by Lee Stephen
She edged up tentatively behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Scott, please, just listen for a moment—”
As soon as she spoke, he snapped around. He thrust her hands away from him; Varvara gasped and stuttered as she stumbled back. “You need to listen to me!” he snarled. “You don’t know what it’s like. Not you, not anyone.”
“Scott,” Varvara quivered, “I—”
“Not one of you knows how it feels, to have this place take from you the one thing you want more than anything. To watch this place destroy what you love.” He snatched his e-35 from its holder in the closet and slammed a magazine into place. “You haven’t lost something here. When you find someone who has, you send them to me. Then we’ll have this discussion.”
Varvara was almost in tears. “Scott…”
“I am going on this mission.” He holstered his M-19 handgun and grabbed a cache of ammunition. “I’m going on it for me…and for you. None of you realize it yet.”
There were no more words to be said. Brushing past Varvara, Scott opened the door and stormed out into the hall.
For a moment, Varvara did nothing. Tears dripped down her cheeks, as she stared wide-eyed from the corner.
Not one of you knows how it feels. To watch this place destroy what you love. You haven’t lost something here.
The words echoed clear through the room. Even after Scott left, they remained.
When you find someone who has, you send them to me.
She continued to weep, and sunk to the floor. There were no other sounds in the room—only the sobs of a desperate girl.
There was nothing else.
Suddenly Varvara sprang up. Wiping her tears and hurrying to her feet, she rushed from the room. She had no choice.
“Captain,” Dostoevky said as he stepped forward. His gaze drifted to Becan for a moment, but quickly darted away. The other four men held firm behind him. “I give you Viktor Ryvkin, Nicolai Romanov, Auric Broll, and Egor Goronok—on loan to us from the Tenth.”
“I trust we have their full cooperation?”
“Affirmative, captain.”
“Very well.”
From several meters away, the others observed them—observed their new reinforcements. Ryvkin was tall. He was dark haired and slender. He looked like a man who could kill. Romanov was shorter, but not short. He moved with short, jerky motions. Broll was a blue-eyed blond—he was a German, and well built. Like Maksim Frolov, the injured alpha demolitionist.
But Goronok was the worst. The bald-headed Nightman looked strange, almost alien—yet obviously he wasn’t. His eyes were dark and wide apart. His face was long, but his nose was pointed and high. His jaw had the delicacy of an anvil.
“This looks like a bleedin’ freak show,” whispered Becan.
David said nothing.
At that moment, a new pair of footsteps entered the hangar behind them. The entire crew turned around to face them. It was the last two people they’d expected to see. It was Scott and Varvara. Scott was donned in his helmet-less armor, as Varvara followed nervously behind.
Clarke’s eyes blazed. “Mr. Remington, you were told to remain in your quarters.”
Scott’s expression was too cold to care. His footsteps were purposeful and firm. “That’s not happening.”
“Excuse me?”
David interjected between them. “Scott, think about this for a minute. Is this something you should really be doing?”
“I thought about it, Dave. I thought about it long and hard.” He pushed past them.
Clarke’s face exploded with red. “You will stop right where you stand, Mr. Remington!” Scott swung around to face him. “I will not be contravened by you!”
“This is my job! This is what I’m here to do!”
“And my job is to tell you what to do!”
Galina quickly stepped to Scott’s side. “Scott, please, listen to me for a moment. Will you listen?”
“No. I’m through listening.”
Clarke snagged the golden collar of Scott’s armor as Scott tried to walk away. Scott whipped around and knocked Clarke’s hand aside.
“Captain!” said Dostoevsky, shoving himself between the two. He gave Scott a brief look, then turned his attention to Clarke. “I will watch him, captain. I will take him with me.”
Clarke hit the commander with a stare. “Is this your unit, or mine?” The question almost sounded serious.
“Let him make his own choice. He must live with it, not us.”
No one else in the hangar breathed. Even the technicians around them watched in unified silence.
