by Lee Stephen
“Does it even matter if we’re all attacking at once anyway?”
“Yes.”
Max turned to face him. “You need to get a grip, Scott. He’s in command, not you.”
“I never said I should be,” Scott answered. “But nonetheless, we’re moving too slow.”
“I think he’s righ’,” said Becan. “They know we’re here, no question. Let’s hit them while they’re brickin’ it.”
“Look, I just work here,” said Max. “What do you want me to do?”
“We have to move,” Scott replied. “We have to be aggressive.”
“Let’s move, then. Come on.”
As Max’s team made their way toward the Coneship, Galina tried her best to match Scott’s pace. It was like trying to keep pace with the wind.
“Scott, please slow down.” It was phrased like a plea for help.
Scott’s legs eased enough for her to catch him.
“Thank you, Scott. I am trying.”
“I may need you to shadow me further,” Scott said.
“What?”
“When we get to the wreckage. If they’ve left a chink in their armor, I’m going to hit it.”
“What does that mean?”
He continued to press ahead. “It means if they have a gap, if they have any sign of weakness, I’m going to rush them.”
She furrowed her brow and kept up. “But…did Captain Clarke not say to be patient—”
“Clarke is wrong.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a mistake not to move in fast.” And it was. He knew it. But Clarke didn’t. The Bakma weren’t stupid. They were aware of the fights around them, and they’d fortify. It was a basic military tactic—defend one’s position. The longer the Bakma had time to prepare, the more confident they’d become. The harder they’d be to break. Right now, they were anxious. Gunfights had broken out all around them, and they’d lost contact with their dispatched soldiers. EDEN had fear on its side. It was stupid to let that dissipate.
“What if the others do not charge?”
“They will.” Or at least the Nightmen will. Scott knew that without question. Nightmen were aggressive. They attacked with fear. They probably thought Clarke was wrong, too. Regardless of the fact that he hated them, he admired their sense of relentlessness.
By the time Max’s team reached the Coneship, Clarke and Dostoevsky had already relayed their positions. When Max gave the captain word of his arrival, a plan was quickly set forth.
“Stay with the tree cover,” Clarke said over the comm. “We can barrage them with a constant assault. Surround them by all three sides.”
“Surround the Coneship with a cone,” thought David out loud.
“I count eleven total,” said Dostoevsky through the comm as well. “As Brooking predicted.”
Clarke affirmed. “We can almost see them all from our position.”
“Anyone see the hatch?” asked Max.
“Yes,” answered Dostoevsky. “It is on the top of the vessel. The ship is rotated on its side.”
“So the other door is buried against the ground.”
“Correct.”
Scott surveyed the scene. The Bakma warriors were unaware of his unit’s exact location, but not oblivious to their general presence. There were six in his immediate view. According to Esther’s earlier report, two were at the point, and three were on top of the ship, by the hatch. Five were out of sight.
The Bakma looked skittish. Vulnerable. The time to strike was right then.
“On my mark, open fire,” said Clarke. “Hold your positions and maintain cover. We’ll have them completely besieged.”
That was wrong. Besieging them wasn’t the answer. They had to press against them with force. “Remember what I told you,” Scott said to Galina.
“Scott, I do not know,” she replied. “I do not think I can do this.”
“You can do it. You have to want to.”
“Please Scott, let us just follow the plan—”
“Mark!” Clarke yelled.
Without a moment’s delay, Scott propped up his rifle and fired. The others on his side did the same.
The Bakma collectively jumped as projectile fire rained around them from all three sides. Over half of the Bakma fell before they returned fire. And even their return fire was off target.
They were frightened.
“Now,” Scott said, as he adjusted his comm. “I’m charging the ship.” Before anyone could protest, he leapt to his feet.
“Remington!” shouted Clarke. “What in God’s name are you doing?”
The Bakma turned their attention to Scott as he broke to the clear. He could sense Galina behind him. A moment later, he could sense Max and the rest of the team.
