by Lee Stephen
The subtle snideness was not lost to Oleg. “Is that a philosophy you agree with?”
“Yes,” Rath answered without pause. “Yes, it is.”
“As do I. So we are not all that unalike, you and I.”
At that, Rath shook his head firmly. “Oh, no, Mr. Strakhov. I assure you, you and I are very unalike. We’re just both able to recognize a good thing, and as it turns out, the best thing that’s happened to both of us in this situation is each other.”
A second passed, then Oleg dipped his head. “I would drink to that were I able.”
“I’m afraid that will have to wait,” said Rath. “As will the full offering of my trust. But at the moment, until you’ve given me reason to believe otherwise, I’ll count you as an ally. As to Archer? That’ll be his choice to make.” Settling in his chair, the judge closed his eyes. “We’ll be landing in about an hour. I recommend you get as much sleep as you can before we land. It’ll be in short supply once we touch down.”
His eyes remaining on Rath, Oleg said nothing in response, though his expression—were the judge in a position to see it—was one of mild satisfaction. Settling in his own seat, Oleg, too, closed his eyes.
EDEN Command was over the horizon.
* * *
Novosibirsk, Russia
A short while later
HE’D BEEN BRACING for it. From the moment Torokin learned he’d be traveling to Novosibirsk, he had been bracing to see the devastation that EDEN had wrought upon the former Nightman facility. But no amount of bracing could have prepared him for the magnitude of what EDEN had done.
Novosibirsk had been laid to ruin.
The base was no stranger to all-out attacks. It had survived the Assault on Novosibirsk handed to it by the Bakma not even a year earlier. But this wasn’t collateral damage caused by plasma fire and high explosives. This was destruction on a wholly different level. Entire buildings were flattened, including the massive communications tower that’d been known as NovCom. The hangar, only recently rebuilt, looked like it’d been hit by an earthquake. The infirmary, the barracks, the main building—they were all in shambles.
Torokin was not the only one to be affected. From the moment Minh saw the base appear in the cockpit window, the Vietnamese pilot had been slack-jawed. Beside Torokin and looking through the same window, Chiumbo asked, “How many EDEN operatives who were stationed here died in this attack?”
The Russian judge didn’t know—the numbers had yet to come in. But one thing was clear: keeping friendly-fire injuries to a minimum had apparently not been a priority. It was supposed to have been. But this looked more like a revenge killing than a surgical strike. The Machine had been hit by a maul.
“I’m taking us down,” said Minh, craning his neck for a clear patch amid the rubble. As the V2’s nose pitched upward for descent, the occupants of the troop bay grabbed hold of the hand rails.
With a clunk, the Vulture touched down, its rear bay door lowering and inviting in a blast of frigid Siberian wind. Wincing inherently at the temperature drop, the occupants of the hunter team proceeded down the ramp onto what was left of the airstrip. As soon as their boots touched concrete, a Russian officer was there to greet them.
“Greetings, Judge Torokin,” the man said, nodding to the Russian judge as well as those behind him. “And members of Vector.”
Torokin caught a partial smirk on Logan’s face, the only member of the group not among the list of greeted. It didn’t look like the Australian mercenary was offended. His expression merely seemed to say, “Typical.”
The officer continued on. “Judge Rath left only a few hours ago. I hope we are able to help you as much as we were able to help him.”
“I am sure you will be,” Torokin said. Stepping aside, he indicated the rest of his team. “We have some very specific goals, not all of which are in the same place. Do you have several people who can take us where we need to go?”
“Absolutely. Where do you need to go?”
Torokin answered, “The underbelly of Fort Zhukov, for one. I understand the Nightmen were using it as a base of operations.”
Nodding his head, the officer said, “The Citadel of The Machine. That is what they called it.”
That sounded about right. “We need to see any place in this ‘citadel’ that might house communications equipment. We would also like to see Remington’s quarters, as well as the room where his unit stayed. From what I understand about Novosibirsk’s layout, those two places will not be in the same location.”