The captain’s eyes slid past Dostoevsky to Scott, then returned to the fulcrum commander. “Do what you want,” he seethed as he turned to the Nightmen. “You are the ones in charge.” He brushed away from Dostoevsky and stormed into the transport. “Prepare for ascent!”
“Scott,” David said, “I don’t think you’re thinking. You need time to calm down.”
“Don’t lecture me, Dave.”
“I’m not lecturing you. I’m worried about you. You’ve been through something unbelievably traumatic.”
Scott checked his assault rifle and boarded. “I appreciate your concern. But I need this.”
“You need what? To kill something?”
Scott gave him a hard stare. “I need to do my job.”
“Scott, you’re not in your right mind right now. You don’t even have a helmet, did you even notice that? You cracked your last one wide open.”
Scott looked away for a moment, then turned to him again. “I don’t need one.”
“Scott, listen to yourself.”
“I said I don’t need one.”
David sighed.
“What I need is to go on this mission, Dave,” Scott concluded. “More than you know.”
David stared at Scott for several seconds, as he watched him lower to his seat. “Whatever you need.”
“How’s our weather?” an irritated Clarke asked Travis by the cockpit door.
Travis was noticeably submissive. “Lukewarm, sir. Light precipitation, if any. Looks like there was rainfall yesterday, sir, but not much today. Anything else I can find out for you, captain?”
“No, Travis. That will be fine.”
As the four Nightman slayers took their seats in the front of the ship, Scott allowed his glare to swivel their way. He had no idea who they were or why they were there, but he hated them. He hated them because they were Nightmen. He hated them because one of them had killed her. Not one of them specifically—he sensed that their particular hands were clean. But one of their kind had. One of their disease. And that was all the reason he needed. Their time would come. But not now.
“What are they doing here?” he asked Becan, who had taken a seat beside him.
“General Thoor was kind enough to send ‘em to us. Apparently we’re a wee bit understaffed.”
“Do you know any of them?”
“Aah…” the Irishman furrowed his brow. “Tha’ one on the end, the one who moves like a lizard, his name’s Romulac. Then the next one is…Rick, I believe…”
“Nicolai Romanov, Auric Broll, Viktor Ryvkin, and Egor Goronok,” said Dostoevsky, who sat across from them. “All men from the Tenth.”
Becan’s eyes narrowed. “All murderers from the Tenth, don’t yeh mean?”
“Yes,” Dostoevsky confessed. “They are that, too.”
“How’s your jaw? Still hurtin’?”
“Not as much.”
“Tha’s too bad,” said Becan. “I might have to realign it again.”
“Becan,” interjected Varvara, who sat two seats down from the Irishman. “Do you have to do this?” Jayden held onto her hand.
“Righ’, righ’,” Becan answered. “Not bloody worth it.”
As Esther strapped herself in, Galina sat down beside her. The Russian medic smiled. “Varya is taken up with her boyfriend. So you must give me gossip instead.”
Esther tried to smile
back, but said nothing.
Galina watched in silence before she spoke. “You will do fine. You will see.”
Esther stared at the wall. “I know.”
Travis announced the Pariah‘s ascent from the cockpit, at which point the operatives held on. Within a minute, the Vulture transport was airborne and streaking through the sky.
“Attention, everyone,” Clarke announced to the crew. His face was still flushed with anger. “Here is the situation we’re faced with. Novosibirsk fighters have intercepted and shot down a Bakma Coneship, along with its escort of several Couriers, just west of Lake Baikal. The ground may be wet due to past precipitation, but for the most part it’s an average day.
“There are no towns in the immediate vicinity, so there’s no need to fret over civilian casualties. Nobody else should be there. Coneships are larger than Noboats, however, so be prepared for moderate resistance from the survivors. There may also be canrassis in the area.”
“Use standard woodland camouflage,” Dostoevsky ordered the EDEN soldiers. “Green and brown.” The soldiers began to transition their armor, while the Nightmen looked on in silence.
