by Lee Stephen
“No,” Max answered. “Not at all. But Scott’s going to get all the blame—and he shouldn’t. It might just have been her time to go.”
“So you don’t think Scott had anything to do with it?”
Max sighed. “You see how everyone in here feels right now? Take that and multiply it by a thousand. That’s how Scott’s felt for a week.”
“An’ now Galina is dead,” said Becan.
“So is Anatoly. So is Ivan. So are Kevin and Kostya. Hell, our new demolitionist got knocked out in his first mission—he’s lucky to still be alive. Does anyone even remember his name?”
“Tha’s not the point.”
“The point is that people are going to die. Are we going to blame Scott for all of them?”
“It ain’t Scott’s fault,” murmured Varvara through her Russian-thick twang. The moment she did, everyone shifted to face her. “It is their fault. They have done to him what hurts him the most. Now he has become someone else.”
“Who has he become?” Becan asked.
Varvara said nothing.
After a moment, Max answered again. “The only thing I can tell you is what I think. That might not be much.” He hesitated before going on. “I think Scott’s losing a fight. It’s the biggest fight he may have ever faced. First, he lost his fiancee. Then, he lost his faith. And now…he’s losing his friends.”
“He hasn’t lost me,” said Jayden.
Travis frowned. “I feel weird talking about Scott right now, man…”
“And normally, we’d be grieving about Galina,” agreed Max. “But we’re not. We’re brooding. We’re divided. You could cut the tension in this unit with a knife. That’s not because Galina’s just died. That’s because some dregg in slayer armor murdered Scott’s girl. That one thing led us to this.”
“I know, but—”
“No ‘buts,’ Travis. If we don’t talk about Scott, if we don’t find some way to get this unit on track, someone else is going to be dead.”
“Didn’t you just say it wasn’t Scott’s fault?” Travis argued.
Max stared at him in silence for several seconds. “Congratulations, nitwit. You’ve managed to miss the whole point.”
“So wha’s the point?” Becan asked.
“The point is, everyone’s emotional now. That’s not good in a war. Do I think Scott killed her? No. But because of his situation, everyone looks at it that way. And that’s causing all these emotions, and that’s what’s going to get someone else killed.” He leaned back in finality. “And that is why we have to talk about Scott, now.” He turned to Travis. “I hope you’re getting all this, because I’m starting to sound like a shrink, and I don’t like it.”
Travis was silent before he answered. “Yeah, I get it.”
Out of the new quiet, Varvara spoke once again. “When I was with him, he said to me how he feels.” The others in the room listened attentively. “He said that we can’t understand how he hurts. And it’s true. Not one of us knows of that pain.” As the rest of the operatives watched her, she distanced her eyes from the room.
After a moment of unfinished silence, Becan tilted his head. “So wha’ does he need to get better?”
She didn’t answer.
As the wall clock ticked on relentlessly, the collective gazes of the operatives lost their focus, until they stared upon nothing at all. When one of them eventually spoke, it was as if for the first time.
“He’s not gonna lose me,” said Max. “I swear that to God.” On the other side of the room, Jayden looked up.
“I bet Remmy never thought you’d say somethin’ like tha’,” Becan said.
“No…I think he did,” Max pondered. “Hate me or not, he never gave up on me. I’m not gonna give up on him.”
The Irishman leaned back in his chair. He stretched out his legs to the floor. “I never planned to to begin with.”
Varvara clung to Jayden more tightly.
Max blew out a slow breath, sliding his hands in his pockets. “All right, then.” Everyone else turned to face him. “Galina was one hell of a girl. Let’s give her one hell of a ride home.”
Travis slowly nodded his head. “I’ll wash down the Pariah. I’ll fly her out myself.”
Max agreed. “That’ll do good, Trav,” he said in conciliation. “That would be meaningful.” Then he stood. “Everyone sleeps now. You know that’s what she’d have said.”
“Yes sir.”
