by Lee Stephen
The technician latched the casket and set the carriage straps in place.
Every memory floated past him. His last words to her in Michigan. His conversation with her after Chicago. The desperation in her voice when he moved to Novosibirsk. The smile on her face when he proposed.
Her smile when she last said she loved him.
The casket was rolled into the airbus, where it was fastened against the inner wall. And just like that, the rear door was closed.
He never saw the airbus taxi onto the runway. He never saw it lift off into the sky and rocket into the horizon. His eyes were open; his gaze was steady. But all he saw was her. By the time he remembered where he was, she was already gone.
She was already gone.
…goodbye…
He felt his muscles weaken. Then he felt hands on his back. He couldn’t count them all, but he knew who they were. They were Galina’s. They were Varvara’s. They were David’s, Becan’s, Jayden’s, and Travis’s. They were even Max’s.
“I’m sorry, Scott,” Max whispered.
They all repeated the same words. From one to the other, then to the other, then to the other. There was warmth in their intent, but he couldn’t feel it.
“I’m sorry, Scott,” said Clarke.
A million apologies wouldn’t bring her back. A million more wouldn’t ease him.
“I’m sorry, lieutenant,” said Esther.
She was gone. She wasn’t even a dot on the horizon. She was completely gone. She would never love him again. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. But he couldn’t. There was something holding it all back, relegating his sadness to silence. Overpowering it like a predator to prey. It was a question. One single question—and his burning desire for an answer.
What was the Silent Fever?
His eyes opened as he registered Esther’s voice. It was the very last voice he’d heard. She was the one he had tasked. She was the door to his answers. As soon as he turned to face her, she froze in place. “Esther…what do you know?”
A tear dripped down her cheek. She shook her head in silence.
She knew something. She was fighting to keep it away. “What do you know?”
She couldn’t say a thing. But she didn’t have to. In a fleeting moment—one that Scott wasn’t meant to notice—she glanced purposefully at David. But Scott did notice. And in the next second, his own gaze turned to his friend.
“Dave?”
“Not now, Scott,” David whispered. “Not here.”
“Tell me something.”
“Please, Scott. Don’t do this to yourself right now.”
“…I’m not doing this for myself.”
David’s stare locked with Scott’s. On the runway, just meters from where they stood beneath the hangar, rain continued to slam to the ground. Lightning reflected in the puddles. But David still didn’t say a thing.
“For her,” Scott uttered. “For her.”
David lowered his eyes in hesitation, then rose them to meet Scott again. The look they exchanged was mutual. It was understanding. There was something Scott needed to be told. And Scott wouldn’t find rest till he was told it. David’s lips parted, and he mouthed a single, silent phrase.
The Murder Rule.
Scott’s eyes squeezed shut. His fists clenched. Every emotion in his body evolved. The sadness was immediately gone, replaced by something much darker.
The Murder Rule. The rule they used to christen their recruits. The Nightmen.
He had known it. The second her death was identified as the Silent Fever, he had known it. He had known it was something else. And now he knew what that something else was. It was a brand new Nightman, clad in his new armor as he marched proudly through the halls of The Machine. Oblivious to the life he’d taken away.
It was a trashing Nightman.
He glared at Dostoevsky. The commander turned to match him. For a fleeting moment, amid their exchange of vehement silence, Scott saw Dostoevsky do something he had never done before. He saw Commander Yuri Dostoevsky wince.
In that moment, rank disappeared. The line between lieutenant and commander was gone as the whole of the group fell subordinate to Scott. He commanded their fear without a word. He commanded their fear like a monster.
Scott turned away from the airstrip, and stormed through the crowd. He made no attempt to say goodbye.
David watched as Scott disappeared through the hangar’s side door, leaving the unit awkwardly quiet.
Scott…what are you about to do?
David had posed the question to himself all day. Now it found him again.
What are you about to do?
He knew what he would have done, had it been him. He knew how he would have responded to Sharon’s murder. He would have found the man who killed her and squeezed his neck until he was dead. He would have squeezed it without a drop of remorse.
Without shedding a tear.
13
Monday, August 8, 0011 NE
0441 hours
The next morning
The comms beeped at 4:41. Their echoes bounced off the walls of Room 14. For the first time in a long time, bed sheets weren’t torn off at their call. There was no stomp of boots, no rush to the closets. There was not even a groan of disdain.
All of the operatives were present except for Scott and Dostoevsky, both of whom slept in their respective quarters. Neither had been heard from since the memorial. All efforts to knock on Scott’s door had been met with silence. No effort was made to knock on Dostoevsky’s.
Still the comms cried out. Their unbridled urgency was hit with the lethargic numbness of an emotionally drained unit. As Clarke, who’d slept in the barracks that night, slid the covers from his body and leaned upright, the rest of the unit listened. They listened as he stepped barefoot onto the icy concrete and carried his comm into the lounge. They listened until the beeping wails ceased, and after a minute of distant conversation, the captain padded back into the bunk room. He stood still by the lounge door. His silhouette was barely visible in the darkness.
