by Lee Stephen
“Who’s that?”
“No idea.” Scott shook his head.
“Hey there!”
Startled, the stranger shifted bodily to face them. Everything about the motion was uncomfortable, and his body language immediately withdrew. His gaze darted down to the floor, and he mumbled a response. “Howdy.”
He had to be from Texas.
Scott stopped when he came to his door. That memory seemed like so long ago. Like a forgotten time. When life still felt warm and with a point.
He knew there’d be business that day. On these kinds of days, it was inevitable. There were things to discuss and decisions to make, on more than a few topics. He knew it wouldn’t be pleasant.
Scott ate a light breakfast that morning—only what was there in his room. His appetite was simply nonexistent.
* * *
Svetlana cringed as her body touched the ice water for the first time. She gripped the sides of the metal tub, easing her descent just above the surface. She muttered in Russian.
Her morning had been laden with pain. From the muscles in her calves to the small of her neck—everything hurt. It was a soreness she hadn’t felt since she was a cadet. Having grabbed her turquoise swimsuit from her Room 14 closet, she’d made her way to the gymnasium-sized pool. After changing in the locker room, she filled one of the soaker tubs with ice water. It was her best option to provide immediate relief.
Finally she mustered the courage to submerge her body, shivering as she did so. It took several seconds for the initial shock to subside, then she leaned her head outside the tub.
No one had accompanied her to the pool. That suited her just fine. She wasn’t in the mood for socialization. She lifted her head, passing a wet hand through her hair. The alone time felt good. It felt needed and long overdue.
“Svetlana?”
The British voice caught her unaware. She turned her head to the side of the tub. The voice had come from her comm; it was unmistakably Clarke’s.
“Svetlana, are you there?”
Closing her eyes for a moment, she bit her lower lip. She fought back the temptation to curse. Gingerly reaching down for the device, she brought it to her lips. “Yes, captain?”
“I’m about to have a meeting with the officers. I’d like you to attend.”
As soon as she heard it, she rolled her eyes. Her arm drooped outside of the tub, carrying the comm with it. It took her several moments to reply. “As you wish, captain.”
“Lounge. Five minutes.” The comm channel closed.
For several seconds, Svetlana didn’t move. She only stared dull-eyed at the wall, still holding the comm to her lips. Finally dropping it back on the floor, she closed her eyes. “Lounge. Five minutes,” she muttered mockingly. Sliding forward, she sunk her head beneath the water’s surface.
It was the only place she could be left alone.
* * *
Scott wasn’t surprised that he’d been called to Room 14. What surprised him was that it was so early in the day. At least, it was early for Clarke. The captain had been a procrastinator as of late. It was unlike him to address anything immediately.
In the short time that Scott had been alone in his private quarters, he’d taken a few minutes to adjust his appearance. He’d fixed his hair enough to look passably respectable, and he’d actually taken a few moments to shave after breakfast. The smooth skin felt good.
It felt odd having an officers’ meeting. Over the past several months, they’d had few. They usually happened when something significant was afoot. This definitely qualified as one of those times.
Scott scanned Room 14 as he stepped inside. The only operative present was Esther. The scout lifted her head from a book as he entered. “Good morning, lieutenant,” she said, placing her book down.
Scott offered a cordial nod. “Good morning, Brooking. What are you reading?”
She hesitated. “In the Custody of Angels.”
“What is that? Religious?”
“…gothic romance.”
“Oh.” He had no idea how to respond. If nothing else, he found it unique—and a little dark.
Esther’s face tinged a deep shade of red. She awkwardly raised the book from her lap.
A legitimate question came to Scott’s mind. “Yesterday, did anyone tell you to do that?”
She looked at him oddly.
“The snowmobile.”
Her countenance changed. She stopped short of a frown. “No, sir. I apologize.”
She was apologizing? For what? “You made an excellent decision. You don’t need to apologize for that.”
She looked at him strangely, then smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
Nodding, Scott reached for the door. To give someone praise felt refreshing. He hadn’t done that in months. He twisted the knob, but stopped short, turning back to her. He had to ask. “Is your name really Molly?”
She immediately looked embarrassed. “Yes, sir. Molly Esther ‘Polyester’ Brooking.”
Scott couldn’t hold back his amusement. “That’s cute.”
Her deep shade of red surfaced again. So did her grin. She watched as Scott left for the lounge. As soon as he was gone, she plopped her head on her pillow, closed her eyes, and let loose with an ugh.
Moments later, Svetlana entered from the hall. She was in her uniform, a bathing suit folded in her hand. Her blond hair was still damp. As she made her way through the room, Esther’s eyes tracked her every step.
“Hello Esther,” Svetlana said, forcing a smile.
“Hello, Svetlana.” Esther’s smile was unabashedly fake.
Svetlana stepped through to the lounge.
Esther continued to stare for several seconds, even after Svetlana was gone. Finally, she returned to her book. “Yellow-headed tart.”
The officers were already seated when Svetlana entered. The moment Scott saw her, his surprise was evident. Dostoevsky and Max were also taken aback.
Clarke cleared his throat immediately. “I’ve asked Ms. Voronova to join us. As chief medical officer, I value her opinion.”