“Correct, judge. There are barracks here as well as an officers’ wing. I can have your team taken to both.”
Logan raised his hand. “I’d like to see Remington’s quarters.”
“I’ll go wit’ him,” said Marty. “If ’dere’s anything to find, between the two of us, we’ll find it.” The Cajun looked at Logan as if to ask permission. After a moment of hesitation, Logan nodded.
It worked for Torokin. “I and Trooper Quintana would like to see Fort Zhukov, so, if the rest of you are willing to investigate the Fourteenth’s room?”
Smiling, Chiumbo said, “Of course, judge.” He glanced back to Sasha, Minh, and Lisa, indicating in his overly-cordial way that they were along for the ride whether they approved of it or not.
“Very well, then,” the officer said. “We will have you all escorted to these locations at once. Is there anything else we can do for you?”
“We will let you know if there is,” said Torokin. “Let us get underway.”
As Torokin was led away, he continued to scrutinize the level of destruction around him. From one end of the base to the next, buildings were broken. Though he and the other judges at EDEN Command had been an active part of the goings on in the War Room, they’d been relying mostly on reports and relatively low-quality imagery to stay abreast of the situation. Had Torokin not been there witnessing this for himself, he’d have never believed the attack was so destructive. This was unnecessary—and that meant a lot, coming from him. If they as a Council were hoping to send a message, they could rest assured it’d been received. He just hoped the cost wasn’t too high.
“Do we have any reports on EDEN operatives injured?” he asked. “Specifically from those stationed at Novosibirsk?”
Frowning, the officer answered, “Not at this time, judge.”
At long last, after several twists and turns through the grounds of Novosibirsk, Torokin found himself and Pablo at the entrance to Fort Zhukov—the Citadel of The Machine. It was behind the barracks, through a set of rusty doors made of metal and wood attached to what looked like a shed. Inside was a dimly lit staircase that descended into darkness. It was among the most chilling things Torokin ever recalled seeing. It was like stumbling upon the lair of a serial killer or cannibal—a hidden, decrepit passageway that no one else in the world was supposed to find. Even Pablo’s characteristic smile was missing, replaced by a look of horrific wonder.
“Right down here, judge,” the officer said, slipping past Torokin to lead him and Pablo down.
As Torokin followed several steps behind, he ran his hand along the stone walls beside him. They were cold and wet to the touch. Passing by flickering torch lamps, the only lighting down the stairwell, he kept his gaze on the officer.
“Everything secret about the Nightmen is located down here,” the officer said as he led them along. “We have found everything from torture rooms, to secret stashes, to a tunnel leading to an underground hangar.”
“An underground hangar?” the judge asked incredulously.
“That is correct, judge.”
“What is in it?”
For several seconds, the officer hesitated. “At the moment, there is nothing in it.”
Catching the pause, Torokin asked the obvious, “But something was?”
“You could say that,” the officer said as they reached the bottom.
Stepping from the last step, Torokin found himself standing in a massive, inwardly curving corridor. EDEN o
peratives were going to and fro, carrying captured equipment in carts and surveying damage. The same chilling atmosphere existed here as had in the stairwell—the whole place reeked of an era long gone.
Pointing one direction down the corridor, the officer said, “The Citadel is circular, traversable by this long corridor that goes completely around the structure. There are various rooms and smaller hallways that branch off both inwardly and outwardly. Exploratory teams are mapping the interior out now.” He motioned to the two men. “If you come with me, I will take you to the hangar.”
Torokin held out his palm to stop the officer. “Wait. It may be more beneficial if I go to the hangar myself and allow Pablo to continue our true task, here.” He looked at the technician. “Do you need me to go with you to look at their communication equipment?”
Pablo smiled. “Not at all, judge. I am more than able to look at the equipment myself.”
That suited Torokin just fine. The things Pablo would be checking into were beyond Torokin’s comprehension, anyway. Snagging a passing operative, the officer instructed him to escort Pablo where the technician needed to go. As Pablo and the operative departed, Torokin followed the officer into the depths of the Citadel once again.