“We’ve got a mission,” he said. “In the town of Khatanga.” His voice sagged even more than his shoulders. The cots crinkled as the operatives propped upright. “Ceratopians.”
Not one of them spoke. Not one of them groaned. The captain had said enough for all of them.
Max sighed and edged off his cot. “I’ll call Scott and Yuri.”
“They’re already coming,” Clarke said.
From the discomfort of his mattress, David felt his stomach twist.
“Scott’s coming?” Max asked.
“Yes. They both are.” The room hung in silence for several more seconds before the captain stood and flicked on the light. Everyone winced. “We can’t delay any longer. Don your armor and grab your weapons. You know the procedure.”
A chorus of dampened acknowledgments answered him. The operatives fumbled out of their beds, dragged themselves to their closets, and put on their gear.
The walk to the hangar was unlike any preparatory trek the unit had ever undertaken. Every step screamed of apprehension. It wasn’t until they arrived there that someone spoke—it was Jayden. His words were addressed to David, and they were as dimly subdued as his countenance.
“I don’t like Ceratopians, man.”
David hesitated. “I don’t either.”
“Remember what happened last time?”
“…yeah.”
Esther turned her head as she quickened her step to keep up. “You’ve fought them before?”
“Yeah, once,” Jayden answered. “It was the worst thing ever. I got shot, Dave almost got blown up. Clarke and Scott almost got their heads bashed in….”
“Max got knocked out,” David said. “Twice.”
“Get away,” Esther said in disbelief.
“Yep,” Jayden said. “And that was a win.”
Dostoevsky was already in the hangar when they arrived. The dark horns of his fulcrum armor gleamed in the Pariah‘s ba
y door.
Becan stared at him for a moment, then turned back to the others. “Yeh think Remmy’s goin’ to be all righ’?”
David continued to walk. He knew the answer; he lied anyway. “I don’t know. Would you be?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m worried about him, man,” Jayden said. “I’m surprised he’s gonna come.”
David boarded the transport. He did not look at Dostoevsky as he passed. “I’m not.”
“Why?”
“Because more than anything, he wants to kill something.” He turned to Jayden. “And that’s exactly what he gets to do now.”
“Everyone aboard!” Clarke said behind them. “We launch as soon as…” his words drew to a halt, as his gaze focused on the hangar’s entrance, “…Lieutenant Remington arrives…”
David turned to the hangar’s entrance. The others did the same. They barely recognized the man they saw.
His golden collar was unmistakable. It was everything else that was different. His posture, his stride, his fingers as they grasped his assault rifle. Everything. Even in the distance, the coldness of his eyes burned through his visor in a way that none of them recognized. It wasn’t Scott James Remington.
It was someone much worse.
“Blarney,” Becan muttered as he watched Scott’s brooding approach.
Esther turned to him. “What? What’s the matter?”
“Look at him. We’re vexed.”
Clarke watched as Scott neared the Pariah. When the Golden Lion drew close, Clarke gave him his attention. “Lieutenant. Are you sure you’re prepared for this?”
Scott almost cut him off. “Yes sir.” He passed by the captain without stopping.
Clarke watched as Scott strode through the troop bay and took a seat at the far end. None of the operatives looked at him until he had stepped past them, at which point they stared with blatant curiosity.
As Scott leaned against the wall, assault rifle propped against his shoulder, Galina placed her hand upon his leg. She offered a desperate smile. “Did you rest okay?”
Scott sat without saying a thing.
Clarke stepped through the troop bay and grabbed the support rail. “Travis, close the door and take us up. You should have the coordinates.”
“Yes sir.”
“Everyone else, listen carefully.” The operatives’ attention turned undividedly to the captain. “A Ceratopian Cruiser was intercepted over the town of Khatanga. Is anyone familiar with this area?”
Maksim lifted a hand. “I am, captain. It is in northern Siberia. Near the Laptev.”
“That’s correct,” Clarke said to the rookie demolitionist. “It’s a fishing town with a small population, on the banks of the Khatanga River.” He glanced from Maksim to the others. “It’s daylight there now, almost around the clock by this time of year. Boris, bring up a schematic, please.”
The display panel above the troop bay flickered, and a map of the town appeared.
Clarke approached it and pointed. “As you can see, the crash site is on the eastern side of the river. Temperatures will be cold, but above freezing. Bring up tactical, please.”
Two green triangles appeared, as did a single red one next to the river. Clarke pointed to it. “This is where the Cruiser was shot down. It’d destroyed our Vindicators before it was forced to land. It’s damaged, but by no means should we expect its crew to be helpless.”
He pointed to the two green triangles. “These represent ourselves and the Eighth. They’ve already been dispatched.”
David and Becan glanced at one another. “Will an’ Derrick,” said Becan under his breath.
“We are to land on the southwest corner of the town,” Clarke said. “The Eighth will land northeast. We shall converge at the center of town, where reports have the highest concentration of Ceratopian activity. The citizens have already been ordered into their homes, but that’s no guarantee they’ll remain there.”