She nodded apologetically. “I am sorry to be late,” she said, taking a seat across the table from Scott.
The captain wasted no time. “To say we have much to discuss is an understatement.”
Scott turned his attention to Svetlana. He wasn’t sure if Clarke legitimately valued her input or if he was still trying to force her upon him. Either way, Scott realized he didn’t mind. She had done enough in Krasnoyarsk to earn her the privilege of contribution to the meeting, even if she was out of mission shape.
Suddenly Scott realized he was staring. He quickly looked back at Clarke.
“I received an update this morning from infirmary,” the captain said. “There is some good news—we can expect McCrae to return in about two weeks. His injuries are quite recoverable.” He was quiet for a moment. “With that, our good news comes to an end.”
Max shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the metal casing of an unlit sprig held between his fingers.
“As you know,” Clarke continued, “Frolov is dead. His body is being flown home today. I don’t know the exact time, but if you wish to know, just contact NovCom.”
Scott lowered his eyes. He wondered if anyone would be there to see Maksim off. Few people had really known him.
“The additional awful news is about Timmons. Is anyone else already aware?”
No one made any indication. Scott looked around the table, slowly acknowledging with a raised hand. He was certain he wasn’t the only one who knew something.
The captain’s frown was genuine. “Timmons is fortunate to be alive. He will walk, and he will talk. Let’s take that good news just as that. Some of you may already know that his left eye has been lost. Barring a miracle, his right eye will be, as well. For a sniper, that can’t quite do.”
Clarke almost sounded smarmy. Scott knew it wasn’t intentional, but nonetheless the captain’s tone seemed less than compassionate. He wondered if anyone
else had heard it that way.
“As much as it pains me to say, we have to move on. The Fourteenth has never been without a sniper, and Ms. Brooking was sent here specifically to supplement—”
“Hang on,” Max interrupted, “back up the short bus. Don’t tell me we’re about to start talkin’ about replacements…”
“That’s precisely what we’re talking about.”
The technician threw up his hands. “You said ‘barring a miracle!’ For God’s sake, let’s wait for the miracle!”
Scott sighed. This was where it would begin—the downward spiral that would ultimately doom the meeting. It was already happening.
“Lieutenant Axen, please understand that Timmons’ career with EDEN is effectively over. That he’s alive is a blessing in itself.”
“Who says it’s over?”
“That would be the man we call surgeon.”
“To hell with surgeons—give the guy a freakin’ chance to improve!”
Scott, Dostoevsky, and Svetlana simply watched. It didn’t feel right to try and force a word in.
“Understand the word that I’m saying,” explained Clarke. “Blind. This is the word that describes Jayden Timmons.”
Max shook his head. “He ain’t totally blind yet, he’s still got one good eye.”
“And one eye is a problem!”
Max threw the unlit sprig to the floor. “Is this really how fast it ends? Can we give the guy a day of respect before we throw his career in the trash? Can we not give it one more day to see if somehow this thing turns around?”
“Will the Bakma give us a day of respect? Will the Ceratopians?”
“Captain, that’s not the point.”
Clarke’s nostrils flared for the first time. “The point is that I am captain of this unit! If I say we move on, we bloody move on!”
Even Scott jumped. He’d never heard the captain’s voice like that. Not even in his worst moments.
Max stood up from his chair.
“Where are you going?”
Max’s frustrated glare did not waver. He swiped his sprig from the tiles below. “To hell with this unit.” He stormed out of the lounge, slamming the door. The others looked on blankly.
“What is it with you Americans?” Clarke asked, glaring at the door Max had slammed. “The irony of this is that he didn’t even give me a chance to bloody finish.”
To finish what? What irony? Scott looked at Svetlana and Dostoevsky. They looked as confused as he was.
“By now, you’re aware of our situation with the Eighth,” Clarke said. “You know about Ulrich. What I had intended to explain to Mr. Axen is that we require additional operatives to fill now-empty roles. In the aftermath of Ulrich’s demise, Commander Plotnikov has control of the Eighth. His first executive decision was to ‘remove’ William Harbinger and Derrick Cole.”
Scott sat up straighter.
“I am giving you the option. We can attempt to replace Frolov and Timmons with a demolitionist and a sniper from somewhere else, or we can ‘adopt’ our friends from the Eighth. Due to the personal nature of this rubbish, I was going to let you decide.”
Scott was surprised. Clarke was actually giving them the power to choose. Granted, it was a choice with a blatantly stacked answer, but it was a choice nonetheless. It was democracy at its most British.
Svetlana seemed uncertain. She looked uncomfortable to be included.
“Personally,” Clarke said, “I’ll be properly shocked if this vote isn’t unanimous. Does anyone not prefer Harbinger and Cole over two altogether new people? I’m accustomed to having a sniper, but Cole will suffice. And Harbinger would fill our demolitionist role well.”
No one opposed.
“Then the matter is resolved. Remington, would you kindly inform your acquaintances from the Eighth?”
“Yes sir.” William and Derrick, in the Fourteenth? That was the best news he’d heard since Svetlana had come back. Once again he looked at her.
