The Glorious Becoming (Epic)

by Lee Stephen

  Scott scrutinized Natalie discreetly while she spoke to the Caracals. She was giving them a between-exercise motivational speech about responsibility, dedication, and the importance of hard work. Her words were passionate and genuine. And they needed to be. Because if Scott’s mission was difficult, Natalie’s was nigh impossible. She was supposed to turn the Caracals into an effective fighting force. In the span of one morning session, a realization struck Scott that made him pity Natalie to a degree he’d never pitied anyone.

  The Caracals were horrible.

  Operatives got winded. They keeled over. They huffed and puffed as if they’d just run from Marathon to Athens. The work Natalie was making them do was intense, to be fair, but it paled next to a standard training session at Novosibirsk. Their level of ineptitude was actually a marvel. They were out of shape. They were devoid of desire. They were going through the motions like tired paper delivery boys on cold winter mornings. Even Jayden, barely up to mission shape from his extended infirmary stay, was leaps and bounds ahead of these operatives.

  Sensing his anxiety, Natalie approached him after assigning the group low-crawl drills. Hands on her hips, she exhaled in disgust as she watched the operatives begin their work. “Okay, you’ve seen what they can do. Give me the truth.”

  “This is gonna be a lot of work.” Saying it just once didn’t seem to be enough. He shook his head. “I’ve never seen operatives like this.”

  “Believe it or not, this is progress. You should have seen my first day with them.”

  “The stuff we were able to do in Novosibirsk, I couldn’t even dream of pulling off with these guys. Have they been doing anything here at all?”

  She frowned. “Getting lazy and out of shape. Once you get used to doing nothing, it’s hard to break the habit.”

  “How can an EDEN base accept this?”

  “This is a research base, commander,” she answered. “The emphasis hasn’t been on response until recently.” The operatives who finished the low-crawl drill—far behind Auric, Jayden, Boris, and Logan—breathed exhaustively with their hands on their knees. “You played football, right?”

  Scott nodded.

  “You remember two-a-days?”

  Laughing painfully, he nodded. “Oh, yeah. I remember two-a-days.” They were a stretch of training camp when teams practiced once in the morning and once in the afternoon.

  “What position did you play?”

  “Quarterback.”

  Her gears were turning. “Well I don’t know too many quarterbacks, but if I had to take a guess, I’d say you probably have an aggressive mentality. Move down the field and score, again and again. Am I right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well congratulations, commander,” she said. “You just became my offensive coordinator. I want to start working some ‘two-a-days,’ with morning focusing on fortification and afternoon on assault. I’ll take the former, you’ll take the latter. Can you write up a training plan for your sessions?”

  She was playing to his strengths—trying to put him in charge of something he’d be motivated to put his all into. It was a good tactic. “It might kill them.”

  “Then maybe they’ll send us capable replacements,” she said, eyeing him with a sidelong grin. Though he couldn’t see it behind her mirrored sunglasses, he had a feeling she winked. Turning ahead, Natalie rallied the Caracals for a post-exercise word.

  Natalie explained the concept of two-a-days to them, and for the most part, they seemed to comprehend it. For a culture that thought footballs were supposed to be round, Scott considered their understanding alone a victory.

  All-in-all, their session lasted just over three hours. Natalie ran them through several more drills, allowing Scott to lead a few just to get used to command—or so she thought, at least. The operatives panted their way through the exercises, but managed to survive. Whether they’d ever reach the point where they could actually accomplish anything on the battlefield was yet to be seen.

  Shortly after the Caracals were dismissed by Natalie, Scott retreated to his room to plan out his “two-a-days.” It wasn’t a direct part of the H`laar mission, but it was nonetheless part of his cover, and he had to maintain it. With little else to do until he heard from Esther, Scott sat down with pen and paper and went to work.

  * * *

  ONE HOUR LATER

  Unified Motion.