* * *
Clasping his hands together, Logan crouched down and stared blankly ahead. He and Marty Breaux were inside the small room identified as Scott Remington’s in Novosibirsk’s officers’ wing. Though the room was noticeably stripped—Scott had apparently packed quite a bit for his “transfer” to Cairo—there were still enough personal artifacts to warrant a thorough search, which apparently had not been done yet. That Scott’s room hadn’t been combed through was nothing to hold against EDEN. They had their hands full just trying to keep the base from falling apart.
“All right, chief,” said Marty behind him. “You start at one end, I start at ’da next?”
Logan offered no reply. It wasn’t an intentional attempt to be discourteous. Truth be told, Logan wasn’t sure where he wanted to begin. Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep, slow breath, as if he were a predator sniffing out his prey. It was mental preparation before he tore the room apart.
Marty wasn’t quite as reverent. “Well, guess I’ll start in ’da bat’room.” Whistling a tune, the Cajun moseyed through the bathroom door at the right side of the room.
Though Logan shot Marty a look of irritation from behind, he nonetheless set out to the nightstand next to Scott’s bed. As he passed by the bed, he ran his hand gently across its surface, pausing to scrutinize the covers with narrowed interest. The bed was made meticulously. The edges were folded under the mattress with care that went above and beyond that of a typical soldier. The cover itself was pulled back at the top of the bed, revealing sheets beneath that almost looked pressed. Even the pillows were precisely placed. “Think the janitors clean the rooms here?”
“Pfft,” said the Cajun from the bathroom. “Ain’t no janitor ever cleaned my room.”
Logan figured as much. “Then he has a woman.”
“Say what?”
“The bed,” said Logan. “No man makes a bed like this.”
The sound of a medicine cabinet opening emanated from the bathroom. “We had to make some pretty crisp beds in Philadelphia, chief.”
Shaking his head, Logan said, “Not the way this one’s made.”
“Well,” said Marty, who inhaled several loud sniffs through his nostrils, “I sure hope he’s got a woman. That, or the guy gets a little kinky by his’self wit’ whipped cream.”
“What?”
Marty stepped back from the sink. “I think someone mighta’ been wearin’ a lil’ whipped cream bikini. Just hope it wasn’t him.” When Logan leaned into the bathroom, the Cajun pointed to the wall, where a small spot of white substance had solidified mid-drip. “That’s what it is, sure enough. Seems a couple days old. Musta missed this spot in the cleanup, ’cause it ain’t nowhere else.” After a small pause, Marty pointed definitively. “Yeah, I’mma choose to believe dat’s a whipped cream bikini. Either ’dat, or he inhales strawberry shortcake while sittin’ on ’da toilet.”
Logan walked back to the bed without comment. Opening the top drawer of Scott’s nightstand, he shuffled through a short stack of papers inside. They were all stock printouts—the kind of little papers and pamphlets that got handed out to all operatives at some point or another. There was nothing personal about them at all. As Marty walked in from the bathroom, Logan moved down to the next drawer.
Jackpot.
A lone tablet sat inside, riddled with pencil scribblings. Picking it up, he looked back at Marty. “Take a look at this, mate.” The Cajun wandered over.
Only the top page was written upon, and by the look of it, about a quarter of its pages had been torn out. Scott probably took notes, then either took them with him or threw them away. Logan inspected the written page.
Words were scrawled everywhere, some of which were circled, and some of which were connected by lines. It was as if Scott was trying to depict a web. At the very top of the page, the words, “The Archer betrays you,” were underlined.
“‘The Archer betrays you?’” asked Marty, reading over Logan’s shoulder. “The hell’s ’dat supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know,” answered Logan quietly. He read on. There were all sorts of phrases jotted down that Logan had never heard before. War of Retribution. Golathochian Subjugation. All will be judged. The words interference, indication, and allegiance were also there, right next to the word Ceratopian with a question mark. At the bottom corner, under the headline, Unknown Species, were listed Khuladi and Nerifinn. Next to Nerifinn was an arrow pointing up to Khuladi, the word declarers written next to it. Arrows like that were everywhere.
