by Lee Stephen
Scott had been around Nicolai long enough to understand such disparate correlations. “If it gets any colder, we’ll move inside.”
“If you desire.” Nicolai’s head twitched, a habit he repeated unconsciously. It made him look like a lizard.
Viktor’s voice, unlike Nicolai’s, was smooth and low. “Dostoevsky has informed me that we will be receiving a new medical officer from EDEN.”
Scott was surprised, but he took anything heard from Dostoevsky with several grains of salt. “On whose request?”
“On Captain Clarke’s.”
“We already have two medics,” Scott said. “We don’t need a third.” Though Viktor wasn’t officially a medic, he had extensive medical training. He was almost a double-class operative. As Scott reached his private quarters, he opened the door and flicked on the light.
Nicolai leered. “I did not know we had two medics. Viktor and who else?”
“Varvara Yudina is a medic,” Scott answered, irritated. “Which you already know.”
“Then why doesn’t she give more examinations?”
Scott didn’t bother to look back. He could picture Nicolai’s lewd grin in his head. He walked further inside. “Did Dostoevsky say who it was?”
“No.”
“Does he even know?”
“I do not know.”
Scott looked at the papers on his desk. Though they had been there for weeks, they were of little significance. They were standard EDEN mailings, all of which he ignored. Except for one folder—a folder that stayed on his desk at all times. It had no label, and was filled with few papers. Reaching down, Scott swept the EDEN mailings into the trash. But the folder remained. “Are we getting just one more operative?”
“I believe so,” answered Viktor.
That would give the unit a total of eighteen members. It was growing in size. Scott was puzzled why the new medic wasn’t a Nightman. There were more Nightmen now than ever before. They made up entire units. “I’m sure Clarke will inform me.” The only time he ever talked to the captain was when business needed to be discussed. All other communication was nonexistent.
“Perhaps we should consider a new epsilon,” Nicolai said. “Perhaps one of us.”
“Is that what you want? To be an epsilon?”
“If there is a need, I will gladly fill it. As would Viktor, I am sure.”
Viktor said nothing.
“Perhaps you should recommend us to General Thoor—”
“No.” Scott cut off Nicolai’s words. It wasn’t the blatant attempt at self-promotion that bothered Scott. It was the other part of the statement. He would never speak to General Thoor. “If this unit needs an epsilon, Clarke will name one. Not you, not me. Not Thoor. Is that why you followed me today?”
“Of course not, lieutenant. I came because I enjoy your wonderful company.”
“Get out of my room.”
“Yes, lieutenant. If you need me, I am only a comm call away.” Nicolai backed out and went his own way.
Scott wasn’t sure who made him more uncomfortable, Nicolai because of his strangeness, or Viktor because of his vanity. Neither man made him feel good. He turned to Viktor. “What do you want?”
Viktor wasted no time. “Will Yudina remain in this unit if we receive a new medic?”
“Why does it matter?”
“I am only curious. It is of no consequence.”
“So what if she leaves?”
“If she leaves,” Viktor said slowly, “then she leaves.”
“There’s your answer.” He watched Viktor for a moment, then walked to his closet. “Is that all you wanted?”
“Yes, lieutenant.”
Scott unzipped his black uniform and slid his arms from it. Wearing only a gray undershirt, he turned back to the other man. “Go away.”
Viktor acknowledged him and stepped out.
Now alone in his quarters, Scott proceeded with his routine. Viktor and Nicolai were equally disquieting as company. He much preferred Auric and Egor. The German Auric was almost genuinely friendly, as much as a killer could be, and despite Egor’s freakish appearance, his fellowship wasn’t that bad. If not for his bald head, grotesquely wide eye sockets, long nose, and iron jaw, the man might have been charming.
The hours that followed were newly typical for Scott. His angst mingled with idleness, and he felt the desperate need for something to do. And so he sat. When he became restless he stood, and when standing became uncomfortable he sat again. Only so many times could he wash his face or stare at his desk or look in his closet. Only so many things could occupy his mind. When the battle with bitterness was lost—as it was every day—he lay down on his bed. Though he closed his eyes, he seldom found sleep. Not during the day. But that never stopped him from trying, even after three months.
Her picture remained facing the wall.
* * *
At the same time
The hallways were vacant. As the fulcrum elite strode through the officers’ wing, the only sound he heard came from his own footsteps. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he kept forward.
“Yuri…”
Dostoevsky stopped and turned, staring back down the hallway where the voice had addressed him. Nothing was there. He resumed his businesslike pace, his gaze focused on the ground.
“Yur-ri…”
For a second time, he froze. The voice was closer now—distinct. It was unlike any voice he’d ever heard. It groaned as if it was dead. Dostoevsky’s piercing blue eyes again stared uncertainly down the hall. It was as empty as it had been moments before. His heart rate increased.
“Yuri!”
Then he saw them. He saw them move. The shadows themselves, seeming to recede and fold together. Voices emerged all around. Some giggled, some moaned, some cried out his name.
“Yuri! Yuri! Yuri!”
Something grabbed hold of his leg and he was swept off his feet. Then they attacked, teeming, swarming, grabbing him from every direction. He panicked and screamed wildly. He could feel them tearing into him, gnashing their teeth.
