The Glorious Becoming (Epic)

by Lee Stephen

  Glaring murderously, the dingy-haired blonde stepped into the stall and jerked the curtain closed, taking everything from Travis’s right elbow on down along with her. As the Pariah pilot blew up at his hair, his arm was jerked back and forth as the Valley Girl squirmed. Clothes were unzipped as the jerks and movements became more forceful. Then Tiffany stopped.

  “What?”

  She hesitated. “I’m having some problems here.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Sarcasm is totally not needed right now.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  She fidgeted again. “I can’t take my clothes off. Well like, I can take some, but like, I’m having some trouble where we’re cuffed. Like...I don’t think I can get completely undressed.”

  He stared ahead with stoicism. “Well like, maybe you should have, like, you know, thought about it, before you, like, hopped in the shower.” Jerking out her hand, she made him slap his own face. “Ow!”

  Fidgeting violently for a short while longer, Tiffany finally proclaimed her nudity. “Attention, Travis: I am officially mostly naked. Repeat the rules again.”

  “Take your frikkin’ shower!”

  Out of view, the nozzles gushed forth.

  The door to Room 14 opened; William and Derrick stepped in. As soon as they saw Travis standing by the stall, they tilted their heads. “What are you doing?”

  Travis answered, his expression blank. “I’m standing here.”

  “Where’s the girl?” Derrick asked. When Travis didn’t answer, their eyes drifted to the active shower. Their jaws simultaneously dropped. “Whooooa!”

  William rushed forward. “Dude, seriously?” he whispered less-thandiscreetly. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” said Travis.

  “Dude...dude...” William repeated.

  “Is she naked?” asked Derrick.

  Tiffany screamed in anger. “Yes, I am naked! Oh my God, you are the most clueless men I have ever met in my life!”

  “You mean you can touch her?” William mouthed in silence.

  Travis slid his free palm down his face.

  “Here,” said Tiffany, jamming a shampoo bottle into his cuffed hand. “Hold this.”

  Throwing his other hand up, Travis said, “I thought I wasn’t supposed to touch you!”

  “You’re not touching me, you’re touching my shampoo. Deal with it.”

  Staring at Travis in bewilderment, Derrick said, “I don’t understand you, man. How are you not lovin’ this?”

  “Yeah,” said William, “you’re handcuffed to a hottie who’s naked. People fly to Vegas to do that!”

  Derrick nodded. “And you’re always talkin’ about how lucky Scott is, and how pretty Sveta is, and Esther.”

  “And how lonely and desperate you are,” William added.

  “Guys!” Travis’s face flushed bright crimson. “Shut the hell up!”

  “Lonely and desperate, huh?” Tiffany asked. “Terrific.” She positioned Travis’s shampoo hand over her head. “Squeeze. Okay, stop.”

  Red-faced, Travis glared at William and Derrick. “I’m not lonely and I’m not freakin’ desperate. And this is not fun for me!”

  “Why not, man?” Derrick asked.

  “Imagine if hemorrhoids could talk. It’s like living with that.”

  Tiffany stopped lathering. “Wow.”

  Shifting his attention to the curtain, Travis went on. “Yeah, I understand you’ve been through a lot, and everything that’s happened to you has sucked. But you’re acting like you’re the only one who’s inconvenienced here!”

  “Excuse me, but what better things do you have to do, right now, other than fix your rusted-out ghetto ride? Do you have friends in grave peril?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do!”

  “Oh, as if.”

  “I have five friends in Cairo as we speak!”

  She spun in his direction on the other side of the curtain. “But are they in grave peril? Are they stuck in a swamp? Are people trying to kill them? No? I didn’t think so! Now hold the freaking conditioner.”

  William grinned at Travis and nodded. “So hot,” he mouthed silently. The pilot rolled his eyes.

  “Anybody hear from that Swedish girl yet?” asked Tiffany.

  Looking strangely at the curtain, Travis asked, “What?”

  “The one who went after my friends, you pea brain.”

  “Wait, you mean Sveta?”

  “Yeah, that’s her.”

  “Sveta’s not Swedish!”

  Room 14’s door opened again, but this time it was Dostoevsky and David who stepped through. As soon as they were inside, they stared at Travis by the shower.

  The pilot rolled his eyes. “Yes, it’s what it looks like.”

