by Lee Stephen
Without a word, the four men left the room.
* * *
Dostoevsky barged through the double doors at the north end of the church, with Auric Broll behind him. They were in pursuit of two retreating Bakma. As the two Nightmen emerged on the other side of the doors, they found themselves under fire in a courtyard.
Bushes and foliage decorated ornate columns that surrounded them; fountain water trickled noisily into a heated pool.
Taking instinctive cover behind the false security of hedges, the two Nightmen opened fire then ran. The exchange of energized plasma bolts and orange gunpowder lit the night-shrouded courtyard.
Dostoevsky and Auric found better protection behind a row of columns. The two Bakma were positioned at the center of the courtyard, behind the fountain itself.
“Hold this position,” Dostoevsky said, handing his assault rifle to the German. “Do not let them know I am coming.”
“Yes, commander.” Auric took Dostoevsky’s rifle and held it in his free hand. Bracing both rifles against his shoulders, he stood directly behind the column, firing both guns at the same time around both sides of the pillar. Dostoevsky disappeared into the darkness.
Behind the fountain, the taller of the two Bakma fired a volley. Ducking down to reload its rifle, the tall alien eyed the shorter one across the pool. “Ka-nashga!”
The shorter Bakma glanced at the other for a moment, then resumed its attack.
With its plasma rifle reloaded, the taller alien once again rose to engage the two humans behind the column. The Earth-born warriors were inaccurate. Of the two steady streams of orange projectile, one on each side of the column, neither was remotely on target. They were downright wild. “U`tasnk,” the tall alien said.
The shorter Bakma affirmed, and the two aliens turned to make their retreat. The moment they did, their already bulging eyes opened wider.
Dostoevsky sprang at the Bakma the moment they turned, arms outstretched as both aliens were clotheslined into the fountain. Everyone landed in the water.
The dual gunfire behind the column ceased as Auric charged from his cover.
Dostoevsky shot up from the water. Grabbing the taller Bakma by the head, the Russian used its body as a shield. The shorter Bakma rose from the water, but there was no time for attack. Dostoevsky whipped out his sidearm and pulled the trigger, popping the short alien in the head and neck. There was an eruption of red, and the Bakma toppled backward.
Taking a quick step back, Dostoevsky kicked at the taller Bakma, sending it pitching forward. In the next instant, Auric gunned the alien down. The German skidded to a halt by the fountain, tossing Dostoevsky’s assault rifle back to him.
The fulcrum snatched it in midair. “Back to the church.”
* * *
Egor Goronok stormed through the hallways of the church. Svetlana fought to stay in his wake of destruction. Wooden doors were not merely opened; most were violently unhinged by brute force.
In the trek that took them to the church’s third floor, they had already encountered two Bakma. The first had struck Egor in the leg with a plasma bolt, before the slayer blew it to pieces with his hand cannon. Though Egor’s leg bled through his armor, he hadn’t slowed down. The second Bakma they’d caught off-guard at close range. It was an experience that made the veteran medic gag—she watched the massive slayer crush the alien’s skull with his armored hands.
All to get to the bell tower.
Svetlana struggled to maintain the Nightman’s pace. Egor didn’t need to tell her that keeping up was in her best interest. That part was understood.
Finally, they came to the bell tower’s door. As Egor surged ahead like a train, Svetlana paused in the hall. Lowering his shoulder, Egor exploded through the door’s ancient frame. Wooden slivers flew in all directions as he stopped at the bottom of a circular stairwell.
The alien sniper did not hesitate. Plasma bolts rained down over the slayer, who quickly pressed back against the stone walls to avoid them.
Svetlana pulled out her sidearm. But there was no need.
The exchange between Egor and the sniper lasted mere seconds. Setting his hand cannon to incendiary, Egor trained it upward, stepped into the open, and unleashed his vengeance. Five bursts of combustible orange shot from the cannon, each one triggering an explosion at the top of the tower. Egor dove into the hallway as an avalanche of fiery rubble rained down. He leapt up, swinging his weapon to the still-falling debris. Running backward, he fired several more rounds. The bottom of the bell tower burst into fiery ruin. The last boom to be heard was the brass bell itself as it crashed down on the burning heap.
