Epic: Book 03 - Hero

by Lee Stephen

  Papanov helped his commander up. “The slayer’s name is Nijinsky.”

  Suddenly, Esther stopped. She spun back around. “What did you say?”

  “Alexander Nijinsky. He was transferred here two months ago.”

  The Briton’s mouth hit the floor.

  “Do you know him?”

  When Scott realized Esther wasn’t following, he turned around to find her. “Esther?”

  She was frozen in the hallway, facing the other two men. Her eyelashes flickered. “I’m sorry, I…I must be thinking of someone else…”

  Scott stepped behind her. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, regripping her pistols. “I’m ready to go.”

  Meanwhile, the Pariah was in the midst of an air-to-ground battle. Travis had attempted to fortify a hovering position north of Svetlana’s team, but the arrival of canrassis and riders cut his efforts short. Their beast-mounted plasma guns weren’t as strong as plasma missiles, but they could still tear a hole through his hull. The Pariah was hovering sideways like an aerial crab, firing what was left of its cannon ammunition.

  “Travis,” Max’s voice was urgent over the comm, “we have a problem!”

  “You’re telling me?” Travis swung the Pariah‘s nose toward one of the canrassis. The beast and its rider were blown apart.

  “I need another technical kit. The Cruiser has power—the Ceratopians shut all the doors. I’m cut off from the kit I had.”

  “What?”

  “They shut the trashin’ doors, Travis! The doors in the Cruiser! We’re locked in different sections!”

  “Veck!”

  “I’m locked away from my technical kit—I need one of the backups.”

  Travis jerked the stick back as a barrage of plasma blasts flew at him. Flopper leapt into Boris’s seat.

  “Trav, yeh all righ’?” Becan asked through the comm.

  “I’m fine.” The pilot refocused on Max. “I can’t help you, man. If I leave, they’re dead on the ground. I got Bakma riding out on canrassis.” The low-ammo warning flashed on the console.

  “Travis,” Becan yelled, “mind your house!”

  The pilot checked his rear view screen. One of the eastern Noboats had lifted from the ground and was moving toward the Pariah. “Oh, crap.”

  Max spoke again. “Travis, I don’t care what you have to do, but I need that backup kit now!”

  The Pariah had less than six percent of its shells remaining. Inside his helmet, sweat poured down Travis’s forehead.

  Becan’s voice came again. “We got riders…”

  In front of the crashed Vulture where Svetlana was working, a spread of Bakmas and canrassis converged. Their plasma cannons trained on the wreckage.

  Time slowed down as Travis became overwhelmed. Behind him, a fully-armed Noboat was about to engage. In front of him, a new assault was beginning against the medical team. Inside the Cruiser, Max’s team was in trouble. Travis’s mouth hung open as everything unraveled at once. His hands grew numb on the joystick. He watched the world fall apart.

  Then he looked to his right.

  Flopper was sitting upright in the copilot’s seat. The dog stared at Travis straight in the eyes; it started to bark.

  Travis’s eyes suddenly refocused. He turned his stare back ahead. “Becan, I need ten seconds of cover.”

  “Yeh must be jokin’!”

  Travis switched frequencies. “Max, do you have a clear path outside the ship?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Get outside now. Your kit’s on the way.”

  Slamming the stick sideways, Travis pulled the Pariah to the left. Becan was attempting to fend off the Bakma below; for every shot the Irishman got off, the Bakma got five.

  On the weapons display, Travis set the Pariah‘s auto-fire timer to begin in ten seconds. It immediately began to count down. Pushing the joystick forward, he lowered the craft until it hovered barely a foot off the snow.

  Flopper barked wildly.

  “All right, dog,” Travis said. “Earn your keep.”

  The timer reached zero, and the Pariah‘s front cannon burst into auto-fire. It launched an automatic spray of bullets at the canrassis as the ammo percentage went dangerously low.

  Travis slammed his hand on the troop bay door button while the ship stayed in hover mode. He jumped out of the cockpit into the back. Flopper followed at his heels.