  Scott stared at the two words atop his journal page. He’d written several pages already in preparation for his new training regimen, covering everything from assault terminology to species-specific tactics. Now he was reaching advanced material—Nightman material.

  Advantages: fastest travel time, intimidation.

  The Caracals were a far cry from “Machine” efficiency, but that didn’t mean Scott couldn’t aim high. He might be gone with H`laar long before reaching the second page of this regimen. But what did he have better to do? Until Esther got in touch with him about her Confinement infiltration plan, nothing. He was in hurry-up-and-wait mode.

  Requires muscle memory and total combat awareness. Also courage and trust.

  Scott’s words were simple, and at times scattered. But he knew what he was talking about. That was all that mattered right then.

  He was in the middle of writing the next line when he heard the first footsteps outside his door. Wrinkling his brow, he looked up. It was hurried walking—trotting. It sounded like several operatives. They’d passed right by his door. Glancing down again, he returned his pen to paper.

  More footsteps. Back-to-back-to-back, from even more operatives now. People were running in the halls. Watching the door strangely, Scott placed his pen down, stood up, and walked to his door. Pulling it open, he looked into the hall.

  “What in the?” His words were drowned out by the stampede of boots. Operatives were sprinting down the hallway. Voices reverberated off the walls. Everyone looked alarmed. Darting back into his room, Scott grabbed his comm off his nightstand. Emerging into the hall again, he followed the throng.

  The legion of operatives were gathering in one of the nearby hubs—spacious intersections complete with public facilities, benches, and information consoles. Everyone was gaping at the mounted corner monitors. Craning his neck to see over the crowd, Scott listened in to what was apparently a newscast. It was some sort of breaking event.

  “While Richmond will not elaborate on whether or not Strom Faerber was aboard one of these transports, we have confirmed that the unit, Falcon Platoon, is where he was assigned.”

  “Falcon Platoon?” Scott blurted aloud.

  The anchorman looked at the camera gravely. “We want to repeat, for any viewers tuning in right now, that an unspecified incident has just occurred between a unit from the EDEN base of Richmond, Virginia—the unit containing Strom Faerber, son of Vector Squad Captain Klaus Faerber—and several aircraft allegedly from the Russian base of Novosibirsk.”

  “What the hell’s goin’ on?” asked Jayden, hurrying to Scott from behind. Auric and Boris flanked him.

  “Katie,” said the anchor, “give us a rundown of the facts so far. What exactly do we know?”

  The reporter spoke concernedly. “At just past 0200 hours, Richmond time, a callout was given to a unit called Falcon Platoon, dispatching them to an area near Lake Drummond in southeast Virginia. Several minutes prior to arriving at their dispatch location, they were met by several aircraft believed to be from Novosibirsk. An unspecified incident took place resulting in at least one aircraft down.” She frowned. “While none of this information has been confirmed officially by EDEN, we can confirm that at this time, all EDEN facilities are at orange alert.”

  Jayden’s mouth fell. “Dude, Falcon Platoon? Novosibirsk?”

  “What is Falcon Platoon?” asked Auric.

  “That was our unit back at Richmond,” Scott answered. “That’s where we came from.”

  The display transitioned from the news station to a press room—some sort of conference. The EDEN logo was
clear along the back wall. Scott, his comrades, and everyone else in the room watched as an older woman with auburn hair stepped behind the podium.

  “Who is that?” Boris asked.

  Scott shook his head. “I don’t know. She looks familiar, but...” His words trailed off as the woman’s name appeared beneath her on the screen.

  Judge Carol June.

  “Okay. Okay!” The woman held up her hand, talking to someone just off-screen. Her focus turned to the conference room as she adjusted the podium mic. No time was wasted on an introduction—the people at the conference were apparently well acquainted with her. “I just want to lay a few ground facts here before we get to questions.” She seemed irritated. “At 0205 hours Eastern U.S. Time, Richmond received a callout, to which Falcon Platoon was dispatched, under the command of Colonel Brent Lilan. At 0238, Falcon Platoon made contact with several unidentified aircraft. Shortly after, all contact with the platoon was lost. Those are the facts. Now, your questions.”