“We are charging as well!” Dostoevsky said through the comm.
“Wait one bloody minute!” erupted Clarke.
Plasma fire whizzed past Scott’s shoulder. He could feel its heat as it brushed him. But the assault of projectile was too much. The Bakma withdrew their fire and retreated for the hatch, dropping to assault rifle fire along the way. By Scott’s count, only two made it inside.
The only thing left was to storm them. Storm the ship. Bring them to their knees in their moment of panic. Now Scott could sense Galina’s absence behind him. She’d fallen back. But the Nightmen in front of him were still moving in.
They charged up the point of the Coneship, where Scott joined them in mid-effort. Dostoevsky flung the hatch open. Scott leapt inside.
Three Bakma pushed back to the wall. They were the only three Bakma that remained. As soon as Scott was inside, and two of the slayers had joined him, the three aliens threw down their guns.
“Grrashna—”
Scott raised his rifle and fired. The slayers behind him did the same. The Bakma collapsed to the floor.
Far down the cockeyed hallway, an Ithini rounded the corner into view. Before it could open its mouth, Scott peppered its body with metal. The wide-eyed alien dropped hard.
The Nightmen took the initiative immediately. They spread out down the central corridor of the ship, flashing their guns around every corner. The sweep didn’t take long.
“Ship clear,” said the slayer named Auric.
Dostoevsky met Scott with a nod. The mission was finished—as quickly and efficiently as Scott wanted it to be. It was a success.
“Travis! Veck, Travis!”
The panicked voice came over the comm channel. At first Scott didn’t recognize it, but when it emerged again, it became clear. It was Max.
“Man down! Man down! Travis, we need Varya here now!”
Scott swapped an odd look with Dostoevsky. Why were they calling Varvara? Wasn’t Galina right there?
It hit Scott in that very instant. But Dostoevsky stated it first.
“…Galina…”
Without a second’s pause, the two men dashed from the ship.
As soon as he saw her, Scott’s heart stopped. Galina was lying face up in Oleg’s arms, while Max was in a panic above her. There was a burn mark straight through her breastplate. Her chest was torn open.
Scott was wrong. She hadn’t fallen back with the others. She’d been shot.
“It is so cold,” Galina babbled incoherently in Russian.
No…Scott’s mind raced. Oh no…
Her chest was charred chaos. He could make out the organs beneath.
David’s eyes bulged red with anger. As soon as he saw Scott, he attacked.
“You trashing dregg hopper!” He smashed his hands to Scott’s chest. Scott toppled back to the ground.
Dostoevsky jumped in to defend. “Stop!” he said, grabbing David. “Stop it, now!”
“Why couldn’t you do what you were told?” David spewed. “Is this what you wanted?”
“Jurgen!” Dostoevsky protested.
“Varvara,” Clarke said, trying to be calm, “Galina has a six-inch sear in her upper left chest. Her lungs are completely exposed.”
“I am fine,” Galina mumbled. “Where are my papers?”
“Galina, be still!” the captain said.
Scott pushed himself up as Galina struggled against Clarke. “She’s going to be all right,” Scott said. It was more out of hope than assurance. “She’s going to—”
“Shut up, Remington!” Clarke cut him off.
“I need my papers,” said Galina again.
Above them, the Pariah made its descent.
“We will stay,” said Dostoevsky. “We will remain with the Coneship. Bring Galina back to Novosibirsk now.”
“I’ll go back with her,” said Scott.
Clarke shot him a look. “You will remain here, lieutenant. You didn’t care about Galya then, I won’t let you care about her now.”
Scott could feel it welling up in his stomach. He could feel himself starting to burst.
“Remmy,” Becan said, pulling Scott away, “she’s goin’ to be okay. I know yeh know this. Please, let them work.”
Scott couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was talking but her words made no sense.
“It’s all righ’,” said Becan. “It’s not your fault.”