Marty pointed. “Right ’dere. Benjamin Archer.” He pointed to the judge’s name, written in the middle of the page, then up to the headline at the top. “’Dat’s gotta be what he means by ‘The Archer betrays you.’”
“Guy’s a conspiracy nut,” said Logan.
“But wait a minute, now.” The Cajun crossed his arms contemplatively. “If he made this all up, he’s a nut. But if ’dem two species is real…”
Looking back at Marty, Logan asked pointedly, “Then what?”
Unaffected by the mercenary’s tone, Marty answered, “Then he knows something we don’t.”
“And if he knows something we don’t, what does that bloody make him? A hero? A saint?”
“It don’t justify nothin’, you’re right. But at the very least, it means whatever he was doin’—which was undeniably wrong—he was doin’ it with more information than we have.”
Logan dropped the tablet on the bed. “Which doesn’t help us find him.” Setting his hands on his hips, he shook his head. “Nothing on that bloody thing is going to tell us where he is, or what he’s doing with Captain Rockwell, or who his next target’s going to be.”
Picking up the tablet himself, Marty skimmed over the words on its surface. “I know you got a dog in ’dis fight, but ’dis thing here,” he rapped his finger on the tablet, “is exactly the kind of thing we came here for.”
“We came here to find a bloody comm.” He looked at Marty. “Whatever evidence you find, you can hold onto. I’m not here to build a case. I’m here to find Scott Remington.”
Folding his arms and drawing a calming breath, Marty said, “We gonna find him and your captain. I promise. But let us grab important stuff on the way. All right?”
Staring at Marty for several seconds, Logan finally offered a sigh. “All right.” Running his hand across his shaved head, the Australian motioned to the tablet without looking. “You hold onto that, if you don’t mind.”
“Not a prob.”
“Now let’s keep scouring this room.”
Marty affirmed, and the two men continued their search.
* * *
Room 14 was a treasure trove of miscellaneous junk. Chiumbo, Sasha, Minh, and Lisa rummaged through it, each in different parts
of the room and each perusing what could only be described as clutter in their search for some sort of clue about the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk. Beyond chess pieces, the occasional gothic romance novel, and a haphazardly-stacked pile of comics, they’d found little else but a lived-in room no different from any other lived-in rooms in the barracks.
Though there were a decent number of personal belongings at the various bedsides—no doubt a result of the Fourteenth’s hasty retreat during EDEN’s attack—little of significance had been found thus far. Nothing they’d found mentioned anything about Cairo, Ceratopians, Falcon Platoon, or anything related to the nefarious activity that the Fourteenth was involved with. If anything, the unit’s belongings portrayed them as a group that was strikingly normal and of close camaraderie. It most certainly didn’t look like the den of a terror cell.
“I might have something.” The much-needed declaration came from Sasha, who was standing near a tightly-made bunk bed. The scout was carefully turning the pages of what looked like a journal. The others approached him. “It looks like a woman’s journal. Remington is referenced all over it.” He flipped to the inside cover, where a name was scribbled. “Svetlana Voronova.”
“How does she reference Remington?” Chiumbo asked.
Laughing softly, Sasha shook his head. “Honestly? Like he was a love interest.”
Minh squinted curiously. “A love interest?”
Stopping at a particular entry near the end, Sasha raised an eyebrow after reading the first several lines. “This journal is very personal.”
Chiumbo crossed his arms and leaned against the nearest bedpost as Sasha continued reading. “She was not the one with him in Cairo, correct?” the Mwera lieutenant asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Minh.
“No,” said Lisa. “The one in Cairo was Esther.”
Sasha froze, his eyes glued to the page in front of him. “Whoa.” Looking up from the page, he stared at the back wall. For several seconds, he said nothing, until at long last he closed the book in his hand. Drawing a preparatory, but focused breath, he looked at the other two men. “I think we just found a motive.”