  Though the camera remained on June, hands could be heard reaching for the ceiling. She nodded at someone in the audience. “Pete.”

  “Carol, rumors are flying in from the NSU about a call put in to President Belikov directly from EDEN Command. No other nation reported receiving this kind of call. Are the Soviets involved in this situation?”

  June shook her head. “We have no reason to believe the NSU is involved.”

  “Then why was a call made to NSU headquarters?”

  “You’re talking about rumors, Pete. I don’t talk about rumors.”

  “I’m just trying to clarify whether or not a call was made to President Belikov.”

  The judge’s glare deepened. “You’re asking me to speculate on the nature of this incident, and I’m not in a position to do that.”

  “No speculation, Carol, I’m just trying to verify whether or not a call was made.”

  “Yes, President Belikov was contacted by EDEN Command.”

  “What was the nature of the call?”

  She waved him off. “You’re asking for classified information. I can’t provide that.”

  “Is Novosibirsk involved in this?”

  He was ignored as June focused elsewhere. “Samantha.”

  An Australian woman spoke. “What were the specifics of the initial callout, ma’am?”

  “That’s still under investigation.”

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “Not at this time.”

  The woman persisted. “Did the callout come from EDEN Command?”

  “Like I said, it’s still under investigation.”

  “I’m not asking for results, ma’am, I just want to verify the origin of the callout.”

  June’s eyes narrowed. “Sam, listen—”

  “—I’m not asking for classified information—”

  “What you’re asking for isn’t something I can discuss.”

  The woman sounded surprised. “You can’t confirm a simple callout?”

  “Everything is a process. Right now we’re on step one of about fifty. When we get to fifty, we’ll have a lot more to disclose.” She moved on, motioning to another reporter.

  “Can we confirm for the record that Strom Faerber was assigned to this unit?”

  June nodded. “I can confirm that, yes.”

  “Was he present on this callout?”

  “By all indications, yes.”

  Scott listened as the questions kept coming. Were Strom Faerber’s whereabouts known? Had Klaus been contacted by EDEN Command? What would Strom’s death mean to the captain of Vector Squad? None of those questions Scott cared about. There was only one thing he wanted to know.

  “Judge, do we know whether or not there are any survivors?”

  June’s face gave her answer away. “We have numerous aircraft combing the target location to look for survivors. But at this time, we are not optimistic.”

  Not optimistic. Scott’s shoulders sagged.

  “Dude...” said Jayden beside him.

  Running his hand through his hair, Scott turned away from the display. Pushing through the crowd, he fought to find breathing room. He found it in the hall before the hub.

  Falcon Platoon, his first unit, gone. Colonel Lilan and Major Tacker, his first commanding officers, presumed to be dead. Scott didn’t know or care about Strom Faerber. That was the rest of the world’s problem. The loss of Lilan, Tacker, and whoever else was left in Charlie Squad was what hit home. That was his unit. If not for Chicago, Scott might have never been noticed and never transferred to Russia. He, David, Jayden, and Becan might have been in that crash with them.

  Just as concerning as the loss of Falcon Platoon was the mention of Novosibirsk in the press conference. It was obvious to every single person watching that June wanted to avoid that topic at all costs. Something was plainly wrong.

  A prompt came up on Scott’s comm. Glancing at the display, he saw Natalie’s name. She must have just heard the news. “Hang on, guys,” he said, stepping away and bringing the device to his lips. “This is Remington.”

  “Scott...” Sure enough, that’s what the call was about. He could tell by her voice. “My God, have you heard?”

  “Yeah,” he answered somberly. “I heard.”

  She hesitated. “Are you okay?”

