by Lee Stephen
For a moment, Nijinsky couldn’t offer an answer. When he finally did, it was only half of one. “No, general, I am not afraid, but…”
Thoor responded when Nijinsky trailed off. “You do not sound like a man unafraid.”
“General…this is not an ordinary soldier. This is the American from Richmond. This is the one they say leads like a champion.”
“I know who Scott Remington is.” Thoor’s voice firmed with his words. “This American champion concerns you?”
“General,” Nijinsky sighed, “I did not know. I did not know this was the one whose woman I was to kill.”
“If you had…would you have still killed her?”
Nijinsky hesitated. Several awkward seconds passed before he finally gave his answer. “Yes, general. I would have still killed her. I do not regret what I have done, I only…”
“What is it that you want, slayer?” Thoor asked impatiently.
This time there was no hesitation. “Can he be moved? To another place, another facility? Or can they watch him? The eidola?”
The space around them was consumed in utter silence. For a moment, even the barking of the drillmaster seemed to fade away into nothingness. When Thoor finally spoke, his voice was decidedly clear. “You want protection.”
Nijinsky opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out.
“Fear is not a luxury that you may be accorded.”
“But why did you choose her?” Nijinsky blurted. As soon as he said it, he bit his own lips.
The atmosphere cooled. “It is as I have told you,” Thoor said. “You were given an invaluable task. Her loss was necessary.”
“But what if Remington finds out?”
“For your sake, pray that he does not.”
During the whole of their conversation, not once had Thoor’s eyes turned to meet him. His gaze remained icy, locked on the exercises and the fulcrum elites who performed them. He appeared almost statuesque.
“Yes, general,” Nijinsky finally answered. “I will not let this concern me.” His voice vibrated as he spoke the words.
“Leave, slayer. If you approach me again with such insignificant concerns, the wrath of the Golden Lion will be the least of your fears.”
“Yes, general.” Nijinsky snapped off a salute.
It wasn’t returned.
As he retreated from the general’s presence, Nijinsky once again felt his palms become sweaty. His mind was almost paralyzed with paranoia. Nonetheless, he reentered the complexity of Novosibirsk‘s main grounds and made his way back to Room 3.
As had been the case since his transformation, Nijinsky was not approached by anyone in his unit—not even the unit’s Nightmen. There was little that scared him. He had always been that way, and that was why he had become a Nightman. He was not afraid of murder. He was not afraid of darkness. But now, for the first time in as long as he could recall, there was someone that he feared. It was someone more violent than he. It was someone whose bloodlust burned fierce. Fierce as a lion.
Fierce as the lion he’d struck.
19
Thursday, August 11, 0011 NE
1755 hours
That evening
Scott had been out of his room for several hours. They were hours spent wandering at loss. First he’d walked to the hangar. Then he’d gone to the infirmary. Then he’d paced the halls. He walked to run away—to cry alone.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, and he didn’t care. There were too many thoughts in his head. Some thoughts had been there all day—those of Galina and Nicole. But other thoughts had slowly crept in since.
There was Esther. There were her tears as she trembled into David’s arms during Khatanga. There was the flinch in her body as Scott yelled.
There was Clarke. There was the redness that flushed over his face as the soldier he’d stood up for challenged him.
There was Becan. There was the Irishman’s frightened expression when Scott had slammed his helmet to the ground. It was the first time he’d seen Becan scared in that way.
There was Varvara. There was the look of terrified confusion as the soldier she’d been assigned to protect shoved her aside and abandoned her. He would never forget her fear.
There was Jayden. Travis. Max. Boris. Oleg. There was a heart-twisting memory for them all.
And then there was David, and the words of finality Scott heard him say as David turned to leave him behind: I don’t care.
Scott knew he had no reason to live. What he’d loved the most had been cruelly ripped from him, and he’d thrown out hurt in return. The thought of suicide lingered in the back of his mind as it had since the day Nicole was killed. It was surpassed only by revenge.
Until now.
It was during that walk, during those passing hours of solitude, that he realized his wrath had already been fully spent. It had poured out on innocent people—on his friends. So now, what was left? He’d failed his friends. He’d failed himself. And he’d failed God.
He was ready to die.
When he made his way back to Room 14, he was completely prepared to take his own life. He had a blade. He had a rope. He had a gun. He could leave in whatever way he chose.
I don’t care.
He heard those three words repeated again as he opened the door to the officers’ wing. The words that gave him permission to go.
I don’t care.
Even as he walked through the halls, he had to fight back the urge to break down. Every significant memory of his life washed through his thoughts. His first start behind center at Michigan. The first time that he’d kissed Nicole. The day he decided to join EDEN—the same day he left everything behind. All to bring his hopes to an end.
All to fail.
He saw the crack in his door from down the hall. He knew who it was without thinking. It would be Varvara. It had been Galina’s job to stay with him, and now Galina was dead. Varvara was dutiful enough to take over the role. Even through the fear he’d instilled in her, she would do her job. She’d be there when he didn’t deserve to have her. It was her job.