As the Pariah lowered to the ground, Varvara stood at the bay door’s edge. “Don’t move her! Let me see.” As soon as the Vulture was perched, she hurried out with a military stretcher. When she saw the gaping wound, her eyes grew panicked.
“Varya, it is good you are here,” Galina said. “I need you to go get my papers.”
Varvara ignored her and dashed to the ground. She quickly pressed dressing on the wound. “I need help moving her inside, now!”
Scott stood. “I’ll get her.”
“We will get her,” said Clarke. He pointed out David and Boris. “The three of us will lift her on three. One. Two. Three.” The three men hoisted her up as Scott watched. They moved her on top of the stretcher, where Varvara inspected the wound. The young medic began speaking rapidly in Russian.
“She says she must go back immediately,” Dostoevsky translated. “This is beyond what she can do.”
“Everything’s beyond what she can do,” muttered Clarke.
“She is in critical condition, captain. She may not survive the flight.”
“I need two people with me,” ordered Varvara.
“I’m going,” said David.
Varvara looked at Boris. “You come, too!” The two men lifted the stretcher.
“Max and I will come along as well,” said Clarke.
Dostoevsky shook his head. “She does not need that many, captain.”
“We’re not going for her sake.” Clarke set his glare against Scott. “We’re leaving for his.”
Dostoevsky said nothing and looked away. Clarke and Max boarded the ship. Within moments, it was off of the ground.
Scott fought to justify his emotions. Yet it wasn’t his fault. It couldn’t be. The charge was clearly what they’d needed to do. It was Clarke who had erred with his moment of hesitation.
“Hey man,” Jayden said, “you all right?”
Scott had no helmet to slam. He tore out his earpiece and threw it to the ground.
“She’s gonna be fine, man. You wanna pray?”
“I don’t need to pray!” He didn’t want to pray. He didn’t want to think that Galina wouldn’t make it. She had to make it. He was the Golden Lion, and she was his friend—his shadow. Scott had made it out. So would she.
In that instant, he hated the Nightmen more, despite the fact that they’d joined him in the charge. It was because of them that this was all happening. It was because of them that he’d lost Nicole. And now this.
“I’m going to kill him.”
Becan shuddered. “Remmy? Who yeh talkin’ abou’?”
“I’m going to kill him, Becan. The one who did this.”
“Wait? Wha’? Yeh talkin’ abou’ the Bakma? They’re all dead.”
Scott twisted his gaze into a glare. “I’m talking about him. The slayer.”
Immediately, Becan and Jayden swapped a look.
“This is not me. This is him.”
“Remmy, yeh need to be calm…”
Scott turned around to face the Nightmen. “I know one of you knows him.” Scott wasn’t even on the battlefield anymore. In his mind, he was holding Nicole’s corpse.
Dostoevsky eyed him.
“I know that one of you knows him!”
“Who?”
“You know who!”
Becan interjected. “He’s talkin’ abou’ the murderer, yeh dregg!”
“Tell me if you know him!” Scott said again.
“Remington,” said Dostoevsky, “you do not know what you are talk—”
“If you know his name, tell me, Yuri!”
Dostoevsky said nothing—his jaw had dropped. He only stared oddly at Scott, while the slayers around him stood still. For a moment, his countenance changed.
Scott took note of it instantly. “You know him,” he said accusatorily.
“Remington, you would be wise to watch how you speak—”
Scott stormed toward Dostoevsky and shoved him in the chest. The fulcrum commander stumbled back. “You know him,” Scott said. “I saw it in your face.”
The slayers behind Dostoevsky stepped forward.
“Remmy, not here!” pled Becan.
“He knows, Becan,” Scott pointed. “Look at him. I know that he knows him.”
Oleg positioned himself between them. “Please, everyone, we need to not do this. This will only be bad.” He glanced to Dostoevsky, who said nothing.
“You know the man who murdered her,” Scott seethed. “Tell me who it is.”
“Lieutenant Remington,” said Dostoevsky, but Scott cut him off.
“Tell me who it is!”
