by Lee Stephen
Thoor’s mouth fell blatantly open.
The fulcrum offered a courteous bow to the Terror. Then he stepped back, turned, and walked away. The only sounds in the Inner Sanctum were the fulcrum’s footsteps as he left. Thoor was left shocked and speechless on his throne. The sentries at the door didn’t utter a sound.
Dostoevsky had barely gone ten steps when someone else crossed him in the hall—the next of the general’s morning appointments. It was a man Dostoevsky knew well—the new fulcrum captain of the First. As Oleg walked past, both men locked eyes, the fallen eidolon’s stare narrowing in displeasure. He passed Dostoevsky without saying a word.
Dostoevsky didn’t say a word, either. But unlike Oleg, his eyes only stayed locked for a moment, before his steps carried him past and away. As he turned his head forward, the corners of his lips turned upright.
It didn’t matter that his ribs were fractured or that every step brought excruciating agony. It didn’t matter that he’d infuriated Thoor or that Oleg despised his very being. Only one thing mattered to Dostoevsky at all. And it let him smile through every pained step he took.
* * *
The fourteenth was waiting outside for Scott. It was already past seven o’clock—late for a morning session. The sky was dark; sunrise wouldn’t come for another hour and a half.
Word had already come to the unit: the next time they would see Scott again, he would be their new captain. The revelation wasn’t a surprise, but nonetheless brought warmth in the cold.
In the week leading up to the mission, there had been tension between EDEN and the Nightmen. But today there was none. In fact, there’d only been one awkward moment at all, between Max and Esther, regarding a rumor Max had heard. Apparently, a certain slayer from the Battleship had been discovered with a bullet hole in his head. Max asked her if she knew anything about it. She answered without saying a word.
Max didn’t complain.
It was a quarter to eight when Scott appeared, wearing his Nightman uniform as he had every day since murdering Sergei Steklov. That part of him would never change.
No one greeted him when he approached. He received no welcoming handshakes, nor congratulatory words about his promotion. They simply watched him, their postures erect, their hands at their sides, as he stopped in front of them.
His face was still bruised, his hands still covered in scars. Standing before them, he gave each and every one of them a direct look. From Max to David, from Svetlana to Esther, from Becan to Boris—no one was immune. Placing his hands on his hips, he finally spoke. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
The team remained disciplined. Only Svetlana showed any reaction at all. Beneath the fall of her blond hair, her lips curved.
Flopper barked and wagged his tail in the snow. Scott looked at the small dog and actually smiled—the animal was the only one to receive the gesture from him. Facing his unit again, Scott nodded his head.
“Let’s get to it.”
It was the twenty-sixth day of the eleventh month, in the eleventh year of the New Era. It was a day the Fourteenth had been waiting on for some time—the day their hero had finally returned.
Eventually, the sun would rise, thawing the earth with its warm orange hues. Morning session would take place then come to a close, but, as proclaimed by their new leader, there was still much to be done. In the wake of their first truly unified mission, the Fourteenth would prepare for the next. And the next.
There was an unspoken understanding among them—one that permeated the weeks and months that followed. It didn’t matter that they had overcome their animosities—that they’d persevered over fear. It didn’t matter that they’d become proof that light could shine in the shadow of The Machine.
What mattered was that they were not finished. In the aftermath of their victory over strife, they knew that one victory was not good enough. There was more left to accomplish—more they’d been called on to do. They had set a new mark upon themselves. No longer would they be viewed as a decimated squad; no longer could they be. They were the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk.
There was more to become.
FOUR MONTHS LATER
Wednesday, March 7, 0012 NE
1906 hours
York County, Pennsylvania
The night air was frigid. Curling her fingers rigidly around her E-35 assault rifle, Catalina Shivers stalked cautiously out of the Cruiser. It was the tail end of her platoon’s mission; the Ceratopian vessel had been shot down over a stretch of Pennsylvania farmland. Almost every extraterrestrial had been killed.
Almost.
She’d seen it moments before, flitting behind her in her peripherals. Even in the dark, its form was unmistakable: a necrilid. It had scampered out of the Cruiser from a hallway she’d sworn moments before had been clear. Her error was her new obligation—she had to hunt it down. As for why she was completely alone—that error was someone else’s.
“I’m gonna kill you, Peters.” The words escaped from her trembling lips. “I’m gonna kill you.” The Canadian beta private’s armor was stained with blood. Strands of sweat-soaked black hair dangled from her helmet—her brown eyes were focused. As she left the safety of the Cruiser’s interior, she panned her assault rifle to the ship’s outer hull. She spoke into her comm. “This is Private Shivers. I’m tracking one necrilid outside the vessel.”
The response she got was not a pleased one. “I thought you said your section was clear.”
“…I thought it was, sir.”
“Stand by. I’m on my way.”
Something skittered across the top of the hull. Swinging her rifle after the sound, Catalina saw the necrilid bound out of view. It disappeared toward the rear thrusters. “I have visual, in pursuit…”
A female voice crackled through. “Cat, like, didn’t the major just tell you to wait?”