  Reaching for the overhead bins, Travis grabbed a spare technical kit, his hands shaking violently. Glancing outside the open bay door, he saw the Noboat draw near. Flopper barked madly as Travis grabbed a rope and tied it to the kit’s handle. The warning klaxon sounded off in the cockpit as the ammo count hit one percent. He tied a loop at the rope’s other end, then time ran out. The klaxon stopped sounding and the nose-mounted cannon went still.

  Travis shoved the loop into Flopper’s mouth. The dog wagged its tail and chomped down. “Max, call your dog!”

  Max had just reached the outside of the Cruiser. He skidded as he came to the snow. “Call my dog—?”

  “Call Flopper now!”

  “Flopper, c’mon! Here boy!” Max clapped his hands and screamed at the top of his lungs from across the battlefield. The shadow of a Noboat passed over him as the Bakma ship beaded in on the Pariah.

  “Go, Flop!” Travis yelled, pushing the dog out of the ship. Max’s voice emerged far in the distance.

  Flopper’s ears perked and he bolted in the direction of Max, dragging the technical kit behind him in the snow.

  Travis looked up and his whole body froze. The Noboat was upon him. Its nose was beading in for the kill. Its weapons charged up.

  He had nowhere to go.

  Then it happened, right in front of his eyes. The pulse of charging plasma cannons subsided and the sky around the Noboat shimmered with blue electricity. The air crackled. The Noboat was gone.

  Travis’s mouth fell open. He could still see the faint distortions in the air. It had dematerialized.

  “Gabriel to Pariah.” The comm crackled to life. “We have you on visual contact—do you copy?”

  Travis dove into the pilot’s seat. His hand fiddled for the comm. In front of him, Bakma riders unleashed their plasma cannons. Bolts of white soared his way. He jerked the joystick back with all the force he could summon. The nose of the transport shot skyward and its rear thrusters rocketed to life.

  Then it was struck. Plasma blasts tore through the ship’s right wing and underbelly. The cabin erupted with fire.

  In the newly approaching Vulture, Rex Gabriel was the first to see it. He quickly shifted frequencies. “Gabriel to Fourteenth—the Pariah has been hit. I repeat, the Pariah has been hit.”

  In the Battleship, Scott and Dostoevsky’s teams ceased all activity. On the ground, Svetlana and Becan stared skyward. Varvara’s crew did the same.

  From his position outside the Cruiser, Max watched as the Pariah exploded in flames. First it soared skyward, then it stalled. Its nose swayed as its engines gave out. At the same time, Flopper tore through the snow toward Max.

  Sirens in the Pariah wailed frantically as the auto-extinguishers kicked in. The ship’s engines stuttered and shook; the eject button flashed. Manhandling the joystick with one hand while his other grabbed the dangling comm, Travis yelled as the Pariah plummeted. “Pelican, this is Pariah. Dematerialized Noboat coming your way!”

  The new Vulture slowed as it approached. In the cockpit, Pelican pilot Seth Camm spoke to Gabriel without turning around. “Captain…”

  Next to Seth, a heavyset girl worked the controls. “I have visual with the Bakma on the ground.”

  “Take out the riders,” ordered Gabriel.

  “But the Noboat—”

  “We’ll find the Noboat, just take out the bloody riders!”

  Below, Becan watched as Tanneken’s Vulture opened fire. The snow around the Bakma riders blew toward the sky—crimson spurted into the air. The canrassis scattered and fell.

 
Then the Irishman looked at the Pariah. It plummeted toward the ground.

  Blood trickled from Travis’s forehead and cheeks. His burned hands gripped the controls, the eject button flashing continuously. He pulled back the stick.

  Becan screamed over the comm. “Travis, bail the hell ou’!”

  Boris followed suit. “Travis, eject!”

  Travis cried out in agony. He fought the controls. He watched as the earth became large. The stick could go back no more.

  Suddenly, the Pariah‘s engines burst with new thrust. The ground tilted up—but the angle of ascent wasn’t enough.

  Max watched the Pariah make impact as Flopper ran into his arms. The Vulture’s belly dug into the snow, as it scraped across the ground like a sled. “Get up, Travis…get up…”

  Travis’s blood-curdling scream filled the Pariah. Sparks hit the cabin again as the ship rocked up and down.

