by Lee Stephen
Scott refocused on the chat. “You can move in right now. Where’s all your stuff?”
“We hid it in the snow.”
Scott actually caught himself in a chuckle. The statement was an odd brand of humor. It was unmistakably William and Derrick’s. That was the part of camaraderie that he truly missed. But when he realized Derrick wasn’t smiling, he stopped. “You were kidding, right?”
“No, I’m serious. It was this moron’s idea.”
“There was nowhere else to put it, man,” said William. “You know they woulda stole it.”
Scott’s mouth fell. “So you hid it in the snow?”
“Don’t worry, we taped garbage bags around it. It’ll be fine.”
Garbage bags. That was hilarious. Though he never doubted the two would get along fine in Fourteenth, it was conversations like this that made the decision seem golden. The unit needed people like them to lighten the mood. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone in the Fourteenth had looked like they were enjoying themselves.
But Scott was enjoying himself now. The moment he realized that, the question rose in his mind. Why didn’t he feel guilty about enjoying himself? Guilt constantly nipped at his heels—after every inadvertent smile or laugh. After every moment of anything other than darkness and depravity, guilt and bitterness were always right there. He couldn’t even be happy that an old friend like Svetlana had returned, or that he’d just saved the lives of two priests. Every white cloud had a miserable lining.
He decided to ask the question that had been lingering in his mind since finding William and Derrick in the cafeteria. In truth, it had lingered much longer. “Why are you both so comfortable around me?”
Both other men stopped eating.
Scott felt the urge to continue. “I really want to know. Why?” He knew they both had strong feelings about the Nightmen. A Nightman had murdered one of their own. That was how Joe Janson had died—by the Silent Fever. They must have felt something.
Derrick hesitated before answering, his voice deadly serious. “Scott, man…you got this all wrong. You killed someone. Yeah, you murdered someone, and it sucked. But it’d be totally different if you’d wanted to do it.”
I did want to do it, Scott thought. Just to a different person.
“I mean, shoot, someone killed your fiancee,” Derrick went on. “And why did they kill your fiancee? To get to you, ‘cause they knew there was no other way you’d do it.”
“If I was in love,” William cut in, “and someone killed her? Man, I’d kill every Nightman in sight.”
“We talk about this all the time,” said Derrick. “We talk about it with Becan and Jayden and Max. There ain’t a guy in our group who wouldn’t have done the same thing.” He hesitated for a moment. “If I’m bein’ honest, man…I still hope you catch the guy who did it. He deserves to be killed.”
The words cut Scott deep. A day did not pass when he didn’t wonder who the real killer was. He’d wondered about it when Viktor, Nicolai, Auric, and Egor joined the unit. Every time he met a new Nightman, he wondered. But for the life of him, he didn’t know what he’d do if he found Nicole’s killer. There was a part of him that still wanted to kill, but another part of him was afraid. What if I kill the wrong person again?
“There’s a difference between you and someone like Dostoevsky,” said Derrick. “Whatever he did, it was ‘cause he wanted to. I never seen anyone so sold out to the Nightmen. You’re not like that.”
Scott sighed. He thought about the other Nightmen, too. What if they’d all made mistakes? What if they were all victims of conspiracy? Even though he knew it couldn’t be true, the thought remained.
Nonetheless, Derrick’s words had merit. Nightmen like Dostoevsky were the backbone of The Machine. Ruthless murderers—some of them worse. Scott wasn’t like that. But he wasn’t like EDEN, either. Everything about life seemed like gray areas. The line between hero and villain was scarcely a line at all.
He had no idea who he was.
“I like you, man,” Derrick said. “That’s just the truth. I know why you did what you did. I don’t hold it against you.”
William nodded. “I like you, too. In the way a guy can like a guy, without being like, romantic.”
Derrick stared at him.
“Derrick’s not being romantic, either.”
“Do you ever ask yourself if you sound dumb?” Derrick asked.