He touched the screen and a second layer appeared—two smaller green triangles beside the red one. “Two teams from ourselves and the Eighth will strike the Cruiser while the rest of us liberate the town.” He turned to Dostoevsky. “Commander, you will lead Max, Oleg, and Varvara to the Cruiser. There should be seven from the Eighth prepared to meet you.” He returned his attention to the others. “As you all know, the Eighth are a demolitionist unit. They’ll be doing a majority of the grunt work. Our job shall be to assist, support, and direct. Don’t let that fool you into thinking we’ll have it easy. We’ve got the task of twenty men.”
Clarke brought his attention to Scott. “Lieutenant Remington and myself shall oversee the town side of the operation. If our tactical information is correct, we’ll be converging on the Ceratopians in a warehouse district with minimal habitation. Our orders are to terminate with extreme prejudice.
“Travis,” he said, “what’s our time to Khatanga?”
“Twenty minutes,” Travis answered.
Clarke turned back to the troop bay. “Those of you who have fought Ceratopians before know what to expect.” He eyed Esther and Maksim. “For the rest of you…you’re in for one hell of an initiation.”
During the span of time it took for the unit to arrive at Khatanga, few words were spoken in the troop bay. It was the most awkwardly uncomfortable silence the unit had experienced since their return trip from the Bakma outpost in Siberia. Except this time, it wasn’t remorse that kept them somber. It was fear.
As the Pariah began its downward descent, David reached up to grab a support rail. “Watch out for necrilids, just in case. Canrassis, too.”
“If I see any, I’ll get ‘em quick,” Jayden said.
“Especially the necrilids,” Becan said. “I can see canrassis comin’ from a kilometer away.”
“What should I do?” Esther asked.
“Stay next to us,” David said. “Do what they ask you to do.”
“An’ shoot,” Becan said.
“Yes,” David said. “Shooting is good.” He looked past them to Scott, who sat motionless beside Galina. Galina might as well have not been there, as Scott gave no indication of her presence. David watched as Scott lowered his head and closed his eyes, his fingers firm around his assault rifle.
Jayden sighed. “At least he’s still prayin’.”
“I don’t think he’s praying.”
“Then what’s he doin’?”
David watched as Scott’s eyes remained closed. Scott’s knuckles were white from clutching the barrel of his gun. “Getting ready to kill.”
The Pariah‘s nose was raised; its ventral thrusters blew to life.
“We’re comin’ down by the river,” Travis said.
Clarke held the support bars. “Yuri!”
Dostoevsky strode to the troop bay. “Axen, Strakhov, Yudina. We drop here.” The rear door whined open as the transport hovered in place. The Nightman commander stood by the exit. “Where is the strike team from the Eighth?”
“They’re in position,” Travis said. “Waiting for you, sir.”
As the Pariah drifted just above the ground, Dostoevsky leapt out from the bay. Max, Oleg, and Varvara followed. The whole while, far in the back of the bay, Scott glared at the commander through his visor.
The Pariah lifted up again, and its nose pivoted to the warehouse district.
“Everyone get ready,” Clarke said. “Focus on the task at hand. Watch everything, and do not hesitate to use maximum firepower. Rest assured that the Ceratopians won’t hesitate.”
“I’m about to bring us down!” yelled Travis moments later.
“Scott,” David said as he dodged through the bay to Scott’s side. “You ready?”
“I’m ready.”
“How do you want to do this?” David really wasn’t interested in how Scott wanted to fight. He was more interested in keeping Scott’s mind on the mission—instead of on the prospect of revenge.
Scott stood up and grabbed the support rail. “I know what you’re try
ing to do.” He spun around to face the older man. “You don’t have to be my father.”
David stared back in silence.
“Just let me go.”
Let him go. That was what David was afraid of. He inhaled deeply and turned his attention to the rest of the troop bay. “All right, Scott. I’m behind you.”
Travis placed his hand on the controls. The Pariah touched down on the earth. “Opening in three…two…one!” He pulled the lever. The bay door whirred.
The streets of Khatanga came into view.
The instant the door opened, the red flash of a neutron beam zapped into the troop bay. The Fourteenth scattered as the ray shattered against Maksim’s chest. The rookie demolitionist flew off his feet and careened against the back wall.
Galina leapt to cover the demolitionist, as Clarke snarled and ducked down. “Travis, you landed us backwards? You bleeding idiot!” The operatives dove from the ship into the street as neutron blasts followed in their wake.
Travis swallowed and lifted the rear door.
David tucked and rolled as enemy fire erupted around him. When he came to a knee, his assault rifle was propped up and ready. Only Scott was faster. They released suppression fire as the rest of the operatives scrambled for cover—on the opposite side of the street. The only one who stayed with him and Scott was Esther.
Neutron blasters were completely different from the plasma weapons used by the Bakma. As opposed to white bolts of searing heat, neutron blasters unleashed neon rays of pure energy. Their potency didn’t come from burn damage. It came from sheer force of impact. A neutron ray hit like a train.
As the Pariah‘s bay door finished closing, Galina removed her helmet and knelt by Maksim. The armor on Maksim’s chest was crushed inward. As she struggled to remove his chest plate, she glared at Travis in the cockpit. “Lift us up and turn us around! Now!”