  Then it happened. Travis redirected the Pariah‘s thrust, and the ship suddenly grew light. The jostling ceased. The pilot gasped, holding his breath. His stomach lobbed itself in his throat; he kept on the stick.

  The snowscape gave way to sky, and the ship’s nose angled up. The Pariah charged back into the air.

  “Hell yes!” Max pumped his fists as the dog barked wildly. Max grabbed the technical kit, rubbing Flopper with his free hand. “Hell yes, Flopper! That’s your pilot!”

  Together, they ran back into the Cruiser.

  Travis got on the comm as soon as he had the Pariah leveled off. “Pelican pilot, you found that loose Noboat?”

  “Negative,” Seth answered. “We’re covering your ground crew. You all right?”

  “I’m all right.” Travis still fought with the stick, now gently. “She’s pulling to the right.” He engaged the left rudder to straighten out. “There’s not much I can do.”

  “I’m hot-dropping our ground teams. We’re wasting our time looking for an invisible ship.”

  “Copy that.”

  There was a brief pause before Seth spoke again. “That was a corker of a recovery, mate. You’re going to have to teach me that one.”

  For a moment, Travis didn’t reply. Then slowly, beneath the blood caking on his face inside his helmet, the Fourteenth’s pilot smiled.

  Below, in the crashed Fifty-first Vulture, Svetlana finished working on her injured young man. He was as stable as she could get him.

  Meanwhile, Auric—deeply wounded—had been mumbling half coherently to himself. Though his words had been slurred at first, he was now regaining his cognizance.

  “I will help you, Auric,” said Svetlana. “Just wait for me.” She was well acquainted with triage measures, and she now turned to the older man—the one she’d left suffering to attend to the younger soldier. When she saw him, her eyes widened. He was still alive. Without a second of hesitation, she dove to the older man’s side.

  Auric watched her as he continued to mutter intermittently and feverishly. Finally, he grabbed an assault rifle from the ground and stumbled over to Becan. Despite his injuries, he rejoined the defense.

  Further north, the battle around Varvara and the wrecked Vulture waged on. The Fourteenth’s trio of Nicolai, Derrick, and Boris were holding their own. The Forty-second’s able survivors formed a defensive that was sufficient to discourage most of the Bakma from wasting their time.

  Varvara worked frantically on the critical man. He was suffering from numerous wounds, ranging from deeply lodged shrapnel to third-degree burns. The medic’s hands were full.

  Hovering over Svetlana, Tanneken’s Vulture came to a stop. A pair of operatives hopped out of the already-open rear bay door and as the Vulture lifted away, they split between Becan and Svetlana.

  The man who approached Svetlana was well-built. Tips of wavy dark hair emerged from his helmet. His voice resonated deep. “How many survivors?”

  Svetlana didn’t look up. “Two in serious condition.”

  The man got on the comm. “Two for transport.”

  “Acknowledged, Tristan.”

  He abandoned her for Becan and Auric, strengthening their crippled defense. The other soldier—a Japanese man—had joined in as well. For the first time since their initial drop-off, Svetlana’s team had legitimate protection.

  “Take me to the Cruiser,” Tanneken ordered Gabriel’s pilot, Seth. She looked over at her soldiers. “Shavrin, Sokolov, get ready.”

  “Do you want to take one of my men?” Gabriel asked.

  “I do not need your men.”

  Gabriel watched the Dutch woman walk away. Only when she was out of earshot did he lean over Seth. “I can bed her in two days. Name your price.”

  “Not a chance in bloody hell. Two hundred, no less.”

  “Fastest two hundred you’ll ever lose.”

  Next to them, the heavyset girl rolled her eyes.

  37

  Friday, November 25, 0011 NE

  1202 hours

  At the same time

  In the forward section of the Battleship, Dostoevsky, Viktor, and Egor had fought their way to a mechanical lift. According to Dostoevsky’s map, Captain Tkachenok was just beyond the lift on the second floor. They entered and began their ascent.

  None of the Nightmen were substantially injured. All three, however, were low on ammunition, their resources having been drained by the combined resistance of Bakma, Ceratopians, necrilids, and canrassis.