  He wasn’t sure how to answer at first. Lilan, Tacker, and the others were a jolt to his heart. But Scott was a man who’d lost his fiancée and who was trying not to lose Svetlana, someone he cared about dearly. The prospect of loss followed him everywhere. He was used to it. “It won’t be a distraction, ma’am.”

  “Scott, I’m not worried about a distraction. I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m fine, captain.” He felt like being formal. It just seemed appropriate.

  Another pause. “Just remember I’m here. You can always come talk. If you—if you need to.”

  He realized how dismissive he sounded. It wasn’t what he meant. “I’ll come see you tonight.” He wasn’t even sure why he’d said it, but it felt like a natural part of the conversation’s progression. At least she’d leave him alone until then.

  “Hey, man,” said Jayden, “what do you think’s goin’ on with Novosibirsk?”

  “I don’t know,” Scott answered. The impression was that Novosibirsk was involved somehow in the crashing of Falcon Platoon. Could that possibly be true?

  He was tempted to comm Dostoevsky. Or Thoor himself. But something told him to hold off on that. Let the situation play out. See what EDEN reports first. If there was something Scott needed to know, someone from Novosibirsk would get in touch. Nothing from the news report or the press conference changed the fact that he needed to find H`laar. This was day two, and they hadn’t even officially begun the hunt.

  “All right, guys,” Scott said discreetly. “Esther’s supposed to be starting her work today. There’s nothing any of us can do until we hear from her. Forget about Falcon, forget about Novosibirsk. We’ve gotta have a one-track mind, here.”

  The others nodded.

  “Boris, you’re a big player in this. Have you looked at any of the public consoles, to get a feel for anything?”

  Boris nodded. “It has been quite amazing. This kit from Antipov, it is like technician’s dream. It uses an encryption de-convertor, which I have never even seen before. Before the source signal even touches the primary pathway, I am able to completely bypass the interceding guardian.” He moved his arms emphatically. “And you should see the security system here as compared to The Machine! It is like being a physicist then going back to kindergarten. They are using a guardian that cannot even process a double—”

  “Okay, okay,” Scott said, “whatever, I believe you.” Nerd language. “Can you gain control?”

  Sighing, Boris answered, “Yes, commander.”

  “Good. That’s all I want to know. Keep at it today, keep working, then show me something tangible. Go with him, Jay.”

  The Texan acknowledged, and the two departed. Auric f
aced Scott solemnly. “If Novosibirsk did attack those ships...”

  “I know,” Scott said. Auric, like him, understood the full gravity of the situation. If The Machine was involved in this, their mission in Cairo suddenly got a whole lot more complicated. And complication was the last thing they needed more of.

  He’d know where he stood when he heard from Esther. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing, she was the hinge of the operation.

  Their future fell on her.

  27

  THURSDAY, MARCH 15TH, 0012 NE

  1757 HOURS

  CAIRO, EGYPT

  THAT EVENING

  TAP. TAP. TAP. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  High heels on tile. The repetitive sound echoed on Cairo’s ivory floors.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Esther’s passive brown eyes looked ahead through her rectangular glasses, her inverted bob dancing gracefully as her feet kept perfect rhythm. Dressed in her tan cashmere suit and licking freshly glossed lips, the girl who had only several hours earlier been Esther Brooking paused by a hover tram pickup point. Zipped handbag in hand, she tapped her nails as she waited.

  Catching sight of a security guard standing by a column, Esther sashayed toward him, leaning her body tentatively his way. “Excuse me?” The guard cocked his head and smiled. She smiled, too. “Where should I go to meet a Mister Holmes?”

  “Giro Holmes? With Xenobiology?” he asked.

  Laughing embarrassingly, she said, “Yes, that’s the one! I’m a civilian contractor. I’m supposed to be seeing him today, though I must confess, I’m a tad lost.” She watched as a tram pulled up, turning back to the guard and wincing gently. “I’m not even sure which tram I’m supposed to take.” Everything about her body language was intentional, particularly the way she cocked her hips. Her brown eyes settled on the guard’s.