  “Wow,” said David. “Some guys get all the luck, eh?”

  “Any news?” Travis asked irritably. “Please say yes.”

  Nodding, Dostoevsky answered, “The Noboat has landed in Krasnoyarsk. Svetlana and the survivors are safe.”

  “Wait a second!” shouted Tiffany, pulling back the curtain just enough to stick out her head. “They just arrived where?”

  “Krasnoyarsk. It is a city—”

  She cut him off. “They were supposed to come here!”

  “Apparently,” said David, “the powers that be think they’ll be safer somewhere else. They’re at some kind of a safe-house.”

  Dostoevsky nodded. “Krasnoyarsk is a city with high Nightman presence. There are many places your friends would be safe. Do not fear for them. It is important for General Thoor that they be treated well. They are valuable to him, and not as prisoners.”

  Before Tiffany could speak, Travis addressed her. “They’re safe. That’s what matters, right? You can sleep easy knowing they’re not gonna die.”

  Smoothing back her hair, Tiffany blew out a breath. Her eyes shimmered faintly as she averted them to the ceiling. A second later, she disappeared behind the curtain again.

  Travis’s focus returned immediately to Dostoevsky. “Any luck with a key? Or a way to cut these things off?”

  “I will be honest,” Dostoevsky answered, “that is not at the top of our priority list, Travis.”

  “Well veck, bump it up!”

  “You two are kind of cute,” said David.

  The curtain pulled back again as Tiffany’s head popped out. For several seconds she glared murderously at David, before she disappeared behind it again.

  William made for the lounge. “I’m gonna go be alone now.”

  The room door opened again. Becan stepped inside. As soon as he saw the clustered group, he blinked. Then he looked at Travis by the shower. His mouth fell, and he pointed to the curtain. “Is tha’...?”

  Moaning in unison, the group around him dispersed.

  “Wha’? What’d I say?”

  * * *

  THREE HOURS LATER

  BULGING EYES FORWARD, Tauthin watched Novosibirsk grow near in the main view screen. His gnarled hands were on the controls, as they had been since the moment they’d left to rescue Falcon Platoon. The Bakma officer was being watched like a hawk by two slayers, as ordered by Oleg, who was still in the Noboat’s equivalent of a captain’s chair. They’d been told to observe Tauthin—to learn from him. Though a Bakma might have been behind the controls at that moment, this Noboat belonged to the Nightmen. They needed to learn how to use it.

  Svetlana, still damp-haired and dirty, stood as close to Tauthin as she was allowed. Though none of the Nightmen in the bridge smelled particularly pleasant after the Great Dismal Swamp, no one emanated the odor of the slough more than her. Unlike the others who’d had the option of removing their smelly armor, she’d been saturated to her core. Only Tauthin’s gamey musk was more prevalent.

  Lilan and his surviving operatives had been left behind in Krasnoyarsk, in the equivalent of a hole-in-the-wall prison, locked behind literal iron bars in a stone concrete cell. Though officially dubbed a safe-house by Oleg, in practice
it was the farthest thing from. Lorded over by three armed slayers, Lilan and company were forcefully sequestered. Svetlana had tried to assure them as best she could that they would be safe—the Nightmen had no reason to harm them. The Falcon prisoners were not comforted.

  Dematerialized—or shifted, as Tauthin and Wuteel called it—the Noboat cruised at a low altitude toward The Machine. Stealth had been their top priority in transferring the Falcon captives to their prison in Krasnoyarsk. The Noboat had landed outside the city, where very briefly it “shifted” into the visible world, just quickly enough for the Falcon survivors to be ferried to the city itself, courtesy of a dilapidated van that met them at the landing site. In order to ensure continued covertness, Novosibirsk wasn’t going to actually see the Noboat returning. Its secret, sub-level hangar was simply left open. The Machine would know the Noboat had returned only after hearing it clump down.

  Oleg’s attention remained purely on the view screen, issuing understated orders to the crew as they hovered on. Occasionally, brief dialogue of a technical nature would take place between Tauthin and Wuteel through their human mediator, the scientist Petrov, though for the most part, the two Bakma remained silent.

