by Lee Stephen
“I’ll second that,” said Judge Blake. “This was magnificent.”
“We’ve talked about Novosibirsk a thousand times,” added Carol June. “This is the first proposition that bears any semblance to a coherent plan. It’s almost embarrassing.”
Archer returned the smiles with one in kind. “Thank you all so very much. I can’t tell you what a pleasure it’s been to contribute.”
“Let’s waste no time, then,” said Pauling. “Let’s dismiss and get prepared for our roles. Those without individual roles for this operation, your opinions are equally as valid. Feel free to keep abreast with everything going on.”
“Yes, please,” said Archer. “No one should be in the dark with this.”
“You’re dismissed.”
As the judges rose again, Grinkov beamed at Torokin. “I am proud of you, Leonid. You did something new.”
“What new thing did I do?”
“You admitted that you were wrong.”
Torokin scoffed. “When?”
“You voted for the proposition. That is admitting, is it not?”
“No, it is not.”
Grinkov looked past Torokin for a moment, then said, “Well, here comes your opportunity to do so.”
Torokin glanced back, where Archer was fast approaching. The new judge grinned from ear to ear. Torokin muttered under his breath.
“I appreciate your vote of confidence tremendously, Judge Torokin,” Archer said, as he extended his hand for the ex-Vector to take. Torokin tentatively met it. “I trust you thought the proposal was satisfactory?”
“I voted for it,” Torokin answered. “That is enough.”
“I’m so pleased that you did.”
Grinkov cleared his throat. Far behind him, but within earshot, Judge Lena watched with satisfaction.
Torokin grumbled and looked at Archer, but his eye contact lasted only seconds. “You did very good. Very good.” He pulled his hand back to his side, and he looked away. “I was wrong about you.”
“There’s no need to say that,” answered Archer. “You had your reservations, as you should’ve. And I must confess, I’ve been bold in the short time I’ve been here. But I truly believe in our cause. I want nothing more than to contribute.”
“Well, you contributed. That is good.”
Archer smiled. “Thank you so much, once again.” He offered the two Russians a final nod, then stepped back to leave. “I look forward to working with you more!” Acknowledgments were exchanged, then Archer was gone.
Lena approached them a moment later. He slapped Torokin on the back. “Did I hear what I thought I heard?”
“You heard,” Torokin mumbled as he gathered his things.
“Good job, friend!” Lena said. “That was your first step toward recovery!”
“And what am I recovering from?”
“Being a curmudgeon.”
Grinkov laughed out loud.
“What does curmudgeon mean again?” Torokin asked as he turned to walk away. “That means perfect, correct? That means excellent person?”
“Right, that’s what it means,” answered Lena sarcastically.
“Enough from you both. It is time for vodka and preferans.”
“That sounds very good,” said Grinkov. “Very, very good.” With those words, the three men took their leave of the room.
Everyone but Torokin smiled.
Further up the hall, out of range of the others, Judges Blake and Rath walked in stride. Their steps were purposefully timed. Neither man spoke to the other, and only when all the other judges—all the other judges but one—had branched off from the main corridor, did they slow.
As Benjamin Archer neared them from behind, Blake and Rath parted for him to pass through. Soon Archer walked in their midst.
His footsteps were firm. His countenance and will were unsubmissive. When he spoke, it was not the tone he’d used minutes before. It was as though he’d become someone else.
“We shall take what they give us, until the time is right,” Archer said. Blake and Rath followed silently. “Then, we shall take what we need.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
Archer lowered his chin. “Go away.” His amber stare left no room for question. The two other men nodded and changed their directions. They struck a new path down the side halls.
The man they left behind walked with conviction. He walked like he had somewhere to go. But he no longer walked like a prince.
He was the king.
* * *
Friday, August 12, 0011NE
1353 hours
Novosibirsk, Russia
Dostoevsky stopped in front of the wooden doors that led to the Inner Sanctum. Behind him, the flickers of dungeon torches—the lights of the Hall of the Fulcrums—whispered into the silence of the musty air. The sentries beside the door turned to face him.
“Let me enter,” Dostoevsky said.
There was no argument from the sentries. For a fulcrum elite, disobedience was out of the question. The wooden doors creaked open, and Dostoevsky stepped inside.
The Terror sat upon his throne in the center of the room. His dark cloak ran over the back of his chair, shrouding the arms of the throne like a veil. As soon as the doors closed behind Dostoevsky, Thoor lifted his gaze to meet him.
As soon as Dostoevsky was in front of the throne, he stood at a lethargic attention. “It is done.”
For several seconds, no answer came from the throne. There was only the remorseless stare of the general—the one who ruled The Machine. Finally, he spoke. “Then it is as I have desired.”
Dostoevsky made no response. But he did turn his head to the shadows. There was a third man there. Someone in addition to Thoor. But he was concealed in the darkness.
“What is the condition of the Fourteenth?” the general asked.
Dostoevsky sighed a heavy breath. “I was unaware of our new additions, general, but they will coalesce. Captain Clarke will not resist. He never has.”
“The rest of the unit will cooperate?”
“They have no choice.”