“Not now, Tiff.”
“But you, like—”
“Not now!” Picking up her pace to track the creature from the ground, Catalina trotted toward the rear of the ship.
It had been the most intense mission she’d ever been on, though that said little considering her inexperience. Nonetheless, five privates had already been killed. She had no intention of being number six. Originally, she’d been paired with another soldier: Mark Peters. They were put together often, and usually formed a capable duo. But not this time. Against her advisement, he’d left her behind to assist another team. He was a good soldier, but he had a rebel streak in him. The two had developed somewhat of a working rivalry—and maybe a little something else, too.
Stopping by the rear thrusters, she put some distance between herself and the Cruiser. The craft had apparently been shot in the rear section, or at least that much could be assumed by the massive holes in its hull. Looking upward, she tried to spot the creature on the roof. But nothing was there.
“Where are you?” she asked the necrilid, swallowing. “C’mon…come down.” She adjusted her visor for thermal imaging.
Thump.
The Canadian froze. The sound hadn’t come from the roof, or from anywhere near the Cruiser. It came from right behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know what it was. But turn, she did—quickly.
She saw it the moment she’d come around. The necrilid’s body, warm in thermal imaging, cocked itself back. Its knees bent in preparation to strike. It opened its mouth.
The shot came out of nowhere. The necrilid’s head suddenly burst open, erupting in a crimson explosion. The alien’s corpse collapsed to the ground.
Mouth still opened in shock, Catalina spun around, aiming her assault rifle at the roof of the Cruiser. No necrilids were there.
“That was the only one.”
Even though the voice was familiar, it still made her flinch. Lowering her assault rifle, Catalina forced her stomach back down her throat. Then she faced him. He was walking straight toward her, his sniper rifle still prone. The major.
“I watched it leap right over you from the roof while yo
u were turning on your thermal,” Tacker said. “In another second, you’d have been dead.”
“I’m sorry, sir—”
“Don’t apologize to me,” he cut her off. “Apologize to your parents. They lost their daughter because she couldn’t follow commands.”
Her shoulders sagged.
“Where’s Peters?”
She gathered her pride—at least enough to pin the blame on someone else. “He left me to help Pierce and Masters, sir.”
“So is this all his fault?”
It was a trick question; it always was with him. “No, sir. I should have listened to you and held my position.”
For several seconds, Tacker said nothing. Finally, he nodded his head. “Feathers,” he said through the comm, “prep the ship. We won’t be here long.”
The same woman who’d spoken to Catalina earlier answered him. “Yes, sir.”
Catalina knew she was dismissed without Tacker having to say it. He had a way of ignoring those he was done with. She waited several seconds, just to be sure, until his attention went somewhere else. He now stared squarely at the Cruiser’s damaged hull.
She walked away in silence.
Inside the Cruiser, Colonel Brent Lilan of Falcon Platoon shouldered his assault rifle. Eleven Ceratopians killed in combat—that made twenty altogether. In a wrecked Cruiser, twenty sounded right. “White, check the bodies. Caldwell, Doucet, clear the silo and signal the sweep.”
“Yes sir!”
The colonel pulled off his helmet. His gray crew cut was damp with sweat. He wiped his forehead and spoke through his comm. “What’s it like out there, major?”
Tacker’s answer crackled through. “We’re clear, sir. Sweeper team should be good.”
“How’d we do?”
“Five dead, two wounded, one crit.”
“Veck.” Between Charlie and Delta Squads, that was too many. “Have Rhodes patch up the crit. I’m gonna check out these ‘Topians.”
A moment passed before Tacker replied. “It’s Smith now, sir.”
“What?”
“Rhodes was transferred to Hawk two weeks ago. Our medic is Frank Smith, now.”
Lilan placed his hands on his hips in disgust. Tacker was right. Sasha had gone to Colonel Young’s crew. He’d completely forgotten.
“Sir, there’s something else I need to talk to you about…”
“Yeah, go ahead.” Lilan’s tone indicated his frustration. He couldn’t keep track of anyone anymore. Falcon Platoon was a revolving door—a unit whose sole purpose was to wet the feet of new Academy grads. Outside of a few pleasant surprises, like Charlie Squad’s Peters and Shivers, he had almost nothing to work with.
There was a lag in Tacker’s response. Something was wrong. “Remind me to recalibrate my rifle when we get back to base, colonel. It aims down and to the right.”
Lilan stopped walking. Tacker’s words weren’t a literal statement. They were code. A “recalibration reminder” was a request for his immediate presence. “Down and right” instructed him where: the rear starboard side of the Cruiser. Something was happening that Tacker didn’t want on record.
“Will do,” the colonel answered. “Lilan out.”
The Cruiser had landed on somebody’s farmland. In the distance, the farmer was shouting hysterically, angry about the damage to his property. Lilan understood the man’s irritation, but he wasn’t about to apologize—not for doing his job.
