by Lee Stephen
“Surrender unconditionally.”
It spoke his language! The war machine spoke his language, as if it were a Bakma itself! It shook Wuteel to his core—but salvation was coming from the sky. Wuteel needed only buy Nectae-3 enough time to rescue them. Then, the Earthae would be the ones retreating. Raising their weapons, Wuteel and the survivors engaged the black machines.
FOR A SECOND TIME, Nectae-3 was rocked by fire from the tailing gunship.
“Return fire!” screamed Du`racchi.
The weapons officer worked the turrets. “I am returning fire! I cannot connect. It moves too quickly!”
“Incoming ballistic!”
Nectae-3 was thrown as its port side erupted. The bridge burst into flames.
CHARGING THROUGH THE engine room, Wuteel dashed for the emergency exit. The black war machines had killed the other survivors, leaving Wuteel in a full-fledged retreat. Leaping through still-smoldering fires, he rounded the exit’s final turn. Rescue would be there—just beyond the door. He needed only to reach it. Releasing the interior lock, he kicked the door open and dashed out. Shielding his eyes from the Earthae sun, he searched the sky.
Arcing gracefully downward, Wuteel watched as Nectae-3 impacted the earth. The Noboat exploded with fire.
“No...”
There was nobody left. No one. Not in any of the Nectaes. Not in the sky. There was only him and his nearly-depleted plasma rifle. Turning around, he heard the war machines move through the engine room. They’d be there. At any second, they’d be upon him. He panicked.
Running onto the open field, Wuteel’s Bakma heart pounded. There was foliage ahead—Earthae trees. The Bakma ran as fast as his exhausted legs could carry him. If he could reach the foliage in time, maybe he could lose them.
The snarling came unexpectedly. Flinching in mid-stride, Wuteel glanced back to locate its source. His heart nearly died. It was a creature, a monster. Flesh-eating teeth chomped up and down, spewing saliva as its tongue flailed savagely. It was like a horror out of Bakmanese lore. Like a necrilid with fur. The monster’s legs propelled it forward—it lunged straight for his boots.
Wuteel screamed as it sank in its teeth.
“Down! Flopper, down!” Max ran full speed toward the dog, who was eagerly snapping at its panicked captive’s shoes. “No bite! No bite!”
Looking back with his tongue hanging out, Flopper abandoned the Bakma to charge at Max, snapping merrily at the lieutenant-technician’s shins.
“No! No bite! Stop!” Grabbing his comm—the first thing his fingers could find—Max frantically flung it as far as he could. Flopper immediately gave chase. “You crazy dog!” Ahead of Max, the Bakma scrambled to its feet. Max lifted his weapon. “I don’t think so, pal. Hold it right there.”
The Bakma’s attention shifted past Max, at the new arrival approaching the scene. The alien’s opaque bulges widened as its whole body tensed.
Scott stared at the Bakma through his black, faceless helmet. When he spoke, his voice resonated. “Laash vak`ar lentaa?”
For several seconds, the Bakma stood motionless before the goldtrimmed warrior. He hesitated before answering. “...Wuteel.”
“Wuteel,” Scott repeated, taking a single step forward. “Vilaash Remington.” The Bakma stared back in fearful understanding. Scott spoke again. “Grrushana rin`kash.”
The alien studied Scott, his bulging eyes surveying the fulcrum’s posture. Finally, it nodded its head. “Grrashna.”
“Take him back,” Scott said to Max. “Make sure he sees Sveta.”
“Aye, aye,” answered Max, shouldering his weapon and approaching the alien. “Come with me, thing.”
The renegades. The cowboys. They went by many different names, but for them, none held the same weight as their official one: the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk.
The months that had passed since Scott’s transformation into the Golden Fulcrum, as he’d come to be known, had been more than just kind to the Fourteenth. They’d been redeeming. For the first time since the death of Nicole, the former unit of Captain Clarke was a cohesive, unified team. They were also remarkably good.
“Class job, Will,” said Esther, smiling beneath her sky-blue EDEN visor. “Your timing was impeccable.”
William, still standing where he’d blown through the Bakmas’ defensive, grinned back. The hulking southerner, clad in his massive demolitionist’s armor, shouldered his hand cannon.