One by one, the operatives rose from their chairs. One by one, they filed out the room. The last one clicked off the light to the lounge, and the room was empty.
Room 14 fell asleep.
* * *
Dostoevsky’s eyes glossed over as he watched his glass fill with vodka. He was in his private quarters, but not alone. Another man sat across his table from him with a long-emptied glass in his hand.
“You drink like a man with regrets, commander,” said Nicolai Romanov. He was one of the Nightman slayers from the mission.
As Dostoevsky’s glass filled to the brim, he tilted the bottle upright. “Should I not have regrets?”
“Of course not,” Romanov answered, grinning in the strange way only he could. “You are perfect, like me.”
Dostoevsky laughed in irony. “If that is what you believe.”
“You do not believe I am perfect?”
“Of course you are,” the fulcrum commander answered sardonically. “And so am I.”
Romanov chuckled and leaned back, twitching in his peculiar manner. He was similar in size to Dostoevsky, despite Dostoevsky’s lesser age. Both men were of equal height and build, if Dostoevsky wasn’t a tad more muscular. Both men had nefariously dark hair. Both men were Nightmen. The difference came in their roles. Dostoevsky was a fulcrum; Romanov was not.
“You have a very interesting group of friends, Yuri.”
“They are not my friends.” Dostoevsky swallowed a drink.
“Am I your friend?”
“If the general says so.”
Romanov laughed. “He does. He says we are very good friends. In fact, he says we are such good friends that we will be together for a very long time.”
Dostoevsky swallowed a sip, then stopped with his glass in midair. He looked hard across the table toward Romanov.
“Then I suppose you have not yet been told. We will be joining your unit.”
“All of you?”
“That is correct. Viktor, Auric, and Egor. And myself. Together we will spill beautiful blood. Does this disappoint you?”
Dostoevsky stared at him for a moment, then resumed his alcoholic indulgence. “No.”
“It is a good thing that Viktor has medical training. It appears that your unit will need it.”
Dostoevsky hurled his glass to the floor. It shattered, with shards scattering in every direction.
Romanov twitched and raised an eyebrow.
“Do not mock the dead, Nicolai. Not with me.”
“The dead concern you? Since when?”
Dostoevsky didn’t answer. Instead, he drank straight from the bottle.
Romanov propped his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Never have I seen you this way. What has happened?”
Once again, Dostoevsky said nothing.
“Are you afraid because of what you have done? Are you afraid that you are damned?”
Yuri chuckled, quietly at first, but louder as the seconds passed. Finally, he took another large swig of vodka. Placing the bottle down, he eyed Romanov. “We are all damned, Nicolai.”
“Then we will all burn in hell together.” Romanov clanged his glass against Dostoevsky’s bottle, then grabbed it to fill the glass up.
“There is a special place in hell saved for me,” Dostoevsky said, as he watched Romanov pour jerkily.
“Why is that?” Romanov asked, downing his drink.
“Because I am evil.”
Romanov laughed and extended his glass for a toast. “In honor of those who are evil.”
Romanov’s
hand was outstretched for a mere second before Dostoevsky’s palm swiped it aside. The glass flew from Romanov’s hand, shattering against the far wall.
“You like breaking glasses today,” Romanov said dryly.
Dostoevsky pushed back his chair and rose somewhat shakily. “This evening, I will give him what he wants to hear.”
“You will give him what he wants to hear? Who?”
“Remington.”
“You will give Remington what he wants to hear?” Romanov stared at him quizzically. “What does he want to hear?”
Dostoevsky walked to his closet. “A name.”
Romanov’s eyes shot wide. “What?”
“I will give him a name.”
“Does the general know you will do this?”
“Leave me, Nicolai.”
“But are you sure—”
“Leave me, slayer!”
The voice made Romanov flinch. He hurriedly rose to his feet. “You know what will happen if you do this. You know what will be done.”
“I know.”