  Staring through the strands of dirty hair that dangled over her eyes, Svetlana watched the Noboat begin its descent. For the first time, the area around the underground hangar was visible. It was barely two kilometers away from the outer limits of The Machine, in a small patch of open field surrounded by snow-covered birch trees. The Machine was positioned between the hangar and the city of Novosibirsk, visible in the far distance, ensuring that both camouflage and separation would keep snoopers away. Anyone who wanted to pry would have to go through Thoor’s kingdom. And that was never a good idea.

  Its thrusters lowering, the Noboat gently descended through the entrance. The corridor to the heart of the secret hangar flew past on the view screen. A short while later, they arrived at the landing zone. Oleg ordered the Noboat to materialize, and the vessel de-shifted and settled on the concrete.

  The moment the Noboat powered down, Tauthin’s shoulders were grabbed by the slayers. He was pulled violently away from the controls.

  “Stop it!” said Svetlana, shoving one of the slayers away. “Leave him alone—he has done all you ask.”

  Oleg approached from the side, the black-bearded Russian eyeing her coldly. “You are quick to trust, Voronova. What do you think this thing would do to you if it had you alone?”

  “I can’t imagine anything worse than what you would do.” Lip curling in disgust, Svetlana looked away from him. She forced herself between the slayers and Tauthin. “I will escort him. And if he tries to escape, you can shoot me.” Her glare returned to Oleg. “You would like that.”

  Smirking magniloquently, Oleg motioned for her to move Tauthin. “Be careful what you wish for. Go.” A nod to the slayers allowed them to give Svetlana the reigns—at least in that aspect.

  Placing a hand on Tauthin’s back, Svetlana’s narrowed glare softened as she turned to the alien. “Let us go back. It will be okay.”

  Once again, a brown sack was placed over Tauthin’s head. The alien grunted disapprovingly, but offered no resistance.

  It took twenty minutes for Svetlana and her escort of slayers to guide Tauthin and Wuteel through the twisting stone corridors that led to The Machine. No one spoke during the whole journey—the only sounds were the metallic footsteps of the Nightmen and the shuffling of the extraterrestrials’ feet. Only when the troupe had reached familiar territory were the sacks lifted from the Bakmas’ heads. Several minutes later, they were back in Confinement.

  Blowing up her hair, Svetlana watched as Tauthin and Wuteel were pushed to their respective cells. The blonde lingered behind Tauthin as he walked obediently inside, stepping backward only after he’d crossed the cell’s threshold.

  What none of the humans in the room caught was the brief—and purposeful—look that Tauthin gave Ed. Discreetly, the Ithini’s oval lenses throbbed. The connection was made. Instructions flew from Tauthin’s mind. Ed’s eyes twitched wider. He looked at Svetlana.

  Svetlana’s gaze was still on Tauthin when it hit her. She blinked confusedly, as if struck by a sudden headache. The medic winced and touched her temple. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the headache vanished. Eyes flickering to Tauthin, she cocked her head.

  The glass door slid into place, separating the Bakma and the blonde. Tauthin’s gaze remained fixed at nothing in particular.

  “Go.” A slayer pulled Svetlana away. “Back to your dog house.”

  Stumbling back slightly, Svetlana never glared at the Nightman who pulled her. She simply rubbed her forehead, looked away bewilderedly, then made for the door. She gave a brief glance to Tauthin outside of Confinement before she disappeared around the corner, into the halls.

  From behind his own glass partition, Wuteel stared oddly at Tauthin. Ed quickly connected them.

  What happened with the female? asked Wuteel telepathically.

  For several seconds, Tauthin transmitted nothing, his dark purple eyes staring at the corner Svetlana had disappeared around. Very slowly, his brow lowered. When the black ones took me, she came between us. She wanted to return us gently, herself. Her kindness caused their oversight.

  Their oversight?

  Tauthin looked at Wuteel. They left her vision unimpaired. Across the room, Wuteel’s eyes widened. Her mind is strong, but inexperienced. She did not sense the siphon. I know the way to the Zone Runner.

  Baring his teeth, Wuteel growled excitedly.

  Ed’s connection grew to span all the Bakma in Confinement. Tauthin’s thoughts pulsed through the room.

  Brethren.

  One by one, the captives’ minds coalesced. Looking up from their metal cots, they focused on Tauthin in his cell.

  The Earthae possess a Zone Runner. I know its location.

