by Lee Stephen
Nonetheless, the plan was working. They’d burrowed a hole through the Bakma stronghold, clear enough amid the chaos to get to the Grizzly, where William and Derrick were firing from its roof.
Svetlana was right behind Scott. She and Becan fought to push Jacobsen through the chaos. They were moving too slowly.
Get to the Grizzly, Sveta! Diving forward and sliding behind a desk, Scott finally had a chance to unholster his pistol. But he was blindsided by a Bakma before he could shoot. Scott twisted and threw the alien off, only to be broadsided by another.
William screamed in pain from the Grizzly.
If this carried on, they wouldn’t survive. It was almost impossible to tell who was where. The gun exhaust formed swirling blankets, and the sound was so loud it was painful. White bolts and orange streaks whizzed past everyone’s heads.
Finally, Svetlana’s voice came. “We’re at the Grizzly! We’re climbing aboard!”
“Fall back and retreat!” Scott commanded. A Bakma latched onto him from behind—but this time he was prepared. He grabbed the alien and spun it around. He shot the Bakma before it could rise.
Scott searched for the injured operative from the Thirty-ninth and saw that he was already being helped away by his comrades.
Where’s Oleg?
As if on cue, Oleg was there, ducking, rolling, and diving to avoid getting shot. The Russian was holding his own. He didn’t even look hurt.
The Grizzly’s massive engines revved to life. William and Derrick were nowhere to be seen. Both men must have gone back inside the armored vehicle.
“Veck!” Max screamed. “I think Maksim’s dead!”
There was no time for concern. Scott and Oleg scrambled desperately for the Grizzly. Scott felt his shoulder burn with every flex, but slowing down wasn’t an option. Ahead of him, Oleg leapt athletically up the side of the Apc. Crouching and spinning around, the Russian fired from beside the porthole entrance.
Scott scrambled up the Grizzly behind him, pushing the delta trooper down through the hole. Scott dove in behind Oleg’s wake, and quickly slammed the porthole shut. “Go! Go! Go!” The behemoth’s wheels spun in reverse.
The cabin was in chaos. Svetlana huddled over Jacobsen while Becan shivered in a sweat-riddled state. William was bleeding from his thigh. The other injured operative from the Thirty-ninth clutched his side in agony. Only Oleg, Derrick, and one man from the Thirty-ninth remained uninjured.
For the first time, Scott examined his shoulder. The skin beneath his armor was charred, but he’d avoided the severity of a direct hit. It still burned, but he could work through the pain.
“This ain’t gonna be smooth!” Derrick warned. Plasma fire rocked the hull of the vehicle.
Brunner came over the comm. “We have a transport en route. We are exiting from the back of the building.”
“Max,” asked Scott, “what about Maksim?”
“Like I told you, Maksim is dead.”
Scott didn’t have time to register remorse. The Grizzly’s front end whirled around as Derrick manhandled the wheel. The swift motion threw the occupants of the cabin to the wall. In a burst of acceleration, and the metal monster thundered down the street.
* * *
David and Clarke were alone on the warehouse roof, sitting crisscrossed opposite one another as they took in the idleness around them. They’d exchanged few words since Esther’s departure, and with the lack of activity in their area, nothing needed to be done. Their purpose had been to secure the radio tower for Jayden. With the Texan out of the picture, and with less resistance than even they had anticipated, their excursion had become a non-event.
The captain looked tired. His eyes sagged with invisible weights and his hair stuck up in odd places. He had the appearance of a man who no longer cared. When he spoke, his voice was laced with disgust. “We were both weak today.”
David lifted his head as explosions drummed in the distance. “What, sir?”
“Remington and myself. The two of us were weak.”
David said nothing.
Clarke stared at the darkened sky. “Scott is a fearsome leader and a formidable fulcrum. But he still has a flaw.” He exhaled a heavy breath. “He still cares too much.”
David looked at Clarke with an odd expression, but remained quiet.