Such flawless victories had become commonplace. In fact, over the previous four months, no unit in Novosibirsk had suffered fewer losses than the Fourteenth, their sole death being that of Nicolai Romanov, one of their resident Nightmen. Outside of that single anomaly, the squad was experiencing an unprecedented stretch of performance.
“Tha’s bleedin’ fairy tales,” Becan said in response to a comment from David by the landing zone. “Don’t blame tha’ one on me, ’cos not a one o’ yeh expected a can-flickin’-rassi to come bustin’ through the door!”
David unloaded his assault rifle. “But the bottom line is, you screamed like a girl. We’re both lucky Jay took the shot.”
“Hey Jay,” Becan said through the comm, “Dave said tha’ was a lucky shot.”
The Texan didn’t reply.
“Leave him alone,” David said quietly. “Kid’s got enough goin’ on.”
The line between EDEN and Nightman had never been as blurred as it was in the Fourteenth—a striking contrast to the tension that had existed prior to Scott’s ascendance to Golden Fulcrum status. Dostoevsky, Auric, and Egor were as much a part of the Fourteenth’s social scene as any of the unit’s EDEN members.
The sole exception was Viktor Ryvkin, the Fourteenth’s only medicallytrained slayer. He was reviled by just about everyone. Murmurings of an affair between Viktor and Varvara Yudina had surfaced shortly after the events in Verkhoyanskiy. Rumors turned to fact when Dostoevsky, delivering a routine message to Lieutenant Ryvkin’s quarters, made the infamous mistake of not knocking first. A shaft of hallway light and the sudden shrieking of a bare-breasted Varvara were all it took to deliver the adulterous couple into the depths of unit-wide ire. It had also hurled the one-eyed Texan, Jayden, into a downward spiral that had yet to find bottom.
Dostoevsky’s gaze came to rest on one of the fallen Bakma. Its body was covered in dark red fluid, where assault rifle bullets had tattered its flesh. The alien shivered uncontrollably, clinging to a life that was on the verge of expiring. The fulcrum dropped to a knee, staring through his featureless faceplate into the alien’s opaque, bulging eyes. The Bakma’s lips quivered, and it turned its head just enough to show that it indeed registered the black knight above it. Dostoevsky unfastened his helmet, setting it aside as he met the Bakma with his real eyes. Reaching down, he cupped his hands around the Bakma’s gnarled claws. “It will be over soon.” Dostoevsky repeated the words softly several more times, squeezing the Bakma’s fingers just enough to convey his sincerity.
The alien sputtered, sucking in short, exhausted breaths, its eyes never once wavering from the human above it. Then release finally came. Inhaling a breath never to be exhaled, the Bakma’s head slowly sunk back. Its body went limp.
Dostoevsky stared at the body for several seconds, his hand never releasing the fallen alien’s. Then slowly, the fulcrum closed his own eyes. Whispered words escaped his lips as he bowed his head.
Farther away but aware of the scene, the battle-torn Bakma, Wuteel, watched the exchange. The image of the kneeling Dostoevsky reflected in Wuteel’s bulging eyes.
“This will hurt.”
The words were spoken softly. Turning from Dostoevsky and the fallen Bakma, Wuteel watched Svetlana lift his arm gently.
“Be brave.”
When her saturated cloth touched his wounds, Wuteel hissed and shrunk back. But the blond medic held on. After several seconds, the pain subsided. The wound cooled.
Wuteel watched curiously as she bandaged his arm.
Despite Viktor’s scarred reputation, he
was part of a command structure that was strong. Scott had taken to captainship like a fish to water, with Dostoevsky’s experience and expertise a welcomed complement to the younger American’s more brazen style. As lieutenants, Max and Viktor were both more than capable. Scott had made it clear to the rest of the Fourteenth that Viktor was to be obeyed as a tertiary officer regardless of the unit’s negative feelings toward him. And it had been made clear to Viktor, by Scott, that he was on as thin a sheet of ice as there could be. The slick-haired Russian had been the beneficiary of good timing: he’d been promoted to lieutenant before falling from the unit’s graces. Personal sins aside, he had yet to do anything on the battlefield that would have warranted his demotion.
Looking skyward, Scott watched their transport make its approach. The Vulture Mark 2—one of the few variants at Novosibirsk—gleamed in the sunlight as it angled its nose for descent.