“Boris,” Clarke said from the cockpit door, “bring up an image of the site from Command.” As the captain stepped back to look at the monitor above the door, an overhead image of the crash site appeared before him. Light woods surrounded the site in every direction. There were no other features anywhere. As the captain observed the image, Max stepped beside him. “What do you think, Axen?” Clarke asked.
Max stared at the map for several moments, then leaned close to Clarke. “I think you’re losing control of this unit,” he said quietly.
Clarke turned to face him.
“Scott defies you, Dostoevsky overrules you, and look at the current us-to-‘them’ ratio.”
The captain brought his gaze to the four Nightman slayers, all oblivious to the clandestine conversation. “What am I supposed to do, Axen? Fight them?”
Max shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t blame you for submitting. And I don’t blame Scott for defying.” His eyes too slid to the Nightmen. “But something else is going on here. They gave us four slayers for a reason.”
“That reason doesn’t matter. Those Nightmen don’t matter. Neither does Remington.” He turned back to the map. “Right now, it’s only this. This is everything.”
“Yes sir.”
Scott leaned his head back and closed his eyes, as the transport soared through the air. The events of the past ten minutes replayed in his head. The alert of the comm. Clarke’s order for him to remain. His own decision to ignore it. Varvara had tried to stop him, but even in her attempts, it was obvious she knew she was powerless. His will was not to be reckoned with.
All for this. All for the cold addiction of an e-35 assault rifle. All for the urge to pull the trigger.
There was a time when thoughts such as those would have surprised him. There was a time when he’d have never challenged authority. But that was before what had happened. That was before everything had changed.
“Everybody listen,” said Clarke, as Max resumed his seat. “We are going to break up into three parties. The first, led by myself, will consist of Brooking, Timmons, and Evteev.”
Esther and Jayden swapped a glance.
“We shall be dropped off at this location,” he pointed to an open area several hundred meters south of the crash site, “where we shall work our way north into an observable position. We’ll monitor the Bakma and relay any weaknesses we see in their defenses. We’ll engage if we must, but our priorities will be tactical.
“Lieutenant Axen will lead a team consisting of Remington, Jurgen, Strakhov—”
Dostoevsky cut him off. “Captain, I offered to take Remington—”
“I’m aware of your offer. It’s respectfully denied.”
Dostoevsky made no response.
“Lieutenant Axen will lead a team consisting of Remington, Jurgen, McCrae, Strakhov, and Lebesheva. You will be dropped off west of the Coneship, where you will await our instruction before proceeding. We will dictate your assault.”
The captain’s gaze turned to the Nightmen. “Which leaves Commander Dostoevsky in charge of his comrades, to be dropped off due east of the wreckage.”
Dostoevsky turned his attention to Varvara. “Varya, you will come with us—”
“Varvara will remain in the ship,” Clarke corrected, “to be utilized as needed. Is that a problem?”
Dostoevsky looked at Clarke for a second, then shook his head. “No, captain. It is not.”
Scott closed his eyes and lowered his head. It was a different sensation now than it had been for Khatanga. His emotions were more controlled and purposeful. Or at least it felt that way.
Oleg sat down beside him and smiled. “I am ready, lieutenant. Are you?”
Scott said nothing.
“Do not tell this to Max,” Oleg whispered with a wink, “but you are still best lieutenant in all of Novosibirsk.”
Khatanga was an error. Khatanga was the pain. This would be the fury.
“Remmy,” Becan said from Scott’s other side. “Are yeh sure you don’t need a helmet? Don’t yeh need to communicate through a helmet comm?”
“He is right,” said Oleg. “You need a way to communicate, lieutenant.”
Scott rose and reached up into the Pariah‘s overhead storage locker. Moments later, he produced an earpiece microphone. He slid it over his right ear and sat down.
“Well,” Becan frowned, “tha’ takes care o’ tha’.”