“One of his friends was injured tonight—Timmons. And to save one man—one friend—he sent four of us home. Ryvkin. Yudina. Our pilot and our technician. The whole bloody ship, all to save one.” His gaze got lost in the distance. “And I let him to do it.”
Clarke’s monologue went on. “That is my flaw. That is my weakness. No one else here understands the confounding frustration in being a powerless leader. In knowing that your rank doesn’t matter—that what you’ve accomplished amounts to nothing.” His words turned to spite. “I am the captain of this squad, but I am subordinate. So why am I here?”
No answer was given.
“I am a husband and a father. Yet I remain here, in this unit over which I have no control. And I give, and give, and give, and get nothing in return. Yet, I choose to remain. I am expected to lead.”
David turned to the battle in the distance—to a red sky that was not from a sunrise.
They heard footsteps from the stairwell. David and Clarke turned around as Dostoevsky and his slayers appeared on the roof.
The commander stared at the captain for several seconds. Then he approached. “Captain. We are ready to fight.”
“Go fight,” Clarke said flatly. “Go fight your bloody battles—go worship death. Do what you’re destined to do—rape, pillage, and plunder in the name of The Machine.”
Dostoevsky stood motionless, his expression hidden by his faceless fulcrum’s helmet.
Clarke’s voice was devoid of all emotion. “You haven’t a clue what you’ve done to this planet, Yuri. You’ve corrupted our chain of command. You’ve destroyed our cohesion. You wield power at the cost of our humanity.” He rose. “Well, you can have your power. You can have your savagery. You can have whatever you want, you despicable chimp. But you will not have this unit.”
With those words, he turned to walk away, stopping briefly before reaching the stairs. “When you grow tired of Remington, give him back. We could use someone who cares—even too much.”
David said nothing as Clarke left the rooftop, disappearing in the stairwell. He said nothing as Dostoevsky watched the captain go, the fulcrum’s own face hidden in blackness.
* * *
As the Grizzly traveled, Scott crossed the cabin to Svetlana’s side. Most of the operatives in the apc had removed their armor by that time, as the prospect of reentering the battlefield seemed remote. The ride had grown considerably smoother as the vehicle distanced itself from the plasma-cratered streets.
“How is he?” asked Scott, kneeling beside Jacobsen.
Svetlana looked worried. “He is in shock. His pulse rate is still over one hundred. I have treated this kind of injury many times, and I have seen worse, but we must return him to Novosibirsk as soon as possible. He needs infirmary care to survive.”
William watched them from several meters away. His own thigh was wrapped thick with gauze. “Is he gonna make it?”
“The sooner we get him back, the better the chance. I cannot make guarantee, but…I think he will survive.” She looked over at Becan, then briefly at Scott. “I must tend to the others.” She quietly slipped over to the Irishman.
“How did you get a Grizzly?” Scott asked William. That question had been on his mind since they’d first arrived for the rescue.
William’s face was stoic. “There was an EDEN station not far from where we landed. We took it.”
“You took it?”
“Come on, man, we just saved your life.”
Derrick looked back from the cabin. “You know Ulrich’s gonna be ticked, right?”
“Forget Ulrich,” William scoffed. “That guy is a jerk.”
Scott wondered what made Ulrich a jerk to
William—if he was referring to his behavior in Krasnoyarsk, or if he’d been brash all along. He considered delving more, but he wasn’t given the chance. William elaborated before Scott could ask.
“Couple of months ago, I had this big five-gallon bucket of barbeque sauce shipped to me from Memphis. It was gonna be awesome.” He shook his head. “Ulrich confiscated the whole thing…every last bit. So now we’re stuck eatin’ the Russian crap they serve here.”
Svetlana cleared her throat noisily, but it was ignored.
“So yeah,” William concluded, “Ulrich’s no good. He’s the kind of guy who goes straight to hell.”
Scott had no words.
It took several minutes for the news of the Fourteenth’s casualties to spread around. It took even longer to find out where everyone was. Esther had met up with Nicolai at the church, and the two were en route back to the warehouse. Together, they would catch a ride back to Novosibirsk with Clarke and a Vulture from the Thirty-fifth.