They were inside his skin.
Dostoevsky leapt out of bed and scrambled across the floor. He swatted the air all around him, hitting at himself and at invisible flies. He pitched backward until he hit the wall. Then he went still.
He was alone. His heart was pounding against his chest—but he was alone. Gasping for breath, he ran his hand through his hair. It was drenched. Sweat streamed down his face as if he’d stepped out of the shower. Then he looked at his clock. It was a quarter past nine. He’d been asleep.
Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back. He felt reality surface again. He heard no voices; all was silent.
The commander made no attempt to go back to bed. Sleep was the last thing he wanted to do.
2
Saturday, November 5, 0011 NE
1009 hours
David closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath. The spray of hot water crashed against his face and neck as he slowly lowered his head.
Room 14 was occupied yet quiet. It was like that almost every day. It had been that way for three months.
The former nypd officer turned the shower knob and shut off the water. For a moment he did nothing; he only stared at the tiled wall that formed the back of the curtained stall.
“Move it, Dave,” said Becan. “Some o’ us are bleedin’ waitin’ our turn.”
David turned his head slightly but said nothing. The only sound that came from his stall was the rhythmic drip of water, barely audible over the full spray from the stall to his left, where the Texas sniper Jayden Timmons was taking his turn. David yanked his towel down from the shower bar.
Most of the other operatives had already bathed. Varvara and Esther were among the first—the women always were. Most of the men had, too. Becan, Boris, and Oleg were typically the last to wash up in the unspoken but often adhered to order of things.
As David wrapped the towel around himself and slid open the curtain, Becan’
s glare was the first thing he saw.
“It’s yours,” David said, moving past the Irishman into the room. There was no acknowledgment or thanks from Becan. He simply went into the stall.
That kind of awkward exchange had become normal. Tension was as real as the operatives themselves.
As David sat on his bunk and bent over to tie his boots, Varvara watched him from several bunks down. Only when he’d finished did she approach.
“David?”
He answered her with silence.
She stared with cautious brown eyes. “It ain’t going to be as bad as you think,” she said with an awkward Russian-Texan drawl.
From her own bunk, Esther looked up.
“You don’t know what you’ve done,” David said to Varvara without expression. “This one’s on you.” With those words, David walked off.
Varvara stood beside his bunk, staring blankly at the abandoned mattress. She looked up slowly, her attention settling briefly on the shower stall where the Texan was bathing. Not even that made her smile.
That was the extent of Room 14’s conversation. There was no laughter or banter. Everyone carried out their morning rituals with a kind of grim, stilted seriousness. Every day was the same.
* * *
The door to Confinement slid open and Scott stepped inside. Prior to his becoming a Nightman, he’d barely set foot in the Research Center at all. Now he showed up every week. He wasn’t asked to, nor was it part of his obligations. But he had to; he had reasons no one else understood.
Gripped firmly in his hand was the blank manila folder—the same folder that sat on his desk. He took it to Confinement every time.
The scientists met him with half-hearted smiles. They were smiles laced with distrust—weakly veiled attempts to seem warm. He’d grown used to smiles like that. As a fulcrum, it was all he received.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Remington,” said the chief scientist, a man by the name of Petrov. Scott had come to know him during his visits, which worked to his benefit. Petrov let him do whatever he wanted without asking why or interfering.
“Good afternoon, Petrov.” Scott’s voice was still gravelly and deep.
Petrov always tried to speak English. He was adept. “You are early today, lieutenant. You usually do not come until later.”
“I wanted to come early.” He glanced at the cells. Aliens were always coming and going. As soon as new prisoners arrived, space needed to be cleared. He knew older prisoners were either transferred or exterminated, but he’d never bothered to ask which it was. “I’m just looking around.”
“Please, lieutenant, feel free.”
Scott was free whether Petrov liked it or not. He didn’t have to ask Petrov’s permission for anything. But with the scientist, Scott was never forcibly rude. He did have his flashes of coerciveness with the staff at times, but so far Petrov had never been a victim.
When Scott was in Confinement, his mind wasn’t anywhere else. He was focused. He could think of real things, he could think of the big picture of Earth, he could deduce. It was a welcome escape. At least, that was one of his reasons.
As Scott walked past the cells, his mind filed through the basic questions. What made Earth so important? Were the purple-skinned Bakma and the reptilian Ceratopians working together? Were the Ithini “grays” the ones behind it all? The mystery of everything always bothered him, probably more than it bothered everyone else.
Though he understood little in the grand scheme of things, he’d learned a few things since starting his visits. The personalities of the Bakma were vastly different from those of the Ceratopians. The Bakma—the “purple monkeys”—were noticeably despondent. They bore looks of resigned defeat. That was part of their mystery. They were quick to surrender, but they weren’t cowards. They had a reason to surrender, but what was it? To live a life of captivity and interrogation? Was that better than death?
The Ceratopians, on the other hand, were pure brutes. Scott felt a knot in his stomach every time he saw the giant, five-horned lizards. Khatanga was the last time his unit had been assigned a Ceratopian mission. Every mission since had been the Bakma. After a failure of Khatanga’s magnitude, The Machine didn’t trust the Fourteenth. That annoyed Scott to no end.