  The surprise was evident in the connection. Sparks of incitement pulsed throughout the invisible circuits of telepathic energy. The emaciated, scarred Nagogg, a Bakma rider whose lips had been ripped off by the Nightmen during a torture session, spread his permanent skeleton’s grin. He turned his head to one of the captured canrassis.

  Tauthin’s thoughts pulsed on. We have been constrained—tortured—since the day we were taken. Yet our hour draws near. Soon the flood waters of our wrath will inundate this room.

  Cricking his neck, the titanic Gabralthaar tensed his shoulders. The Bakma brute’s thick arm muscles bulged. In the next cell over, the warrior Ka`vesh narrowed his eyes.

  When the moment arises, refuse to be contained. We are already free from the Khuladi’s chains. Soon, we will be freed from the Earthae’s.

  From one cell to the next, the Bakma in Confinement roared in their minds. Nik-nish, the pilot whose feet had been sawed off. Uguul, the battered warrior who’d been starved into submission. Kraash-nagun, the foot soldier elite whose eyes had been gouged. All bore the scars of The Machine.

  Tauthin’s deep purple glare narrowed further. Bide your time, brethren. Our reckoning approaches. His stare steadfast, Tauthin lowered himself slowly onto his cot, locking eyes with his fellow Bakma POWs.

  Human scientists bustled from one end of the room to the next. Some held clipboards, others scientific instruments. Some conversed quietly, others were focused on their tasks at hand. Had any of them been tending to the captives, they might have noticed the intensity emanating from their cells. They might have noticed the focused glares of concentration. They might have discovered that Bakma possessed goose bumps, too.

  Svetlana never mentioned her headache to anyone in Room 14. After receiving hugs from the various members of the Fourteenth, and assuring Tiffany of her friends’ well being, the blond medic made a beeline for the shower. She enjoyed every moment of it—the warmth of the water, the cleanliness of soap, and the comfort of a freshly-cleaned towel. Completely comforted. Completely at home.

  Completely oblivious to the rebellion she’d just set in motion.<
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  26

  THURSDAY, MARCH 15TH, 0012 NE

  0900 HOURS

  CAIRO, EGYPT

  SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER

  DUST, SAND, AND GRIT. It was a combination in Scott’s teeth he hadn’t felt in years, and it grew more visceral with every gust of desert wind that blew past him and Natalie. The Caracal captain was dressed appropriately for the weather, sporting a black tank top, fatigues, and mirrored sunglasses that looked more akin to Texas law enforcement than EDEN. Her chestnut hair tied into a ponytail, she scrutinized the Caracals with stoicism as she and Scott approached.

  Scott’s appearance was the total opposite. He was in full uniform, filling the role of “good cop” to Natalie’s bad variety. It wasn’t intentional. He simply didn’t have anything else to wear. Tank tops weren’t exactly all the rage in blustery Novosibirsk.

  Natalie had said little to him that morning thus far—nothing beyond what was necessary. A slight discomfort existed between them; the vibe Scott felt was that their night out at Sabola had gone a little more intimately than she’d anticipated. He sensed that her defenses were up. His were, too. That was fine with him. The more she left him alone, the more he could focus on his true mission.

  Though Thoor had never given Scott a specified time limit to find H`laar and return to Novosibirsk, Scott knew the timer was running. Every day without progress was one day less for Svetlana.

  Despite the fact that this was officially Scott’s operation, there was no question that Esther was the mission’s determining factor. Their success or failure was contingent on the scout’s ability to infiltrate Confinement and make contact with H`laar. Thankfully, Natalie had been true to her word, and Esther had been given the go-ahead by the captain to pursue her own “training” endeavors. The scout was absent from the session and on her own.

  Boris’s job, while less glamorous, was equally critical. He needed to use his special kit to gain access to Cairo’s network. It wasn’t the equipment or Boris’s technical savvy that Scott doubted—it was the Russian’s mettle. For Esther, deception was as natural as breathing. It wasn’t quite the same for Boris. Scott tried to imagine what Boris’s response would be if a security guard questioned him, and the only thing he could picture was the technician stammering or wetting himself. Neither would serve their mission well. Just the same, Boris had been working hard in his free time to figure out Cairo’s systems. He’d been dutiful as always.