  As the lift carried them to the next level, Dostoevsky removed his helmet to wipe his forehead. Viktor and Egor studied his face.

  The fulcrum leader’s eyes were tired and uncertain. Even as he replaced his helmet and shouldered his assault rifle, his body language spoke more than words. His chest was puffed high, his chin was down, and he clenched his rifle excessively tightly.

  He was trying too hard.

  The sound of projectile and neutron rays emerged as the lift reached the second floor. The projectile was coming from outside, where Tkachenok and his team had to be; the neutron was farther ahead. As soon as the door opened, the Nightmen dashed out.

  Tkachenok was on his knees to their immediate right, firing furiously. Farther on, four Ceratopians returned a barrage of fire, using the corners of a three-way intersection for cover. Tkachenok’s team had far less cover. Restricted to the hallway that jetted out in front of the lift, they used its corner as their only source of protection.

  The Ceratopians ducked back to regroup, and a momentary lull hit the scene.

  Tkachenok had three others with him, all of whom struggled for breath. As soon as the Nightmen took over the defense, the EDEN operatives ducked back to reorganize.

  Reloading his assault rifle, Tkachenok said to Dostoevsky, “Thank God you are here. We could not go down the lift—there was too much resistance on the first floor. The Bakma forced us to the second level.”

  “The first floor is clear,” Dostoevsky said. “We can ferry you out.”

  Suddenly Scott cut through the comm. “Captain, it’s Remington.”

  Dostoevsky fired down the hall. “Go ahead.”

  “Brooking and I are going after a stranded Fifty-first operative. As soon as we get him, we’re going to work our way to the third level. We can’t backtrack with Bakma behind us.”

  Dostoevsky ducked out of the fight, and Tkachenok and his soldiers took his place. “What is on the third level?”

  “Esther says there’s a path to the roof. If we can get there, a transport can pick us up. She knows a safe route.”

  A third voice cut into the conversation—Captain Gabriel’s. “You won’t be alone for long, Remington. I’m dropping off two of my best.”

  “Expect heavy resistance getting here, captain…”

  “Expected. We’re dropping them just ahead of the Bakma front, but it’s coming fast. They should beat it to your position by a minute or two.”

  “Remington,” asked Dostoevsky, “what do you advise from your position?”

  Gabriel interjected, “Captain Dostoevsky, I’ll be en route t
o you shortly myself. We’ll help you move your wounded. No worries.”

  Scott came across. “My advice is to get out. Take Tkachenok’s team back to the first level and get them out of the Battleship. Let Gabriel help you when he arrives.”

  “Our Vulture will be waiting outside,” Gabriel added.

  After a round of acknowledgments, the channels were closed.

  Dostoevsky stared at his gloved hands. They were still trembling. Not as badly as before, but trembling nonetheless. He clenched his gun harder, and the trembling stopped.

  Across the battleship, Scott and Esther were on their way to Nijinsky. Esther hadn’t spoken since Nijinsky’s name had been mentioned. She simply stayed at Scott’s side.

  Ceratopian resistance had been light, but the sound of heavier combat echoed down the halls. The large aliens had mustered toward the center of the first floor, as Esther had predicted, not far from the stalls. Esther kept a constant watch on their rear as they continued to press ahead.

  The trek had been lengthy, and it was clear why Nijinsky hadn’t worked his way back: canrassis. Scott and Esther had encountered several, and between them, they killed the creatures. The feat would have been much more difficult alone.

  “Around one more corner,” Scott urged. He moved quickly, his assault rifle constantly poised. Esther affirmed. Hurrying forward, Scott rounded the bend and Esther followed suit, her own steps just as quick—until she saw Alexander Nijinsky.

  There he was, hunkered down in a three-way intersection, outfitted in battered slayer’s armor. Esther went rigid. She watched him through the sky-blue tint of her visor, her eyes wide with disbelief, as if he wasn’t real.

  Scott went to Nijinsky’s side, joining the slayer’s defense. Nijinsky glanced at Scott briefly before the Ceratopians seized his attention again.

  “Are they your only resistance?” Scott asked.

  “No. There are several more farther up the hall. I held them off with the threat of grenades. They will not use them in their own ship. I think they believe they can escape.”