Epic: Dawn of Destiny

by Lee Stephen

  The doors opened, and Scott heard his name as it was introduced to the media. An officer stood behind the wooden podium that would soon be Scott’s and motioned for the young soldier to come forward. In the back of his mind, Scott felt the pressure build. This was international. This was the world. Only one thought came to mind. Humor. Break the nervousness with humor. If you don’t start with some kind of laugh, you’re going to fall to pieces for all the Earth to see.

  As he took the podium, he shifted his attention to the reporters. He was met with a barrage of plastic smiles. Not a single one of them looked sincere, merely the artificial expressions required of their roles. Beneath the masks were sharks. A room full of sharks, and he was fresh chum. Humor. Break it with humor. Sweat covered his palms. The room fell silent. He edged toward the mic.

  “If this is my day off, I’d hate to see overtime.”

  God. That was bad. He could see Nicole wincing from her couch. He could hear Mark laughing his head off. Nonetheless, a wave of sporadic chuckles flitted across the room. That was all he needed. He felt himself find center.

  “Good morning everyone. For record purposes, my name is Scott James Remington, and I am a gamma private in Charlie Squad of Falcon Platoon.” He paused and inhaled. “I was asked to answer a few questions, so we can go ahead and begin that whenever you’d like.”

  Every hand in the room shot toward the ceiling. Scott picked one in the front row. It belonged to a short, stocky man. “You, sir.”

  The man rose. “Thank you. Grant Boone of the Virginia Reporter. Could you give us a brief summary of the mission, and then how you came to take command of the unit as an alpha private?”

  He had known that would be the first question. “Certainly. Falcon Platoon was called into Chicago at approximately 1:40 a.m. on Wednesday, April the 6. Operatives from Charlie and Delta Squads were selected to partake in a rescue operation for a suppressed unit, in which I was instructed to assume command if our team leader was taken down. Being that Falcon Platoon had been restocked with only alpha privates from the Academy, there were no veteran officers available to assume a backup leadership role. That, to the best of my knowledge, is why I as an alpha private was given secondary command.”

  The reporters in the room scribbled furiously as Scott paused briefly then continued.

  “While en route to the suppression area, our team was ambushed by Bakma forces, and our team leader was incapacitated. As instructed, I assumed command. The threats were neutralized, and we located and secured the suppression zone.

  “From that point, we learned that the original mission of the suppressed team was to capture one of the two Bakma Carriers. We took it upon ourselves to finish that obligation, and myself, along with four others from both my unit and the suppressed unit, set out to do so. Without getting into too many specifics, we were able to infiltrate the transport by use of a van, at which point we fought our way into the engine room and disabled the drive. We locked ourselves in and waited for backup to arrive and get us out.”

  The reporter followed up. “Can you tell us about the van?”

  Scott laughed under his breath. “The van was an ad lib. I realized that the five of us would have never gotten close enough to the transport to make a difference, so we needed a quicker way to get there. We took advantage of a van that we had used for cover earlier, and drove it backward down the street, up the ramp of the transport, and right up to the central corridor, which opens directly into the transport’s troop bay.” Scott observed the reporter for a moment, and then his gaze once again roamed the room. “Some other questions?”

  Hands shot up. Scott locked onto a slender woman in the back and offered her a nod.

  “Michelle Kinler, Direct One,” she said as she rose. “How does it feel to be the youngest soldier to earn a Golden Lion?”

  It was a question he knew was inevitable the moment he found out about the conference. He had rehearsed his answer several times in his head. “It’s an honor. But I realize that without the efforts of the men and women I presided over at the time, the mission would have been a failure. This medal is a testament to their effort and ability.” Before the reporter could offer a follow-up, Scott moved his gaze to another eager-handed reporter. “Go ahead, sir.”

  The gentleman cleared his throat. “Robert Doan, Suburban Times. In what way did you prepare for this mission?”

  Prepare? There was so little time to prepare…it was a mad rush from his room to the hangars and from the hangars to Chicago. “Do you mean Chicago as a whole, or the rescue operation?”