Svetlana’s mouth hung open as the church’s sprinkler system kicked in.
Egor didn’t budge. He only stared at the mound of destruction, speaking calmly through his helmet comm.
“Sniper disposed.”
* * *
Back at the warehouse, at the second drop point, Viktor Ryvkin made his way carefully down the rooftop stairs while Jayden continued to climb the radio tower. Viktor occasionally looked behind him to keep the Texan in his sight, but his primary focus stayed on the stairs—particularly the T-junction they approached.
He could hear the Bakma below him. He knew exactly where they were. They weren’t right there around the corner, but they were close. They were close enough to hear him, too. He remained quiet.
He found them as soon as he came to the bottom; it took only a brief look around the right-hand corner of the junction. There were two of them, positioned just beyond a door at the end of the hall. They were oblivious, probably waiting for Clarke’s team below, unaware of the slayer behind them. They would both be easy kills.
Easing up his assault rifle, Viktor aimed at the pair of aliens and fired. Instantly, the two warriors crumpled to the floor.
The Nightman medic took a moment to look behind him. Everything in the hallway was clear. He approached the two fallen Bakma and trained his rifle on their black-and-brown armor. Squeezing the trigger several times more, he riddled their bodies with insurance.
The hallways were silent.
For several seconds, Viktor did nothing. He simply stared at the two victims of his blindsided attack. Then he stared at their weapons—their plasma rifles.
Crouching, he carefully picked up one of the alien guns. His hands slid into a comfortable grip as he took a moment to adjust to its weight. Then he looked back.
When he stood again, his assault rifle was not in his hands. He no longer searched for Bakma. His eyes were trained on the stairs to the roof.
* * *
Plasma fire rocked the Pariah as the transport descended to the street. A horde of Bakma from the block ahead fired shots toward it until its nose-mounted cannon burst with suppression. It was time to drop Max’s team off.
Max was the first to exit the ship, darting into an alley while the Vulture covered his path. Becan, Oleg, Maksim, and Varvara kept spread out behind him.
The Thirty-ninth—a unit consisting mostly of EDEN operatives—was in their vicinity. One of the Thirty-ninth’s teams would be joining Max’s efforts in a joint strike on the federal building. Both units were to meet in the middle. Of all the dispatches in Krasnoyarsk, their task had the heaviest resistance. There were multiple teams of Bakma, not only in the streets but in and around the building itself.
The Eighth was there as well, engaging the Bakma farther down the road. They were backup to the federal building strike.
Max’s team made its way to the back of the building, where a single metal door led inside. The building itself was four stories of gray brick.
As soon as the others were safely with Max, the coordination began. He adjusted his helmet mic and spoke. “This is Lieutenant Axen of the Fourteenth calling Lieutenant Brunner of the Thirty-ninth. Come in, sexy.”
Varvara and Becan both blinked.
A woman’s voice emerged. It was foreign, but not Russian; nor was it amused. “You are not dead yet. This disappoints me.�
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“You’d cry at my funeral,” Max said, taking a moment to leer at the Irishman. “She wants me.”
“We are at the front entrance,” said Brunner. “Are you ready to converge?”
“If that’s what the kids are calling it nowadays.”
“Converging.”
Max stepped to the side of the metal door and readied his rifle. “Maksim, you’re with me. Oleg, stay with Becan. Stay behind us, Varya.”
“Old mot, I presume?” asked Becan.
“I’d answer if I knew what that meant.” Max turned to Maksim. “I cover, you counter. Let’s go.” He shoved the metal door open and leaned around the corner to suppress. No Bakma were in sight. Moving inside, he waited for Maksim to follow. Then he signaled the others.
Though the building had emergency lighting, the hallway was nonetheless dim. Through the vibrant hues of their tcvs, they could make out the building’s details in full. Several offices lined the two sides.
Far ahead, an exchange of gunfire was in progress. Its flashes illuminated the halls like lightning strikes.