Romanov stepped to the door. He opened it, then turned around a final time. “You know what will happen.”
Dostoevsky eyed him. “Nicolai…I know.”
After a final look inside, Romanov left. The door was shut behind him, and Dostoevsky was once again alone.
He drank until he passed out cold.
* * *
Later that morning
The cafeteria once again bustled with life as the operatives of Novosibirsk took to its nauseous odors like cattle to a freeze-dried trough. At the head of the herd was Alexander Nijinsky.
The uniform he wore was of a dark texture. While its details—pockets, seams, and zippers—were plainly visible, only one characteristic screamed out above the rest: the upside-down crimson triangle patched over his heart. The reward for his loyalty to Thoor.
Slayers were the most common of the Nightmen, and while the horns of the fulcrums stole the spotlight, the slayers were the ones who muscled The Machine. Nijinsky’s unit—the Third—made no mention of the new suit of armor in Nijinsky’s locker. It was a generally accepted fact that when a man became a Nightman, he had ascended beyond other men’s opinions. It was best not to ask questions.
With the rest of the Third dispersed throughout the cafeteria, Nijinsky settled down with his tray near a table at the far end of the room. It was the same table he’d sat at when he first saw the girl—his unbeknownst gateway to knighthood.
Novosibirsk was far from a melting pot. Over eighty percent of the base population consisted of Russians. When a member of another nationality joined its ranks, he or she was usually placed in a unit with others of like kind. Nonetheless, amid the constant chatter of Russian conversationalists around him, the occasional foreign language caught his attention. The culprits today were two men—one large and one not—who sat at the table directly in front of him. He was just far enough away to hear their words, and he was familiar enough with their language to understand them. They were Americans.
“All I know,” said Derrick, “is that Ulrich’s not gonna let this go. He’s already put in three formal complaints to Thoor.”
“Nothing’s gonna come out of it,” William said, shoving a spoonful of porridge into his mouth, then talking through the swallow. “It’s a Nightman unit, man. They had Ivan, and they still got that other guy.”
Derrick gave him a look. “Man, c’mon. The girl commed the wrong unit. There’s no way Thoor’s gonna let that slide.”
“Wrong, wrong, wrong,” William said smugly. “I saw the report. The Fourteenth claimed it was equipment malfunction.”
“Aw man, are you serious?”
“Yep.”
“That’s bunk.”
“What, do you want that poor chick to get in trouble?” William asked.
“Dude…she killed half our unit.”
“Yeah, I know,” William shrugged. “But it wasn’t anyone that we liked.”
Nijinsky knew what they were talking about. Not the details, but he knew of the mission. Khatanga. It had been a Ceratopian assignment. His unit—the Third—almost got called in to clean up the mess that the Eighth and Fourteenth had left behind. But the task went to the First and the Fifth.
He took another bite as he continued to listen.
“She had a rough enough time, man,” said William. “Did you know Scott slapped her?”
“I heard it was more like a smack.”
“Whatever. She’s probably scarred for life.”
“Stupid girl.”
William waved him off. “Oh, leave her alone. She doesn’t need anyone else chastising her. A smack in the face from Scott Remington’s embarrassing enough—the man can’t hit worth a sack of scat.”
“I don’t know about that. You seen him lately?”
“I stopped watching them spar after Ivan died.”
Derrick harrumphed. “Well you ain’t seen nothing, then. Someone taught Scott how to throw down.”
Nijinsky smiled to himself as he listened on. He had heard of Scott Remington. Scott Remington was the Golden Lion; most people in Novosibirsk had heard of him. When someone like that joined a base, usually word got around. In fact, rumor had it that Remington had played a role in the Assault on Novosibirsk. Not a starring role, but a role nonetheless. That alone spoke of something impressive.
William shook his head. “I still can’t believe what happened to him. I just can’t believe it.”
“You talkin’ about his girlfriend?”
“Yeah, Nicole.”