Max would go home with Brunner and the Thirty-ninth—or at least, the operatives of her unit that remained. Maksim’s body would be taken back with them.
The Thirty-ninth had suffered the worst. At least thirteen operatives were dead across the unit; numerous others were heavily wounded. Two of their officers had been killed.
Contact had been made with Travis and the Pariah not long after the Fourteenth’s Vulture arrived back at Novosibirsk. Jayden had been rushed to critical care, though his current status was still unknown.
Jacobsen aside, the Grizzly’s other occupants suffered only non-threatening injuries. The skin on Scott’s shoulder had crisped, but it wasn’t an incapacitating wound. Becan was in considerable pain, but his kind of injury was common with plasma, much like Scott’s except to a worse degree. He’d be out of action, but not for too long. William’s thigh was moderately burned, but it was nothing some time off wouldn’t fix.
Lieutenant Brunner arranged for them to ride back in the Thirty-ninth’s other Vulture—the larger squad possessed two. The Fourteenth was one of the few units that could fit in a single troop transport. It was one of the smallest squads on the base, even despite its recent growth. Brunner directed them to one of the Thirty-ninth’s alternative muster points, where they were loaded aboard.
Little was said during the flight back to The Machine. William and Derrick exchanged occasional words, but at times even they appeared forced. Too many other things occupied their minds. There was Jayden, and to a lesser extent, Becan and William. Then there was Maksim’s demise. There was Ulrich’s refusal to help. There was so much.
The ride back to Novosibirsk ended up being one of the quietest Scott could recall. For a squad like the Fourteenth, that said a lot.
8
Sunday, November 6, 0011 NE
2347 hours
Back at Novosibirsk
Clarke was the first to step from the Thirty-fifth’s Vulture. Viktor was waiting to meet him.
“What’s Timmons’ status?” the captain asked.
“He is in surgery, captain. Varya is with him.”
“I don’t bloody care where Varya is, I want a rundown on Timmons.”
David hurried over to hear the explanation as Viktor drew a preparatory breath. “Do you want the good news, or the bad news?”
David spoke up. “The bad news—”
“The good news,” Clarke interrupted. “Let’s start with a smile.”
“I cannot express how fortunate Timmons is,” Viktor answered. “We took every precaution, we treated him as if this was the worst.” He took a moment to formulate his words. “His spine is not even fractured. He has cuts and bruises and some broken bones, but nothing that will threaten his life.”
“He fell twelve meters,” Clarke said. “How is that possible?”
“He must have fallen down right with the structure, impacting it all the way down. That is the only explanation I have. The impacts must have slowed his fall.”
“That is good news. Now let’s have the bad.”
“He has deep lacerations on his face, apparently when his visor struck the tower. He will need major cosmetic surgery. Both eyes experienced severe corneal abrasions…”
“Which means?”
“…more than likely, he will be blind.”
David turned away in disgust. Clarke said nothing.
“Captain,” Viktor said, “I wish there was more I could say. This is terrible, terrible tragedy. I wish I could have been able to prevent it.”
“Is it absolute fact that he will be blind in both eyes?”
“I do not want to say. It is not good to speculate on such things. We can hope for the best.”
Clarke stared at the slayer-medic for several moments, before he turned slowly away. “We shall see. Thank you, Viktor, for all you’ve done. You’re one of the good ones.”
Viktor was quiet for a moment. Then he bowed his head in reverence. “You are welcomed, my captain.”
Dostoevsky and the other slayers exited the Vulture. The fulcrum elite had said nothing during the flight home—not since Clarke had confronted him in Krasnoyarsk. Helmet in hand, he crossed the hangar floor behind the others. It wasn’t until Viktor approached him that he showed any emotion at all. “What in the hell were you trying to do?” he asked in Russian. “Why did you go with Clarke?”
Viktor said defensively, “Perhaps I want to end this bickering between us and EDEN.”