A moment of silence passed and Thoor lowered the tilt of his head. His eyes bore down the steps of the throne to the fulcrum commander before him. “You are distressed.”
For a brief second, Dostoevsky’s gaze flitted to the floor. It lingered on the stone masonry, before he drew in a breath and replied, “A good man died today.”
“Steklov is replaceable,” Thoor scoffed. “Insignificant. That is why he was chosen.”
Dostoevsky’s eyes remained on the floor, as the flickers of the torches danced off the shadows of the walls. “I was not talking about Steklov.”
Silence fell, to which General Thoor said nothing. Finally—without another word between them—the general stood and stomped a salute.
Dostoevsky returned it, then spun to make his leave. Before he did, however, he paused to cast a glance into the shadows—to the silhouetted man in the darkness. His gaze lingered on the shrouded observer, the man who was hidden from view. But Dostoevsky knew him. He knew him too well. His glare lingered, and he turned to depart.
The commander did not speak to the sentries as he stepped past the doors through the archway. He did not speak to his fellow Nightmen as they passed him in Hall of the Fulcrums. The commander did not speak to anyone.
Back in the inner Sanctum, the shrouded man stepped from the shadows. With familiar eyes, he watched Dostoevsky disappear. Then he turned to the throne.
“Your thoughts,” the Terror demanded.
Oleg Strakhov drew a measured breath. “This has been a strain on the Fourteenth, general. There is great animosity against Dostoevsky, as you expected. Nonetheless, all has worked according to your will.”
The general’s tone fell darker. “If Dostoevsky falls, so be it. He has a successor now.”
“They know Nijinsky.”
Thoor was silent for a moment before he responded. “Nijinsky is of little importa
nce. He was never the one that we wanted.”
“Yes, general.” Oleg hesitated for a moment more, then stared at the throne. “They also fear that Remington will take his own life.”
Thoor rose and marched to the floor. “He will not take his own life, for the same reason you will not take yours. You know where you will go when you die.” Oleg made no response, as Thoor stood imposingly before him. “You will remain with the Fourteenth as I see necessary. If Dostoevsky shows weakness, destroy him. If Remington shows weakness…make him strong.”
“Yes, general.”
“Leave me, eidolon.”
Oleg raised his hand in salute, and the general promptly returned it. Turning to the door—still donned in his standard EDEN clothing—he strode out of the room.
Thoor returned to his throne, where he lowered into the confines of its grasp. High above the Inner Sanctum, with only the flickers of torchlight to appease him, he returned to take the reigns of the darkness. The monster.
The Machine.
* * *
Scott’s room was shrouded in blackness. Galina’s cot still sat in the corner, but she was not in it. Galina was dead. Her sendoff had taken place earlier that morning, but Scott hadn’t attended. He hadn’t known how. He wouldn’t have known what to say had someone asked him to speak—if anyone would have spoken to him at all. Only one thought reverberated through his mind.
What have I done?
He hated himself. More than anyone else. More than Nicole’s unknown killer. He hated himself for becoming one with what ended her life. Her death hadn’t justified his lust for revenge. What he’d done had been purely selfish. It was pathetic. In his vain mind, the death of her killer would have been payment for the life that was taken. Instead, he’d taken a life of his own. One as innocent as she was.
To honor her, the most courageous thing he could have done would have been to show mercy. She would have shown mercy had the situation been reversed. She would have struggled to do it, but she would have done it. She would have done it to honor him. She would have done it to honor God.
Scott had been angry with God since the day she’d been murdered. But now, Scott feared Him. He feared disconnection. He feared damnation. He feared the very thing that he now heard.
Silence.
Dostoevsky had said Scott was his brother. Though Scott could scarcely bear it, it was true. He wanted nothing more than to resist himself, to throw the horns of his armor aside. But it wouldn’t be the truth. He could no longer hold the Nightmen in judgment. Even though it had been the wrong person, Scott meant to take the life that he took. Just as they meant to take theirs. The Nightmen were sinners like him. They were sinners who’d stepped too far.
Sinners just like him.
No one visited Scott that day. No one knocked on his door. In the wake of his most horrible achievement, the only pity he endured was his own.
* * *
That evening
The lounge was unified in solemnness; death hung heavily in the air. The able operatives of the Fourteenth were there, but words were few and far between. Such had been the case since Galina’s memorial.
There were no tears shed at the sendoff. They had no tears left. There was only the quiet disbelief that came with the greatest fall the Fourteenth had ever seen.
Every table in the room was occupied. At one sat David, Becan, and Jayden. Varvara sat alone at the farthest, preoccupied with a pen and some paper. The sound of her confidential scribbling was the loudest sound in the room. Esther sat opposite Boris, though she might as well not have been there. Travis was absent; he was flying Galina’s body home.
The door to the bunk room opened, and Max’s familiar form wandered in. He stood in the doorway of the lounge moments later, where his numb gaze surveyed the room. He slid his hands into his pockets and stepped inside, leaning against the counter.
“So what’s the word?” David asked.
The room turned its attention to Max, who shook his head. “Not a thing.”
“What?”