He didn’t know what he would say to Varvara when they’d meet face to face. He wasn’t sure how she’d react. He wasn’t sure how he’d get her to leave the room long enough for him to kill himself. In the past, he’d have prayed for the right words to say. But this was a prayer God wouldn’t answer.
Sliding his palm against the frame of the door, he gave it a half-hearted push. The door slowly eased open, and he stepped inside.
The lamp on his desk was the only light on. Its yellowish-orange hue illuminated the room, just enough to reveal the other person within. It wasn’t Varvara at all. It was the last person he would ever have expected.
It was Dostoevsky.
As soon as Dostoevsky saw him, he rose from his seat in the room. His eyes were surprisingly glossed. “Lieutenant,” he said in barely a whisper.
Scott stepped inside, closing the door behind him. Even without getting close, he could smell alcohol on the fulcrum commander’s breath. Dostoevsky was drunk. “Why are you here?”
The Nightman tried to smile but failed. After a moment of awkward hesitation, he drew a breath. “You were gone for a long time. I was not sure you would return.”
Scott realized his first guess was wrong. Dostoevsky wasn’t drunk. But he had been drinking. “Why are you here?” Scott repeated.
Dostoevsky’s gaze fell to the floor. For a second time, silence surrounded them. When the commander finally spoke again, his voice was even lower. “I have never had someone to love. I do not know what it is like. I do not know how it feels to lose a loved one.”
To those words, Scott could give him a reply. Without thought. “It’s like living in hell.”
The commander fell quiet once again.
Why was Dostoevsky even there? Scott knew there must have been some important cause. It was the first time the fulcrum had ever shown up at his door—or let himself in, for that matter. And now, the
y were together in silence. Why?
“I know there is nothing I can say to fix what has already been done,” Dostoevsky said. “But for what it is worth to you…she did not deserve to die.”
Scott could feel his face as it turned red. He could feel the heat through his skin. She was an angel. She was his angel. She had come there to demonstrate her love for him. For Dostoevsky now to say she hadn’t deserved to die…it was too much.
Dostoevsky looked down at his hand. Inside it, between two fingers, he held a single slip of paper. Walking closer to Scott, he extended it out. “Open your hand.”
Scott tilted his head with suspicion.
“Please do it.”
Open his hand for what? For a slip of paper? For an offer of repentance? What repentance could Dostoevsky possibly give? Scott stood silent and still as his gaze locked straight on the Russian’s. But for the first time ever, Dostoevsky couldn’t look him in the eye. The Nightman’s eyes were cast to the floor—just like they’d been for Nicole.
Scott found himself extending his hand.
Dostoevsky placed the paper in Scott’s palm, then curled Scott’s fingers around it. The whole while, he looked away. Then he spoke. “I am giving you the one thing you want. I am giving you what you still have to live for.”
The hair on Scott’s arms began to tingle.
“Do what you feel that you must,” Dostoevsky said. “Do what you know you can live with. You will take it with you for the rest of your life.”
A chill worked itself down Scott’s spine. Without even having to look down, he knew what was written on the paper. He knew.
Dostoevsky removed his fingers from Scott’s fist and turned to walk to the door. As Scott stood motionless behind him, hand outstretched to no one, grasping the slip of paper that Dostoevsky had placed there, the Nightman commander stopped. “I am sorry that you lost your love.” He stood still for a moment, then quietly shut the door to Scott’s room. He disappeared into the halls.
Scott was alone—alone with the slip of paper in his hand. He was alone with the thing that he knew. Tears had already begun to rim under his lids, and now the first traces of moisture trickled down. His heart began to throb, and he felt his entire body shake.
He knew. He knew what was there. He knew what he held in his hand. It was the only thing he’d wanted, after the only other thing he’d wanted had died.
For the first time since Nicole’s death, a familiar voice stirred in Scott’s heart. It was a voice that couldn’t be audibly heard. But it was not his.
Your wrath has been poured out enough.
His fist was still closed. The slip of paper was yet to be seen. If he burned it or ripped it to shreds, he’d never know. He’d never have to fight back the urge. He could kill himself and end it all there.
Your wrath has been poured out enough.
As the sobs began to choke forth, he dropped down to his knees and cried out. “Why now? Why are You doing this now? Why even give me the chance?”
As he pressed his fists to his face, he buckled over on the floor. He knew it was his choice. Only he could choose to open his hand.
Only he.
He remembered Nicole’s face in the casket. He remembered the words she’d spoken. God is putting you in the places you need to be. She’d believed in him. She’d held his hand from the other side of the world. She’d loved him.
Then she was murdered.
He knew, right at that moment, what choice he was going to make. It was the only choice he could possibly make.
“I’m sorry,” he said through his tears. “I can’t take Your way out.” God’s way left too much undeserved. Too much unfinished. Wiping the drops from his eyes, he unclenched his palm. He unfolded the paper and looked.
It was there.
It was right there.
His hand stayed open only a second, then he crushed the slip of paper in his fist. He once again felt his face burn with anger. It was exactly what he had wanted to know. It was exactly what his anger had sought.
It was a name.