  “Either one.”

  Scott nodded as he gave his answer. “With prayer. In this occupation, you don’t have the luxury of an advanced warning, so for me, personally, I prayed before our transport even landed in Chicago. As a man of faith, I believe in the power of prayer. I’d like to think that the success of our mission had a lot to do with that.”

  It had everything to do with it. He was convinced of that. His attention shifted to another reporter in the middle of the room. The reporter stood as Scott acknowledged him. “Thank you, Jeremy White from the East Coast Chronicle. Following up on your answer concerning faith…at any time did you doubt that the assault on the transport would succeed?”

  “No,” Scott answered. “Not at all. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that we would take the transport. Personal faith aside, I don’t think doubt is something you can allow into your mind in a combat situation. You have to be confident—that’s not a choice.” The reporters scribbled furiously as he continued. “There’s no room for second guessing in battle. Once a decision is made, you have to stay committed to that decision. Once we were given the mission of assaulting the transport, at no time did I think we would fail.”

  After several seconds of quiet, the hands in the room once again reached skyward. “Go ahead,” he said to a younger man on the front row.

  The reporter rose to his feet. “Lee Charrier from the Richmond Journalist. Are you the next Klaus Faerber?”

  Scott gaped. Klaus Faerber? How could he even be compared with Klaus Faerber? Faerber was a living legend. Scott was…well, aside from a single good operation, nobody. What an ignorant thing to ask. “How can you possibly compare me to Captain Faerber, who’s been a part of this organization since day one? Next question.”

  Before another question could be raised, the young reporter spoke again. “But is it safe to say that you’re off to a better start than he is?”

  No. He wasn’t even going to entertain that line of questioning. “Next.” He nodded to another reporter.

  “Hello Mr. Remington,” the man said. “Brandon Cooper from The Metropolitan. There were fifty-five civilian lives lost in Chicago. How would you assess the success of EDEN relative to those lost lives?”

  Scott hesitated. The room grew quiet as he shifted on his feet, cleared his throat, and swallowed. “I realize that as good as our efforts may have been, nothing can replace the loss of civilian life. Or military life. It’s unfortunate that lives were lost, and I wish we could fight under different circumstances.”

  “Is there anything you’d like to say to those families?”

  “Yes, I would. I’m deeply sorry for the loss of their loved ones. All of our thoughts and prayers are with them today.” That was all he could say. This was war, and lives were destined to be lost. All they could do was try their best to curb it. His gaze slid to a woman on the third row. “Go ahead, ma’am.”

  “April Cox, Focus News. Have you ever met Captain Faerber?”

  What was their problem? Did they not understand that he wasn’t going there? “No I have not. Next question.”

  A well-dressed lady in the back of the room stood. “Good morning, Mr. Remington, Jessica Smith of ORS News. After such a successful inaugural mission and after becoming the Golden Lion, would you consider yourself to be one of the rising stars in EDEN?”

  The Golden Lion? Others had earned the award before him. Not many, granted, but still he wasn�
��t alone—the award wasn’t designed for him. He wondered if they even knew what a Golden Lion was. “I don’t think I can speculate on that after one mission. I was fortunate to have a good crew of men and women behind me, so I attribute a lot of credit to them. How much of the mission’s success was a direct reflection on me, I can’t say. I don’t know if anybody can say.”

  “But at no point did you feel overwhelmed or flustered?”

  Scott shook his head. “It’s like I said before, there’s no room for that in this line of work. All that matters is that the job gets done. You’ve got to be able to turn feeling off. But no, to answer your question.”

  Before Scott could offer correction on the Golden Lion, the officer who had initially escorted him into the media room stepped up to the podium. Scott backed away from the mic, while the officer smiled and faced the reporters. “Thank you all for your questions. That’s all for now, the vice-general will be here shortly to give you an update on mainland security.”