“We’re approaching the crash site, captain,” said Travis from the cockpit. He glanced back to the soldiers in the troop bay.
Clarke cleared his throat and stood. “Brooking, Timmons, Evteev, prepare to disembark.”
“Yessir,” said Jayden, releasing Varvara’s hand and standing up. Esther rose up to meet him. “You ready for this, Esther?”
She nodded. “I am.”
“You got that whole comm thing figured out?” the Texan asked well-meaningly.
“Yes,” Esther said, snapping him a glare. “I do.”
The inertia of the Pariah altered as its velocity decreased. Within minutes, they had descended upon the woods. “Opening the door!” yelled Travis. As the crew held on, the back door of the ship slowly whined open while the ship hovered close to the ground.
It was a relatively warm August morning. Beneath the Pariah, under a light ground-cover fog, was a patch of green open space.
Clarke stepped to the edge of the bay door, slung his assault rifle over his shoulder, and leapt down. Jayden, Esther, and Boris were soon to follow. Clarke’s voice emerged through the Pariah‘s speaker system. “We’re going to traverse our way north. Let us know as soon as you’re situated, Max.”
“Yes sir.” Max made a signal at Travis, and the Pariah lifted again. As its nose pivoted for the northwest, he turned his attention to the bay. “I want everyone watching someone else’s back. David, you’re with me. Oleg, you’re with Becan. Scott, you’ve got Galina.”
The pairs separated themselves. As soon as David was by Max’s side, he lowered his voice and addressed him. “You sure you want Galya going with Scott? I can go with him if you want.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Max answered quietly. “She can handle it.”
“He needs someone who can control him, maybe physically.”
Max almost cut him off. “Hey, I said I’m sure. All right?”
David hesitated before agreeing.
“We’re almost to your drop-off, guys,” said Travis. Once again, the Pariah‘s speed lowered. “Get ready to jump.”
Max averted his attention from David. “Let’s keep our eyes open down there! Watch each others’ backs!”
“An’ watch ou’ for canrassis,” said Becan.
“Yeah, that too.”
Scott stepped to the edge of the bay door, watching as the ground passed beneath him. He could smell the scent of the trees. It smelled like a hunt.<
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“Be watchful, Remington,” said Dostoevsky from behind him. “Do not act only on your emotions.”
Though Scott kept his back to the commander, his face twisted into a scowl. Had Dostoevsky said that in Khatanga, Scott might have killed him right then. But this wasn’t Khatanga. Closing his eyes again, he inhaled a deep breath from within.
“Scott?” Galina asked from his side.
Muscle memories flashed through his mind. How to reload his rifle. How to unholster his sidearm. How to activate a grenade.
“Scott?”
How to fire two guns at once. How to aggressively tumble. How to break a neck with one arm.
“Scott.” She tugged his shoulder, and he snapped out of his meditation. “Are you okay?”
She had no idea. She had no idea at all. She was still trying to be friends. Scott turned his attention back to the ground. “Don’t look in one direction for longer than two seconds. Keep your peripherals open. Do exactly what I say, when I say it.”
She listened in silence.
He turned to face her. “Are you ready?”
Galina stared at him for several seconds, mouth half-opened in silence. She finally nodded her head. “Yes, lieutenant. I am ready.”
Scott looked on again. “For the duration of this fight, we are one person.” It was the only way she’d survive. Total combat amalgamation. Like a machine.
Galina said nothing.
The Pariah slowed to a hover. Max jumped off the ramp. As he held up a hand signal of silence, the others followed behind him.
As Scott leapt, he cast one last glance back at the ship. Dostoevsky’s eyes were solely on him.
“In position,” Max whispered through his helmet comm.
Clarke’s voice emerged moments later. “We’ve already made first contact. One sniper, in the treetops. He’s been isolated by Timmons.”
“There may be several in the area,” Dostoevsky added from the Pariah. “They may have formed a perimeter.”