Tacker was waiting at the starboard side of the ship. Donald Bell was with him. With Sasha Rhodes gone, the black demolitionist was the only remaining holdout from the Falcon Platoon of months before—Tacker aside.
“How’s it goin’, coach?” Donald asked. He always referred to Lilan that way.
“It’s going.” Lilan shifted his attention to Tacker. “What do we have, major?”
Tacker gave Lilan a knowing look. “You need to see for yourself.” He glanced at Donald. “Keep the privates away.”
The demolitionist turned to corral the other operatives.
Lilan followed Tacker to the back of the ship. “What am I looking for?”
Tacker motioned to the damaged Cruiser. “I came back here to help Shivers, then I found where this thing got hit in the intercept.” At the back of the Cruiser, a hole exposed the engines beneath its hull. “When I first realized what I was looking at, I thought I had to be wrong. There was just no way this was possible. But I’m not wrong.”
Lilan scrutinized the hole in the vessel. The hull was dented and cracked inward, where the metal was shredded. “What am I not seeing, here?”
“Look at the edge of the impact zone. Look all the way around. Tell me if you catch it.”
The colonel narrowed his eyes in scrutiny. The engine had burst and the metal was torn. That was all typical of a missile strike. The dents, the gashes, the scorch marks—
He stopped at that thought. There were no scorch marks, not so much as a singe. “Wait a minute.” He pointed to the scar-less cavities. “What’d we hit this thing with?”
The major nodded. “Exactly. There’s not an exterior scorch mark in sight. Every air-to-air weapon we carry creates an explosion. This hull didn’t explode—it got crushed.”
“How is that possible? There’s not a weapon that can do that.”
Tacker hesitated. “Actually, there is. There’s one weapon fully capable of doing this. I’ve seen it done before, just not to a Cruiser.” Several moments passed while the major stared at the vessel. “That weapon…is a neutron cannon.”
Lilan raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t think we hit this thing at all, colonel. I think other Ceratopians did.”
E P I C * B O O K 4
THE GLORIOUS BECOMING
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Acknowledgments
To God: Your mercy and faithfulness are boundless. You have blessed me in spite of me, and You continue to be the God I can never praise enough. Thank You for being my footprints in the sand.
To Lindsey: What a wonderful thing it is to call you my wife! Thank you for standing by me and believing in me. Only you know just how hard this book was to write, but your faith in me never wavered. I am blessed among husbands. I love you.
To Mom & Dad: Thank you for raising me to be a good man—I have never thanked you enough for that. Thank you for your wisdom, your guidance, and your love. I am so proud to call myself your son. Happy birthday, Dad!
To Mrs. Joyce and Mr. Tommy: You have both been such a source of encouragement for me. Thank you for welcoming me into your family with such warmth. I hope this makes up for the other book I got, you Mr. Tommy! (you know what I mean…)
To my family: You are an unwavering source of support. Thank each and every one of you for your steadfast love and encouragement. I’m the most blessed grandson/nephew/cousin in the world.
To Arlene, Fiona, Francois, and Justin: None of this would be possible without all of you. If people only knew what goes on behind the scenes of the storyline, they’d realize how much of Epic is due to you four. I know, and it’s appreciated beyond words.
To Stevie: It’s impossible to describe how awesome it is to have a friend who understands all of this. Thank you for always being there as a source of encouragement, camaraderie, and creative brainstorming. And of course…for incredible maps, too! I truly hope your success surpasses my own. You deserve it.
To Luke: You’re about as unsung a hero as Epic can have. Without you, there’d be no Epic community. Thank you for your tireless efforts to keep us all (Epic goers an
d SPs alike) on the same page.
To Aaron Spuler: You do so much more than maintain a blog. You are as faithful and passionate a fan as any author could ask for. Thank you for your tireless efforts!
To Lieutenant Benjamin Botnik: I’m honored to consider you a friend and fellow coworker. Thank you for being a reliable source of info, and a confidence booster, too.
To Ken Rousseau and Herb Cavalier: You guys have no idea how helpful even a small chat around a table can be. Between you guys and my RN wife, I could almost pass for a medical-savvy author. Or at least not a total moron.
To Peter Hodges & Kate Baker: You guys are outstanding. Thank you both for what you do for the science-fiction community.
To Alessia Zambonin: One of the unexpected perks of this business has been meeting so many talented people. Thank you for putting a face to a few Epic names!
To Anita Pedersen: You have no idea how cool it is to wake up one day and find your own Facebook group. Thank you for that fist-pumping moment!
To Maria Belinski: Vielen, herzlichen Dank! You helped me sound a little less dumb.
To Robert Marston Fanney: Few others understand the behind-the-scenes aspect of all this like you do. Thank you for being a friend in the field!
To Earl & Denise: Your enthusiasm is indispensible. Thank you for being neighbors, friends, and fans. It is appreciated so much!
To Stephanie Police & Derek Collins: I can’t even express how grateful I am to have such incredible friends and fans. Thank you so much for all your hard work with the podcast. You are both truly pros.