“Nice work up there, Travis,” said Scott through the comm. “What’s the status of the new crash site?”
“Thanks,” the pilot answered, his voice droning. “The new site’s about two kilometers west-northwest. Doubtful on survivors.”
Scott already knew the reason for Travis’s mood, but he asked anyway. “You all right, man?”
There was a pause. “Yeah.”
Scott’s expression softened, but he maintained a professional tone. “Inform NovCom. Tell them to send a cleanup crew.”
“On it, sir.”
Everything about the Vulture Mark 2, or V2, as people called it, was superior. Everything about it was sleek, sophisticated, and downright tough. Its introduction into EDEN had given a solid dose of muscle to the outdated Vulture class transport. In fact, for the Fourteenth, there was only one problem with their new ride.
It wasn’t the Pariah.
Unsalvageable. That was EDEN’s official word on their old, cursed transport. The hope and excitement of getting the Pariah back had been dashed by a single, emotionless memo. The Pariah had sustained too much damage. The feral dog had been put out of its misery.
Despite the obvious advantage of having a more reliable, sturdier, and more maneuverable transport, a real sense of loss had hit the Fourteenth with the Pariah’s demise. Yes, they could get to missions faster. Yes, they could defend themselves in the air. Yes, they could even absorb a hit or two. But the Pariah had been a special ship—it’d been their ship. This new ship didn’t even have a name.
Though the loss was felt by everyone, no one’s grief came close to Travis’s. It was like he’d lost a brother. Even to that day, the pilot wasn’t the same.
“All operatives,” Scott said on the open channel, “rally at the landing zone. We leave in five.” A chorus of affirmations came.
As far as missions went, this one had been fairly routine. A pair of Noboats, intercepted by Vindicators, isolated by the Fourteenth. It was a common callout. The third Noboat—the one shot down by the V2—was a bit of a surprise. The Bakma rarely attempted rescues of fallen vessels. Thankfully, the now missile-packing transport had been up to the task.
Scott turned off his internal heater. The air was cold, but not freezing, as Siberia had found itself in the midst of an unusually warm winter. With temperatures hovering in the forties, practically a heat wave for that time of year, there wasn’t a trace of snow in any direction. Some of Novosibirsk’s older veterans had seen this before. They deemed it an omen. Scott deemed it a relief.
Making his way through the collection of operatives, Scott found Svetlana. The blond-haired medic was hard at work tending to Wuteel’s wounds, her careful hands moving from injury to injury as the Bakma curiously observed. Scott never approached Svetlana, nor did he make his presence known. He simply watched her from afar, the fulcrum’s expression hidden behind his faceless helmet. Her hair was longer now. It dipped just past her shoulders in golden locks. He liked it that way. He liked it any way at all.
“Remmy,” Becan said through the comm, “body count’s at thirty-three. We probably killed half o’ them. Add one canrassi.”
From Scott’s vantage point, he could barely make out Svetlana’s face—just enough to see her expression. She was smiling at the Bakma. It was the same kind of smile she’d used with him many times. The kind of smile that said, “it’ll be okay.” And it always was.
“Remmy, did yeh get tha’?”
Looking away slightly, Scott answered, “I copy. Thirty-three, one canrassi. Half killed by the Fourteenth.” He’d heard Becan the first time.
When he turned back to Svetlana, she was staring at him, too. One of her hands was still on the Bakma; her other tucked her hair behind her ear.
To the Bakma, she was just another human—one with a compassionate touch. If it only knew that it was in the most sincere hands it would ever come across. If it only knew that its best interests, not hers, were at the core of her heart. There was no better place, no warmer place, for anyone to be.
Her gaze lingered on Scott for a moment longer before it broke, the slow turn of her head reflecting golden sheens of sunlight off her hair. He watched her look at Wuteel again.
If the alien only knew.
Little else of significance occurred at the crash site. As ordered, all operatives returned to the landing zone within the specified five minutes, boarding the V2 for the voyage back home. As was typical, a jovial atmosphere permeated through the troop bay, with but few exceptions. As was typical, the sounds of banter drowned out the roar of the engines.
Novosibirsk. The Machine. Home. There was no place Scott wanted to be more.
The ride back went as smoothly as the mission. Not even the Bakma complained.