“I know. It don’t seem right.”
“It’s not,” said William. “I’ve barely seen him since she died, but he ain’t the same. It’s not just Khatanga, either. He even looks different.”
“The guy just lost his fiancee. That kind of thing can mess a man up. I’m surprised he even went on that mission at all.”
“I can’t even imagine what he must feel like. Especially since he knows one of them did it.”
“I heard they think it happened while she was here in the cafeteria.”
Nijinsky stopped. His spoon hovered in front of his mouth, but it was frozen in place just centimeters away from his lips. He lowered the spoon, and turned his head the Americans’ way.
“Someone’s gonna die,” said Derrick. “I know I’d kill someone if they murdered my wife.”
“She wasn’t his wife yet.”
“C’mon, you know she was gonna be.”
“Yeah.”
Derrick took a swig of water. “I’d hate to be the lunkard who murdered her. That man has no idea what he got himself into. Scott’s mad like the devil.”
“I hear that.”
“That Nightman’s gonna die.”
Nijinsky dropped his spoon. It clanked against his plate as he flinched down to grab it.
“All right, man,” William said, “this food sucks.”
“Yeah…”
The demolitionist stood with his tray. “One of my friends from Alabama is mailing me some barbeque sauce.”
“Are you serious?”
“Like a heart attack.”
“Oh man!”
As Nijinsky watched the two Americans leave, his fingers trembled on the table. Only seconds after the two men disappeared, he stood up, picked up his tray, and hurried out.
Nijinsky’s palms sweated as he hurried down the Hall of the Fulcrums. He darted between the dim flickers of torchlight as his eyes searched frantically for the wooden doors of the Inner Sanctum. The dank odors of the dungeon headquarters surrounded him. As soon as he found the doors, he offered the sentries beside them a nod and reached out to push them open.
But the sentries didn’t nod back. As soon as Nijinsky reached for the door, they converged to impede his path. Before the new slayer could react, one of the sentries slammed a hand to his chest. Nijinsky was violently bucked away.
He stared in astonishment at the sentries. “You must let me in! I must speak to the general at
once!”
The leftmost guard responded through the mechanical drone of his helmet. “General Thoor is not present.”
“Where can I find him?”
“That is not your concern.”
Nijinsky stood flustered between them. “You do not understand. I must speak to the general immediately. This is not a joke!”
“Your presence has not been requested.”
“I demand to speak with him. I insist! This is an urgent Nightman affair.”
The sentry stared through his zombified eyes. “If that were true, we would already know of it.”
Those were the last words the sentries uttered. Even as Nijinsky stared at them, they stood in unwavering blockage.
Finally, Nijinsky stepped back. “Then I will find him myself.” Turning around, he strode out of the Hall of the Fulcrums, leaving the Citadel of The Machine silent in his wake.
It was an overcast day, and there had been no real dawn. The sky simply grew fainter in brightness, through rows of puffy gray clouds.
Nijinsky hustled down the sidewalks of Novosibirsk, his eyes peeled in search of General Thoor. After a fifteen-minute walk of the grounds, he found the general near the easternmost fields. He was overseeing a series of drills involving a column of fulcrum elites.
Nijinsky wasted no time as he hurried over to meet with the general. Though sentries were present, there were none immediately by Thoor’s side, and Nijinsky was careful to maintain a safe distance. He waited for the Terror to address him. After several moments of indignant silence, Thoor spoke, his autocratic drone heavy and cold. “Why have you come to me, slayer?” He asked the question without turning around.
Nijinsky bowed his head in reverence. “General,” he said anxiously, “the woman that I killed…I believe she belonged to Scott Remington.”
Thoor was silent for a moment before he responded. “Do you take issue with that, Nijinsky?”
A frightened laugh burst from Nijinsky’s lips, then quickly subsided. “But he is the Golden Lion. He will kill me. They say he is angry like the devil.”
“And this frightens you?”