“Enough!” shouted Oleg. “No one else speaks! That is enough.” He motioned to Becan and Jayden. “You two, take the lieutenant over there. The rest of you, go to the Coneship. No one else speaks.”
As the chain of command disintegrated, Dostoevsky stepped aside. The slayers followed him back to the wreckage.
“He knows, Becan,” Scott said lowly. “He knows.”
“I know. I know, Remmy.”
“I’ll kill him if he doesn’t tell me.”
“Just be calm.”
The Pariah did not make its expected return. A different Vulture, one from an entirely different unit, arrived instead. A sweeper team was dropped at the wreckage, while the Fourteenth was taken back home.
Not once did Scott or Dostoevsky speak to each other. The men sat on opposite ends of the troop bay with their respective teammates blocking the space between them. Only when the silence became unbearable did Scott move to seat himself next to the pilot in the cockpit. It was the only other room in the ship.
No one met them when they arrived back at Novosibirsk. No one was expected to. Scott, Becan, Jayden, and Oleg left the hangar together, where they sought out an update for Galina. The only words that stood out were ‘irreversible shock.’ She’d been moved to emergency surgery; they were told nothing else.
Scott had no urge to see his teammates. Room 14 was a distant thought. He retired to the quiet of his personal quarters, where he remained for the rest of the day. Not once did anyone visit him, and not once was he tempted to leave. Galina’s cot remained empty in the corner, but today she’d be staying somewhere else. All because of him. Not because of Scott. All because of him.
When Scott would find him, it would all come to end.
17
Wednesday, August 10, 0011 NE
EDEN Command
Archer stood before the Council, a collection of formalized papers in his hand. He looked satisfied. “My friends, I’ve got a solution to our Novosibirsk problem.”
As Archer passed the stack of papers to the judge at his right, Torokin and Grinkov watched from the opposite end.
“The paper I am distributing to you now is one that I’m sure you’re familiar with. It is our current protocol for missi
on response—Article 115A in the EDEN policy manual.” As the papers were passed around the table, the judges scanned over their copies. “What I am proposing is not a new policy. It is merely an alteration, an amendment. We put much trust in our generals to respond to hostile incursions, and that won’t change. In fact, there’s nothing being added or subtracted from these procedures. It’s simply being reordered.”
Grinkov leaned in close to Torokin and gave him a wry look. “At least he speaks eloquently.”
Torokin ignored the comment and listened.
“Currently, Article 115A states that when an EDEN facility responds to a situation, Command are to be notified. We’re going to reverse that. In my revision—115A-2—Command are to be notified prior to any EDEN responses. Our job will simply be to confirm the responses requested by our generals—to give them our blessing.”
Several of the judges raised their eyebrows.
“What this will do, quite innocently, is give us the final word on who responds to what assignment. All we do is say yes. This won’t slow down EDEN’s response time in the slightest…because the only base we’ll be paying attention to is Novosibirsk.
“As soon as Novosibirsk Command contact us, we’ll be able to pull up a description of the units they intend to deploy. We can immediately determine if the assignment is intended to weed us out. If it is…we simply say, ‘negative, Novosibirsk, send this other unit instead.’ We may insert whatever unit we wish, Nightman or not. We can combat their insolence with bureaucracy.” He smiled smugly.
President Pauling stared down at the paper. Archer went on.
“This reordered policy will ensure that EDEN and the Nightmen are being dispatched to equal assignments. We eliminate Thoor’s say-so on who lives and dies.”
Grinkov spoke up immediately. “If you are correct about General Thoor, he will never abide by this regulation.”
Archer smiled. “Precisely.”
Grinkov looked skeptical.
“That’s the revision’s purpose,” said Archer. “Thoor has no reason to challenge this amendment. The amendment is meaningless. That is…unless he has an ulterior motive. General Thoor is the only person this change will affect. If he challenges it, then we know there’s a good chance my hypothesis was correct—Novosibirsk has been weeding us out for years.”