Max’s steps grew hurried, though his voice remained calm. “Ann, give me your status.”
“One Ex down,” she answered. “Several remaining. We did not get past the front door.”
As Max’s team emerged from the hallway, they found themselves at the back of a large, spacious lobby. Two open stairwells and an isolated elevator sat in the center of a sunken walking area.
They saw Bakma immediately. The crimson-purple aliens were taking cover behind the elevator in the middle of the room.
The Bakma found Max’s team, too. No sooner than Max and Maksim emerged, the aliens opened fire against them. Plasma bolts soared down the hall, narrowly missing Becan and Oleg. The operatives dove for the cover behind potted plants and seating areas—but not without casualty. The back of Max’s calf was caught in mid-dive, and a bolt aimed for Becan struck him in the shoulder. The Irishman tumbled sideways and crawled for cover. Maksim and Oleg continued their attack.
At the other end of the lobby, the front doors burst open. The operatives of the Thirty-ninth charged inside. The fight lasted mere seconds. Surrounded by both EDEN teams, the Bakma succumbed to quick death.
Becan moaned and tore off his shoulder guard. Varvara rushed over to him, shoving the charred armor aside and ripping off the fabric of his jersey. Becan’s shoulder was smoking, and the smell of singed flesh bit the air.
Several meters away, Max hobbled to a stand, propping himself against the wall. Across the lobby, Brunner and the Thirty-ninth spread across the room.
Becan’s teeth ground together. “Bleedin’ eejit purple monkeys!” He winced as Varvara stuck him with a needle and applied gel to the wound.
“You ain’t hurt to the bone,” Varvara said. “Stop crying like baby.”
Max gingerly hobbled over to them, favoring his left leg. “How is he?”
“I’m bloody hurt, how does it look like I am?”
Varvara gave Max an admonishing look. “He will live, even if he thinks he will not. Show me your calf.”
“Calf’s fine,” Max said, ignoring her request. The armor in question had been blown off, exposing an area of burned skin beneath. He limped away before she could examine it.
A woman of small stature approached them. Her face—masculine but not entirely unappealing—stared sternly through the blue tint of her EDEN visor. Pigtails dangled behind her helmet.
As soon as she was within speaking distance, she placed her hands on her hips. “Are you ready to move upstairs, or is your unit too injured to continue?” There was no hint of joking in her voice.
“Of course we can continue. Who can’t continue?” Max answered, then he murmured to Becan, “Get up, Becan.”
“But I’m bleedin’ hurt!”
“Get up, Becan!”
The Irishman bit his lip and rose up.
Brunner took charge. “Shavrin, take Kaligan and Sokolov up the far stairwell. I will lead Axen and his demolitionist up the near one.” No room was allowed for Max to argue. “Everyone else, remain at the front entrance of the lobby and monitor the movement of Captain Ulrich.”
“Captain Ulrich, eh?” Becan asked. “Tha’s just brilliant.”
Brunner scrutinized the Irishman. “What is your name?”
“Becan McCrae.”
“And you?” She turned to Oleg.
“Strakhov, lieutenant.”
“The two of you will fortify the back door from which you came. Your medic will stay with you until needed. We have a medic with us already.”
“Uhh…” mumbled Becan, glancing at Max.
“Do what she says,” Max said in frustration.
“Righ’.”
“There is a safe room on the second floor of this building,” Brunner said. “We must assume there are humans inside. We cannot wait—we move now.”
The operatives around her affirmed.
“Max,” she said, lowering her tone, “are you hurt bad?”
“I’m never hurt,” he answered, readying his weapon.
“Good. Then let’s go.”
* * *
Back at the warehouse, Viktor neared the corner of the stairs to the roof, the alien weapon still in his hands. He stopped just before the corner, scanning the hallway a final time. No one was present. No Bakma. No teammates.
No witnesses.
The Nightman listened to Jayden’s sniper fire from the radio tower. He listened closely as the Texan did his job. A minute passed, then the time to listen came to an end.
Placing the plasma rifle against his shoulder, the Nightman medic rounded the corner. His eyes narrowed as he searched for his target. He pulled the trigger without a moment of pause.