As he strode past the cells, he surveyed the inhabitants. His eyes stopped on a brown-furred, unspectacular canrassi. Occasionally orange-furred canrassis were captured. Those had an exotic look, made repulsive only by their pair of spider eyes. Black furs had become rare of late, but that was fine by him. Their viciousness was unparalleled.
His thoughts were interrupted by Petrov. “Will you speak to a prisoner today, lieutenant?”
Scott never actually “spoke” to any prisoners. His visits rarely exceeded staring contests, despite efforts to communicate. That was the disadvantage of not knowing alien languages. “I don’t know. I don’t guess the new ones talk English or Russian?”
Petrov chuckled. “I am afraid they are never here long enough to learn. And as soon as they learn enough, they are shipped away.”
“Off to EDEN Command?”
“Not always. We send many to Cairo.”
Surprised, Scott turned to the scientist. “Why Cairo?”
“Cairo is premier base for xenobiology. The good ones go there.”
“Huh.”
“I wish I could get transferred to Cairo.”
“Better research?”
“No,” Petrov answered. “Because Egypt is warm.”
Scott’s comm beeped. It wasn’t a mission tone; that sound was distinct from any other. This was a communication prompt. Someone was trying to reach him.
As soon as Scott looked at the display, he saw the name of the caller. It was Clarke. Scott felt the knot in his stomach tighten again, but this time for an entirely different reason. It did that every time he spoke to the captain. He almost hated the man. Lifting the comm to his lips, he answered, “Remington.”
“Please come to my office, lieutenant.”
Scott sighed. “On my way.”
Petrov stepped over to Scott’s side. “You will be leaving us already?”
“I’m afraid so. Life never ends.” It was an unintentionally cryptic statement. At times, he couldn’t wait for life to end. But life woke him up every day.
“Then I will see you again soon.”
“Yeah, you will.” Scott offered the scientist a rare smile; he was one of the few men who received one. Scott left in silence, bidding no other scientists farewell.
Scott knew why the captain had commed him. Viktor had mentioned the arrival of a new medic. The captain didn’t know Scott already knew.
He couldn’t help but recall Viktor’s comment: Viktor had wondered if Varvara would remain. There was an underlying legitimacy to Viktor’s concern. Clarke had no use for Varvara at all. The captain used many adjectives to describe her, among them words like lazy and immature. Scott couldn’t help but agree.
The fact that they were getting a new medic meant Clarke might have had enough. There was no reason for a unit as small as theirs to have three medics. In fact, their initial stock of three medics had been deceiving. Svetlana and Galina had been stalwarts, but Varvara had been placed as the EDEN equivalent of an intern, to be trained by the two veterans. But she had never been trained—or she had never assumed the responsibility of learning. Scott had a feeling the latter was true.
Within minutes, Scott stood at Clarke’s door. It was not terribly far from his own, but it felt like enemy territory. He grudgingly knocked.
“Come in,” Clarke answered immediately.
Scott pushed the door open and stepped inside to find the captain seated behind a stack of papers on his desk. Scott pitied the bureaucracy that must have come with captainship. Every time he saw Clarke’s workspace, it was overrun with documentation. It must have driven the fastidious captain insane.
Clarke addressed Scott as soon as he entered. “I saw on the indicator that you were in Confinement. Would y
ou be terribly distraught if I asked why?”
Scott clasped his hands behind his back. “Personal reasons.”
“Personal reasons? What personal reasons do you have to be in Confinement?”
Scott refused to feel interrogated. He held the manila folder behind his back and maintained his erect posture. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
Clarke’s authoritative stare lingered, as if he was determining whether to pursue his questioning. After a moment his curiosity died. “Tomorrow at 0700, we will be receiving an additional medic.”
“I already know.”
Clarke looked genuinely surprised. “Oh, really?”
“Yes sir.”
“And how, might I ask, do you already know?”
Avoiding eye contact, Scott focused on the wall and said, “It was relayed to me by Delta Trooper Ryvkin.”
“And how did he come to know?”
“Through Dostoevsky.”
Clarke leaned back in his chair. “I see.” Silence overtook the captain’s quarters. A wooden clock ticking on the mantel was the loudest sound in the room. Finally, the captain went on. “And what else of my business are you aware of?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“I see—once again.”
Clarke was being coy with his words. It was a British trait—one that annoyed Scott irrationally. His focus remained on the wall.
Resuming his strict tone, Clarke said, “It shall be your task to meet our new medic in the hangar.”
That caught Scott off-guard. He had never been surprised in the past when he’d been asked to meet new arrivals, but he was surprised to be asked now. Before, he’d been a soldier of EDEN. Now he was part of The Machine. “I don’t think that’s the best course of action—”
“I couldn’t care less what you think.”
Scott was perplexed. Never mind the fact that Clarke had been snide, what bothered him was Clarke’s determination. Why would anyone unaffiliated with the Nightmen send a Nightman to pick someone up? “I assume someone else will be coming?”