3
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 7TH, 0012 NE
1549 HOURS
NOVOSIBIRSK, RUSSIA
FLOPPER WAS THE first to exit the V2, his paws peeling out before the rear door was even down. Tongue flailing about merrily, he pranced around the nearest pair of sentries.
“Go!” said Max, marching after the dog. “You gotta go, go! Stop playin’ with the murderers!”
Ears perked, Flopper abandoned the sentries for the side of the hangar, where concrete met grass. The canine’s territory was then adequately marked.
The rest of the Fourteenth was not far behind. Auric escorted out Wuteel, the Bakma prisoner; Scott followed them. “Deliver him to Petrov,” Scott told the sentries in Russian. “He stays in Confinement, not the Walls.”
“Da, Captain Remington.”
The Fourteenth’s captives were never taken to the Walls of Mourning, Novosibirsk’s torture room—by Scott’s orders. He had never returned to the torture chamber since his first encounter, and there wasn’t a bone in his body that desired to go there again.
Unfastening his helmet for the first time, Scott surveyed the dutifully prepping-down Fourteenth. Small scars decorated his face from a missile strike explosion during a forest mission months ago, along with several other “badges” he’d collected over the months. There were even a few gray hairs here and there, giving the twenty-four-year-old a look beyond his years. He looked like a veteran. Considering his involvement with the Alien War was nearing only its first anniversary, that said quite a bit. EDEN was still yet to learn of his joining the Nightmen, and he was in no rush to tell them. As for his captainship, he’d achieved it at a frighteningly fast pace, shattering every rookie-to-officer record in the books. He wondered on occasion whether his rise to leadership would have been newsworthy had he been anywhere but Novosibirsk. Thankfully, at least in his eyes, he lived in a place that the rest of the world chose to ignore. Base-wide notoriety was more than enough for him.
“He will be fine.”
Svetlana’s voice caught Scott off guard, and he turned to find her approaching his side.
“The Bakma,” she said, catching his bewildered expression with a smile.
“Ah.” He watched as the sentry escorted Wuteel out of the hangar. “Nothing too serious, then?”
“No. He is lucky. To be in such good condition
and to have a captor who didn’t kill him. Both are very good things.”
“He was pretty lucky to have you, too.”
Svetlana smiled faintly. “I would not go so far as to say that...but if you insist, thank you.”
Scott was well aware of the attraction between them. He was also well aware of his sense of guilt. Nicole’s picture still sat on his nightstand, where it had been since the first day he’d received his own private quarters. She was still his fiancée—the love of his life. But that didn’t stop him from wanting to spend time with Svetlana. It didn’t stop him from increasing the frequency with which he requested medical reports, to be delivered by her to his quarters, usually ending with two hours of conversation and laughter. It didn’t stop him from occasionally deviating from his training schedule and sending the Fourteenth to the pool, just to see her in her teal one-piece. It didn’t stop him from wanting to kiss her. Though no such kiss had occurred, the want was still there. He was fairly sure she wanted that, too. The moment had just never come.
Turning back to the V2, Scott watched as the operatives bustled about. Then his stare found Jayden. The Texan, who wore a black eye patch to cover his empty left socket, hadn’t said a word during the whole flight. He was doing his prep-down alone.
Svetlana sighed sadly. “We might need to talk about him. He...” she searched for words, “...things are not going well.”
This was only Jayden’s third mission since his release from the infirmary, and only the second in which he’d been allowed to actually participate. His accuracy was still there, shockingly enough. But his body was in anything but good shape. The Texan was frail. Months in the infirmary had decimated his muscles, and a rushed recovery had cheated him a chance to fully heal. He could barely hold his own. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the bad part.
During his first phases of recovery, prior to the revelation of Varvara’s infidelity, Scott had seen a determined young man who’d refused to accept defeat. Behind occasional and understandable self-pity was a purposed and stubborn spirit. Until the affair. From that day forward, Jayden gradually fell apart. Varvara had accomplished what the loss of an eye and the destruction of a body couldn’t. She’d crushed his will. He was a shell of the man the Fourteenth had once known. The Texan was quiet now, moody. On some days he was perfectly stoic. On others he hated the world. Scott had no idea what was happening beneath the surface of Jayden’s emotions, but he feared something was psychologically wrong. For all he knew, his sniper had gone sociopath.