.” No one was shooting from it, which meant no one was in condition to defend it—if anyone was alive at all. “Suppress the Bakma with cannon fire.”
Nicolai, Derrick, and Boris moved to the door. Varvara was right behind them. She exchanged a fleeting glance with Viktor as she passed him.
“Everyone, hold on,” Travis commanded. Every operative clutched the handrails as the pilot yanked the controls. The Pariah‘s nose was slung 180 degrees to face the oncoming Bakma. Momentum carried it over the Vulture crash site.
Travis opened fire. “Go! Go! Go!”
Bakma scrambled in every direction on the ground, diving to avoid cannon fire. An entire row of aliens was mowed down.
Nicolai and Boris hit the snow first. Moments later, Derrick tumbled out. Varvara was the last to drop down.
Travis saw the white gleam the moment it launched. It came from one of the Noboats. “Plasma missile!” He yanked back the stick and the Pariah‘s nose lurched straight up. The operatives flew off their feet.
The Pariah rode the air like a wave, violently leveling off once the missile hissed past.
“Heading to the Forty-second!” Travis jerked the Vulture southward, and its thrusters propelled it ahead.
Varvara and her defenders took position behind the southernmost wreckage. Smoke rose in black plumes from the hull; the troop bay had been blown into pieces.