* * *
Jayden and Esther sat alongside the wall by Clarke’s office door. Varvara had been summoned there by the captain, in a gesture they unanimously determined must have been for a medical pep talk. With the loss of Galina, Varvara was the last remaining medic. It was a fact she’d acknowledged with silence.
“What do you think he’s telling her?” Esther asked quietly.
Several seconds of silence passed before Jayden helplessly replied, “I dunno.”
“Do you think they’ll send us another medic?”
“I dunno.”
“Most units have only one medic…right?”
Jayden pulled down his cowboy hat and slouched back. “I dunno.”
Esther watched Jayden for several seconds before her shoulders too began to sag. “I’m sure that whatever happens, she’ll be able to handle it.”
The Texan was motionless behind the veil of his hat, his arms lying dead at his sides.
The door to Clarke’s room unlatched and opened. Jayden and Esther hopped to their feet. Varvara stepped out.
Varvara had looked worn out all day, like a woman in desperate need of a warm shower and a bed. Both luxuries had escaped her since she’d returned from the mission. It showed in the dark rings beneath her eyes and her grimy, lackluster hair. Without makeup, she looked downright ragged.
As soon as the door closed behind her, Jayden spoke. “What’d he say?”
She ran her hand through her hair, where it lingered to support the back of her head. She stepped away from the door. “He told me what I expected to hear.” Her voice rang of pathos. She began to walk down the hall. “He will keep me at gamma private for now, to see how I do. If it is too much, he will somehow get help.”
“You’re gonna have to do it all by yourself for now?”
She was too tired to cry. “There is no choice. There is no one else to bring in.”
“That’s bunk. He actually thinks you can take care of the whole unit by yourself?”
Varvara closed her eyes and lowered her head as they walked behind her. “Jayden, I do what I have to do. There is nothing I can say, all right? Please don’t ask me all of this right now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t wanna think, I don’t wanna…” she paused as she got lost in her words. “I don’t wanna do anything.”
As Jayden stepped beside Varvara, Esther followed from behind. “Did he say anything about Lieutenant Remington?”
“Of course,” Varvara answered. “He is to stay in his room until the captain comes up with punishment. Maybe demotion.”
“What?” Jayden asked. “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.”
“What did you think he would say?” she asked angrily. “That the lieutenant gets promotion? He disobeyed the captain’s orders, Jay. That is all that matters.”
“Yeah, but—”
“But what? Galya is dead. What am I supposed to say to him? To give Scott another chance? I can’t do that, even if I think he deserves it.” She hesitated as she continued to walk. “I don’t even know if he does.” As they neared a corner, Jayden reached out his hand to take hers. She allowed it to fall limply into his grip. Then she stopped, turned to him, and gently fell into his chest. “I only wanna sleep,” she said, closing her eyes. “And wash my hair. Either one would be good enough.”
Esther watched them. “Why don’t you do both, then? The other way around, of course.”
Varvara opened her eyes and looked at Esther. She offered the young scout a small smile. “First, I gotta eat. It feels as though I have not eaten some real food in a long time.”
“I haven’t eaten some real food in four months,” muttered Jayden.
As the threesome approached a corner, a solitary operative popped out from around it. They stepped sideways as the stranger unapologetically shoved past them and raced down the hall.
“You could’ve said ‘excuse me,’ jerk,”
the Texan said. The stranger ignored him.
Esther pointed. “That’s one of the Nightmen who was with us at Lake Baikal.”
“You mean from the Tenth?”
“Yes, I recognize him. I don’t remember his name, though. “
They all watched as the Nightman bolted to the door of Room 10, shoving it open wildly.
“He told him!” Romanov said frantically in Russian from the open doorway.
Inside the room, Viktor Ryvkin turned to face him. “Who told who?”
“He told Remington!” Romanov hurried inside and closed the door.
As soon as Remington’s name was spoken, Varvara, Jayden, and Esther collectively froze. They exchanged shocked, disbelieving looks, then dashed toward the door. “What’d he just say?” Jayden asked as he looked at Varvara.
“He said that ‘he told Remington.’ Someone told Remington.”
“Told him what?”
“I don’t know.”
They crept beside the doorway and listened.
Ryvkin placed his book down and approached Romanov. “Calm yourself, Nicolai. Who told Remington what?”
“It was Dostoevsky,” Romanov said. “He told me this morning that he would tell Remington who it was. I thought he must be joking. But I just discovered that he told him!”
“You are not making sense,” Ryvkin said. “What did Dostoevsky tell Remington?”
“He told him who killed his fiancee!”
Varvara stifled a gasp outside the closed door. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth.
“What is it?” Jayden whispered. “What’d he say?”
“Dostoevsky told Scott who killed his fiancee!”
Jayden and Esther spoke at the same time. “What?”
Varvara hushed them. “Quiet! Lemme listen!”
“I don’t understand,” Ryvkin said. “Why would Yuri do this?”
“I was with him when he was drinking,” answered Romanov. “He said he was damned for the things he has done. I have never heard him speak like that before. I thought that he had too much vodka, and that he would be better tonight. But I just spoke to one of the general’s fulcrums. He said Yuri walked into Remington’s room to tell him!”