  Scott was promptly escorted out of the media room and into the green room, where the double doors once again sealed him away from the spotlight. The chatter of reporters rose as each subsequent station awaited the vice-general. Who was the vice-general? Scott didn’t even know.

  The officer grinned. “You did good, Faerber.”

  Scott laughed. He might as well have been Captain Faerber. That was apparently who the media wanted to talk to. “Thanks, sir. Those weren’t exactly my favorite questions.”

  The officer chuckled. “They’ll pull those on you every now and then. You handled it well. Next time tell them to drag off.”

  “I was thinking about it, sir.”

  “Fine work in Chicago, by the way.”

  Scott nodded as he read the officer’s name badge. Meyer. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Tell Lilan he’s done a great job with Falcon.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Meyer sighed and turned to leave. “You know how to get out of here, right?”

  “Yes sir, same way I came in, I’m guessing.”

  The man mm-hmm-ed. “That’ll do it.” They exchanged salutes, and Meyer disappeared.

  Scott slid his hands into his pockets and stood alone in the green room. The distanced chatter of the reporters still filtered through the double doors. Waiting for their vice-general. Whoever he was. He slid his hand from its pocket and curled his fingers around the Golden Lion. The Golden Lion. The beast’s gaze stared back at him. It was just a piece of fancy metal. That was all. It didn’t have superpowers; it wasn’t worth a fortune. It was just fancy metal. How could just fancy metal create such an ordeal? He honestly didn’t know.

  He made his way to the exit. This morning had already been more than he’d bargained for, and a bed awaited him in 419. This was supposed to be his day off.

  The next few days returned Charlie Squad to the pace of routine. The day of rest was used, appropriately, for unit-wide rest. When the first day of regularly scheduled business came, they were right back to work with daily combat drills, workout sessions, and discussions of hypothetical mission scenarios.

  The media frenzy over Scott was short-lived. Soon enough, more substantial news of the world reclaimed the public spotlight. While the Battle of Chicago, as it came to be called, remained in prime coverage, the operatives of the five-man strike team fell back into quiet anonymity.

  Their initiation was over. They were tried soldiers of EDEN.

  9

  Monday, April 11th, 0011 NE

  1721 hours

  Five days after Chicago

  Scott and David raced into the hangar. Their comms had beeped only minutes before, which prompted them to don their uniforms quickly and report to Vulture-7. No explanation was given prior to their arrival. No other operatives were in the hallways. Nonetheless, Vulture-7 sat perched in its concrete cage, as the hue of the reddened evening sky cast a reflective glow over its nose.

  Lilan stood at the ramp of the Vulture, joined by Henry and Michael. Before Scott and David reached them, the footsteps of another emerged from behind. Zigler.

  “All the soldiers,” David said.

  Scott hmm-ed. “Where’s Becan?”

  Lilan cleared his throat. “All right guys, over here.” His voice was calm. Patient. Nothing about this felt at all urgent. It was a total contrast to Chicago.

  “Where’s McCrae?” he asked. Scott and David glanced at each other, though remained silent. Before Lilan could speak again, hastened footsteps emerged from across the room. Becan tore into the hangar and drew to a stop in front of Lilan.

  “Sorry sir,” Becan huffed.

  Lilan nodded dismissively. “It’s okay. The seven of us have an unusual assignment tonight. It’s not the first time this has happened, but it’s still pretty rare. I’ll explain once we get airborne and geared up. Let’s go.”

  The men climbed aboard the aircraft and held onto the support bars as they awaited liftoff to somewhere. What a difference, Scott thought. Prior to Chicago, the hangar had been flooded with activity. Rushing footsteps, competitive shouting, and the roar of engines. Now, it was just them.

  The Vulture taxied onto the runway, and after several moments, lifted off the ground. Once the course steadied and the Vulture assumed its forward glide, the soldiers stood to open their lockers and don their armor. The recently promoted operatives were quick to notice the new chrome badges attached to their breastplates. For Scott, there was a bit more.