“Thank you.” Clarke motioned to some papers on the table. “These are their medical papers, Svetlana. I anticipated this result.” He pushed up from his seat.
“Now…hard as it may be to believe, I miss my wife terribly at the moment. I had planned for this to be a constructive conversation, but apparently that was a foolish idea. Shame on me. Dostoevsky, the unit is yours.”
The commander uttered a quiet affirmation, at which point Clarke stepped from the room. He offered no goodbyes.
It was the quickest exit Scott had ever seen from Clarke, and he had a feeling he understood why. The captain was frustrated to new heights—he had been met with resistance even while trying to do favors.
“I need to read Harbinger and Cole’s medical papers,” said Svetlana, pushing back her chair. “I do not know them like you.”
Dostoevsky reached out to pick up the papers himself, but before he could grab them, Svetlana snatched them away.
“I will read them,” she said. “Not you.”
“Sveta…”
She glared at him. “Nothing has changed, Yuri. Do you think I have words for you? I do not.” Turning away from the table, she walked out of the room with the papers in hand.
Scott and Dostoevsky—the two lone fulcrums—stood awkwardly in her wake. For several moments, neither man spoke. Dostoevsky finally broke the silence.
“I was going to hand them to her so she didn’t have to reach.”
Turning to the commander, Scott found himself caught in the sudden realization: he was sitting with Dostoevsky as though they were comrades. As though they were friends. He felt nauseated. Like Svetlana, he had nothing to say to the man who’d arranged his fiancee’s murder. Dostoevsky might as well have been dead. Scott stood and walked out of the room.
Dostoevsky was left alone once again.
“Sveta,” Scott said, hurrying to catch her in the hallway. Svetlana stopped and turned around.
Something had been hovering over Scott’s conscience since the mission. Something Svetlana had told him about righteous men. “I want to tell you something.”
“Well?” she said when he didn’t elaborate.
“A church is a building. That’s it.”
She pressed her hand to her forehead and looked down. Strands of hair fell through her fingers.
Clearly she was not understanding what he was trying to say. It completely escaped her. “I’m trying to be respectful,” he said. “It’s not the brick and mortar that makes it holy or not holy. It’s what happens inside.” He wanted to justify himself. That was it. He didn’t want to be blamed for something that really wasn’t his fault.
For several moments she stared at him, saying nothing, distanced in thought. “Do you really believe that, Scott Remington?”
Of course he believed it. He wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t. “Yes, I do.”
“Then apply it to yourself.”
Scott blinked. Her statement took him aback.
Svetlana offered no other words. She simply turned and walked away.
Then apply it to yourself. The words resounded in his mind. Then apply it to yourself. He tried to pretend he didn’t know what she meant, but he did. He could not help staring down at his uniform—his black Nightman exterior. His own brick and mortar.
He looked up again. Far ahead, she rounded a corner and disappeared. That’s not fair, Sveta. That was a low blow. A sucker-punch to the gut of his soul. That one would linger.
He made no more attempts to catch up to her, nor attempts to reconcile his emotions. In the aftermath of the soft-yet-stinging confrontation, Scott forced her words to the back of his mind. He could wait to deal with them when he felt like tearing out his own heart.
At least that was something he was good at.
11
Monday, November 7, 0011 NE
1157 hours
William’s eyes opened wide. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious.”
“That’s freakin’ sweet!”
/> Scott had gone to the cafeteria directly after his exchange with Svetlana. The task was a welcomed escape. He knew William and Derrick wouldn’t be in Room 8; the Eighth would already have kicked them out. Of all the places in Novosibirsk they might have been, the cafeteria was the most likely. He had been right.
It was a pleasant surprise to see William up and moving. His leg was bandaged, but he looked otherwise unhindered. He would be ready for action in a matter of days.
“Shoot,” said Derrick, chewing on some beans. “That’s gonna be awesome. Being with the Eighth flat-out sucked.”
“Yeah,” William said. “We were like, the only people who spoke English. You guys have the unit to be in if you’re an American.”
It always struck Scott how normally William and Derrick treated him, even after he’d gone to the Nightmen. The fact that he wore a crimson triangle didn’t seem to faze them. He leaned back in his chair. “You know not everyone in the Fourteenth is American?”
“I know,” answered William. “But everyone there speaks English. We tried to learn Russian, but that language sucks.”
Scott considered whether he was offended. He’d felt more Russian than American lately. He liked the language, especially since he’d become fluent.
“I heard about Jayden, man. Is he really gonna be blind?”
Scott’s face fell slightly. “We’re holding out for the slim chance he’ll still see out of one eye. Supposedly it doesn’t look good, but it also didn’t look good when he fell. We’ll just have to wait.”
“If he can see out of one eye, he can stay, right?”
“It’d be tough,” said Derrick. “He’s a sniper, man. He needs to have two eyes.”
“Man, whatever,” William made a stupid face. “A sniper doesn’t need two eyes. It’d just be like he’s aiming all the time.”
Scott was barely listening to the exchange. His mind was still fixed on the Texan. He had to wait two days before he’d be allowed to visit. Two days seemed like an eternity.
“So when can we move in?” Derrick asked.