“Shut up. You are not honorable enough for that. You had a plan.”
“Perhaps it was he who shot the sniper,” said Nicolai smugly. “Were you not asking about Yudina two days ago? Perhaps someone wanted her to be single before Clarke transferred her away.”
Viktor suddenly glared Nicolai’s way. “Watch your words, you perverted cannibal. I would slit your throat for the joy.”
“From this moment on,” Dostoevsky said, “you will bring your assignment requests only to me. Clarke is not interested in us.”
“I disagree,” Viktor answered. “He told me that I was a good man.”
“He does not know you well enough,” Auric said quietly.
“I am still a fulcrum, and you are still a slayer,” said Dostoevsky. “Do I need to remind you what will happen if you break rank again?”
“No, commander,” said Viktor. “I now understand.” After a moment of uneasy silence, he took a step back. “May I be dismissed, my commander?”
“Go.”
“Thank you, commander.” Without another word, Viktor left the hangar as the other slayers looked on.
Only after he disappeared did conversation resume. Nicolai turned to face Dostoevsky. “I do not think he likes you.”
Dostoevsky scoffed under his breath. “If I were hated by the entire world, would it matter?”
“You are not hated by the world. I like you very much.”
Dostoevsky stared at Nicolai, who flashed him a dirty-toothed grin. He waved the slayer away. “Go be sick somewhere else.”
Clarke was inspecting his armor when a Vulture taxied into the hangar. The captain knew it belonged to the Eighth. His eyes flared. As soon as the transport stopped, the rear door whined open. Ulrich was the first to emerge.
“Captain Ulrich!” Clarke shouted angrily.
Ulrich turned to face Clarke’s wrath. His own expression twisted into a scowl.
“What in bloody hell was that?” Clarke went on. He stood face to face with the rival captain. “You had no right to leave us abandoned!”
“I am so sorry,” said Ulrich smoothly. “Did you try to contact us? I suppose we had a ‘comm malfunction’ too.”
“Rubbish!”
David and Esther rushed to the confrontation.
“Do not make a mockery of my intelligence,” Clarke said. “Two of your own operatives broke rank to save us. Would you care to explain that?”
“Do you care to explain how you destroyed half my unit in Khatanga? Or was that not premeditated?”
“That was not premedita
ted and you bloody well know it!”
Before Ulrich could respond, Esther stepped forward. “Captain Ulrich, I was the one who made the mistake in Khatanga. If you’re angry, take it out on me—”
Esther had no chance to complete her thought. In a motion too quick to prevent, Ulrich punched her square in her jaw. The scout toppled backward to the floor.
The scuffle was on. Clarke surged forward, tackling Ulrich where he stood. David dove to Esther’s side, as several operatives from the Eighth jumped on Clarke’s back. He was surrounded in seconds.
The fight was emotional, but short-lived. Before too much blood could be drawn, the mechanized shout of a Nightman sentry halted the brawl.
“Do not move!”
The operatives turned to the lumbering Nightman. Behind him, a second sentry approached. They ploughed forward like tanks, their metal boots hitting the cement floor sharply as they prepared their assault rifles.
“You will cease all unwarranted activity,” the sentry said, his Russian accent thick. “Speak no more words.”
On the floor behind Clarke, David helped Esther to her feet. The scout’s lower lip was split open. She wiped it on her sleeve.
Ulrich straightened his uniform and exhaled. “I request an audience with General Thoor at once—”
The sentry aimed at Ulrich and opened fire. Every operative jumped as the barrel discharged. Bullets rippled across Ulrich’s stomach and chest and blood sprayed from his mouth. It took seconds for the barrage to fell him; then the sentry ceased.
Everyone froze. As the suddenly lifeless body of Captain Ulrich lay sprawled across the floor, their eyes were wide with shock. Silently, they turned to the metal enforcer.
“Dispose of this corpse,” the sentry said to an operative from the Eighth.
Terrified, the operative stared back, opened his mouth to affirm, then stopped himself short. He simply nodded and grabbed the dead man.
* * *