  He had been tipped about the armor of the Golden Lion, and now he understood what was meant. Everything about his armor looked the same, except for one strikingly distinct feature—a polished golden collar molded around the neck of his breastplate. It was boldly simple. It was fitting for the most prestigious honor in the organization. As he fit into it, several of his comrades offered him comments of praise.

  Nonetheless, a cloud of tension hovered in the troop bay. The truth was, none of them knew where they were going, or why they were even in the transport. As soon as Lilan saw that everyone was geared up, the elaboration began.

  “Gentlemen…this evening you will be participating in your first bug-hunt.” Scott and David exchanged troubled expressions. A bug-hunt. Necrilid. “Three necrilids were spotted approximately thirty minutes ago on the outskirts of Danville, Arkansas.” The hair on Scott’s arms tingled. Lilan went on.

  “There were no alien spacecraft in the vicinity, so we’re pretty sure this wasn’t a drop-off. Eight days ago, a Ceratopian Cruiser was shot down over the Ouachita Mountains. Our best assumption is that these three necrilids were on board the craft, and they somehow escaped from the scene unnoticed. They probably worked their way west through the mountains until they showed up in Danville. This is rare, but it has happened before. As for why we’re dealing with this instead of Atlanta dealing with it, I don’t know. This is a junk job, and they may not have felt like working it.

  “The necrilids were first spotted approaching a high school, and then seen crawling inside the school through a hole in the roof—probably one they made. It’s a rural area, and everyone has been ordered to remain in their homes.

  “Fortunately, school ended a few hours ago. There were a few people in the parking lot who saw the necrilids, but they’ve since left the scene. The local police are there now with some sharpshooters keeping an eye on the building in case the critters leave, though we doubt they’re going to do that. When necrilids settle down somewhere, it’s usually for a while. The school is dark, it’s got a lot of corridors, and it’s probably going to be pretty warm. If any of them are female, they’re probably looking for a place to breed.” Scott’s skin pricked a second time. Somewhere, in some dark corner of that vacant school, alien predators were perhaps breeding. It felt surreal to imagine.

  “Necrilid eggs can hatch in a matter of days, and it’s very easy to miss an egg or two when you’re sweeping an area. It only takes hours for a female to conceive and lay, so infestation is a very real threat. Our orders are simple. Hunt them do
wn. Once they’re cleared, a sweeper team will come in to look for any eggs that may have been laid. We don’t have a floor plan of the school on hand, so we’re on our own once we get there.”

  Lilan hesitated. All eyes were trained on him. Finally, he launched into his closing statement. “I know none of you have seen a necrilid in combat before. I don’t know what they taught you in the Academy, but I’m willing to bet it wasn’t very pleasant. Let me reassure you…it’s much worse. There’s a reason nobody wants these missions.

  “You’re about to fight something that’s going to scare the living hell out of you. The last things a lot of operatives see on bug-hunts are fangs and claws. I’m going to brief you as best I can in the short time that we have before we land.

  “The average necrilid stands about four, four and a half feet tall when it’s hunched over. If it rises up, some can hit about six feet. Usually the females. This doesn’t mean they’re easy to see. They’re designed for the dark, and in an unlit room with a lot of clutter, they will find you before you find them. You won’t sneak up on one. The one thing you can look for are the eyes. They glow yellow like a cat’s if they hit any kind of reflection. But that’s about it.

  “They’re quick, and they can move very quietly. The claws on their hands and feet can retract completely, so don’t think you’ll be able to hear skittering. If you hear claws, they’re trying to lure you. Use caution. Necrilids can climb walls and ceilings as easy as they can walk on the floor, so don’t just look ahead. Look everywhere.

  “They do make a wide range of noise. They breathe, they hiss, they bark, they shriek. They communicate. They coordinate. They have an odor like a wet dog, but if you’re close enough to smell it and you still haven’t found it, that’s not a good thing.

  “If you find a necrilid, don’t try to outperform it. Distract it. Go at it from two sides, throw a shoe, do something. Outthink it. Always remember…it is hunting you.