The white bolt struck Jayden from behind. The Texan’s sniper rifle flew from his hands as he toppled from the tower.
Viktor didn’t see the sniper fall, but he heard the impacts—over and over as the Texan careened against metal crossbars all the way down. Lowering the plasma rifle from his shoulder, Viktor glanced down the hallway once again. He was still alone. He tossed the alien weapon back down the hall, where it slid to a stop by the fallen corpses. He reclaimed his assault rifle and mounted the stairs.
At street level, Esther had been running when she heard the blast. Her nimble steps skidded to a halt in the snow as she turned her head to the tower.
She gasped as she watched Jayden plummet. She screamed through the comm. “Jayden’s been hit! I repeat, Jayden’s been hit! He’s fallen from the tower!”
* * *
At the rear entrance of the federal building, Becan and Varvara went rigid, as if Esther’s words failed to register. When they finally did, Varvara completely lost her composure. “Esther, what happened?” she asked frantically over the comm. There was no response.
“Jay!” Becan shouted into his helmet mic. “Jay, can yeh hear me? Jayden?”
“Travis, are you still outside?” asked Varvara.
“Yeah,” the pilot answered. “I heard what Esther said. Do you want me to take you there?”
Max’s voice cut in. “Nobody’s taking anyone anywhere!”
“Yes! I am coming!” Varvara said, ignoring Max. She darted for the metal door.
Becan reached out with his good arm and snatched her. “Wait! I’m comin’ with yeh.”
Oleg watched the two operatives rush away.
Becan readied his m-19 handgun. “Oleg, hold this place for a sec—I’m takin’ her ou’ to the ship, I won’t be gone long!”
“Uh…”
Becan was out the door with Varvara a split second later.
* * *
Viktor walked calmly toward Jayden. The Texan was crumpled in a motionless heap, a deep hole smoldering in the back of his armor. It had easily been a twelve-meter drop. Blood was splattered on the rooftop from where his helmet had hit the ground. Then Viktor stopped in his tracks.
Jayden was still breathing.
Hurrying to the
Texan, Viktor watched as his chest moved. He rolled Jayden over, face-up. Jayden’s visor was completely shattered inward. His face was a disfigured wreck. But he seemed to have survived the treacherous fall.
Viktor lifted Jayden’s chin, exposing the unconscious man’s neck. As he lifted his hand to make the kill-strike, he heard Esther. He looked up, flinging his hand back down to his side just as the scout emerged onto the rooftop from a side-mounted ladder.
“Jayden!” In the next instant, Esther was racing across the roof.
Viktor’s countenance instantaneously changed. The Nightman quickly felt Jayden for a pulse. He looked only briefly at Esther. “What happened? Did you see it?”
“They struck him from behind!” she said, covering her mouth as she saw the Texan’s face. “Oh my God.”
“We must get him into a C-collar and onto a spinal board. Help me, quickly!” He removed a portable cervical collar from his kit. “He is not posturing—that is a good sign.”
“What does that mean?” asked Esther, breathing heavily.
“It means he is not cringing inward.” Viktor got on the comm. “Navarro, bring the Pariah here at once.”
Becan’s voice yelled over the airwaves, “Somebody tell us wha’ the bleedin’ hell happened!”
“Jayden got struck from behind,” Esther answered. “He fell from the tower.” Her voice strained to be reassuring. “He’s going to be all right, Viktor’s with him.”
Viktor eyed her for a moment, then went back to work.
* * *
As Becan and Varvara reached the Pariah, Travis shouted from the cockpit, “Hold on, we’re taking off.”
With his good arm, Becan pointed repeatedly. “Go! Go! Go!” He looked back out the rear bay.
Then he saw them. Bakma—right there in the alley he’d just come from. Right past the metal door. Before he could register their numbers, they opened fire on the rear of the ship. Becan dove out across the street as plasma bolts flew into the snow. As he hit the ground, his wounded shoulder surged with fresh pain. He scrambled up and watched the Bakma flood inside. Then the realization hit him.