He sighed. “Clarke never said a thing.”
“Not one bloody word?” asked Becan. The Irishman slouched back in his chair. “Why’d he even call yeh?”
“To hand me this,” Max said, pulling a folded paper from his pocket.
“An’ wha’s tha’?”
Max slid the paper away. “Our newest members. Ryvkin, Romanov, Goronok, and Broll.”
“Those are the Nightmen,” said David.
Max nodded. “Those are the Nightmen.”
No one else spoke and the room’s atmosphere became ever graver. The only constant was the sound of Varvara’s pen as it scribbled on the paper beneath her hand.
It was Esther who finally broke the silence. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she pressed her palm to her forehead. “This was all me,” she whispered. “This would never have happened if I weren’t here.”
Max snorted under his breath as he observed her. “What are you talking about?”
“If I hadn’t messed up in Khatanga, he wouldn’t have been so upset.”
“Get real,” scoffed Max. “You think you’re that important? You’re nothin’.” She winced as he spoke. “He did what he did ‘cause they killed his girl. End of story. I would’ve done it, too.”
Esther made no verbal response. Her gaze traveled only as far as the tabletop, then disconnected. The others looked at Max in disbelief.
“What?”
“Ever try not bein’ a total jerk?” Becan asked.
“What’d I say that ain’t true?”
Becan waved him off in disgust, and Max moved to the counter.
“This is all wrong,” Jayden said. “What happened was wrong.”
“Scott knows it was wrong,” said David. “That’s why he’s not here.”
“I’m not talkin’ about Scott,” said the Texan. “I’m talkin’ about what they did to him. It was wrong.”
“What Scott did was wrong, too.”
“You suck, Dave.” The operatives shot Jayden a look as he said it. “You’re supposed to be his friend, not his enemy.”
“He’s a Nightman, Jay.”
“That’s dung and you know it. They cheated to make him a Nightman.”
“How did they cheat?”
“They lied to him.”
David sighed. “Jay, you’re missing the point—”
The Texan cut him off. “You’re missin’ the point, man. The point is that you’re his friend. You can’t just decide not be his friend when he makes a mistake.”
“Jayden, you’re not even thinking about—”
“Man, shut up.”
Max pressed against the counter and cleared his throat. “I really love all this bonding we’re doing, but we’ve got some things to sort out. What are we gonna do about the Nightmen?”
“Nothing,” answered Varvara from the far table. The others turned to stare at her.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. They are part of this unit now, and that is it. We have had Nightmen before.”
“Yeah,” Max replied, “and look how well that’s worked out for us.”
She glared at him.
“Right, whatever. You’re the doc.” Max watched as she resumed her scribbling. “What’s that you’re writing? A prescription for lunacy?”
Varvara made no immediate response. Her eyes only lingered over the words on the paper, scanning them from top to bottom. Finally, just when it seemed as if Max’s question had gone unheard, she gave him his answer. “It is a letter.”
“It’s a letter? For who?”
Her eyes glided over the letter again. She hesitated in her answer, then quickly tucked the paper away. “For Scott.” She said nothing else, and Max fell silent.
No more words were exchanged in the lounge that evening. No more conversations were started. David called his wife in New York, and Jayden subsequently called his parents. Even Becan made a phone call, though its recipient was a mystery.
&nb
sp; The Fourteenth eventually filed away, one by one, into their bunks. For many of them, it brought finality to one of the longest days they’d ever known. For all of them, it brought finality to one of the worst. That night, for the first time in the Fourteenth’s history, every operative in the bunk room said a prayer.
Even Max.
Saturday, August 13, 0011 NE
0617 hours
Morning
Scott’s eyes opened as the comm went off on his nightstand. It didn’t come as a disturbance; he hadn’t been sleeping for hours. Unlike the last time its wails had echoed through his room, however, there was now no rush to answer. He had no desire to kill something. That hole had already been filled. Reaching over to the nightstand, he clicked the comm alert off. The beeping surrendered to silence.
For the first time in his life, he felt utterly despondent. He made no effort to pray. He could not bring himself to cry. Both would have been futile.
Dostoevsky’s voice crackled over the comm. “Lieutenant…we have crashed Bakma Noboat. Ten miles south of Moscow.” The commander noticeably hesitated. “Will you come?”
Scott lay in stillness in the darkness of his room. It was the first time Dostoevsky had ever asked him that. It was the first time Dostoevsky had sounded uncertain. Scott rolled on his side and wrapped his arms around his pillow. He closed his eyes.
It could have been Nicole, right there tucked away beside him, with his arms wrapped around her body and her face nuzzled into his chest. They could have eloped by then. They could have been one.
He could not help but imagine her there. He imagined his hand gliding gently through her hair, and her murmuring as she snuggled into his side. He imagined himself kissing her on the forehead, as she lazily opened her eyes. Then she’d smile. He imagined her words. He imagined what she would have said, had she been there beside him. He imagined.
“Scott…why did you kill?”
His mind went numb.
“Why?”
That was his truth now. That was the choice he had made. He had disgraced her in death, becoming one with what had taken her. That fall was his own.