Scott laughed again. Just briefly, but it was there. He’d never thought about things the way these two described them. He wasn’t sure he could accept their view, though; it seemed too easy a way out. But God—it felt so good to laugh.
“So!” Derrick said. “We better dig up our stuff.” The two new additions to the Fourteenth rose from their chairs.
As they grabbed their trays, Scott said, “I appreciate what you told me, guys.” He could feel something in him about to bend, but he wasn’t sure what. He’d felt a quick spurt of pleasure, briefly, but bitterness still lurked treacherously underneath. His soul still felt robbed.
“Don’t mention it,” answered Derrick. “We’ll see ya soon.”
“Later, suck-fist,” said William.
Scott laughed as the two men left. Evidently, William had never forgotten Scott’s first sparring match—the humiliating defeat against Max and Dostoevsky. Scott had a feeling the demolitionist never would.
For several minutes after William and Derrick had left, Scott remained behind in the cafeteria, sitting and thinking. Maybe I’ve approached this all wrong. All of it. His reaction to Nicole’s death. His reaction to becoming a Nightman. His reaction to the Fourteenth over the months.
He was still a fulcrum—a symbol of murder. But for the first time in a long while, he thought he sensed something over the horizon. Maybe Svetlana was right. He still wasn’t sure—his own black brick and mortar ran deep. Still, something was there, something better than what he’d become. Something better than despicable.
It seemed like a good place to start.
* * *
It was past noon. Hands on her knees, Varvara sat nearly motionless in an infirmary chair. She’d been there since before the sun rose. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t allowed into critical care; she was determined to stay put.
Updates on Jayden had been rare, even considering she was a medic from the same unit. She’d asked numerous times, but the surgeons simply weren’t obliged to talk.
“Varya?”
The voice startled her. She looked up, turning her head to the infirmary’s entrance doors. It was Viktor. The slayer-medic stepped hesitantly into the foyer.
As she watched him approach, she tried hard to smile but the effort failed. Instead, her face twisted and moisture brimmed in her eyes. Her head dropped and tears came forth in heaves.
“Varya…” Viktor said, kneeling beside her. He placed his hand on her knee. “It will be okay.”
“Why does God allow this to happen?” Her words barely escaped. “Anyone but he deserved this. I deserved this!”
“I do not know.”
“If he becomes blind…”
The slayer was quick to take over. “Jayden will persevere. He is strong, just like you. There is a reason you found one another.”
“But what if he leaves? What if he goes back to America?”
Viktor fell silent for a moment. He bowed his head briefly, then spoke. “Then you must go with him. If you truly love him, it should not be a question.”
She covered her face with her hands. Doctors, nurses, and surgeons passed through the entrance hall, but she was oblivious to them.
Viktor sighed. “This is not good for you. It worries me greatly. Will you come with me, anywhere else? You have been here for too long today.”
“He is suffering!” She looked up from her hands. Tears streaked down her face. “How can I leave now?”
“Varya.” He squeezed her leg. “I know this is not easy. This could be the hardest thing you have ever felt. But what good are you to hi
m, if they wake him and you have gone crazy? He needs you to be the girl he knows and loves. You cannot be that if you spend all your time here.”
He frowned. “I am not asking this as a medical professional. I am asking this as your friend. Give yourself one hour with me. One hour, away from this place. We can go wherever you like. When you come back here, you will feel so much better. I promise you that.” When she didn’t respond, he forced her to look into his eyes.
“Varya, I am here for you.”
She hesitated before turning to stare down the hall and brushing the tears away. Sniffling, she nodded her head.
He smiled. “This is good. This will be a good thing. You will see.”
She awkwardly rose and turned to face him fully. Her eyes were still moist. “Thank you, Viktor, for saving his life. Thank you for this. I can never thank you enough.”
“It is okay. I understand. We Nightmen are not all evil, are we?” When she cracked a faint smile, he laughed softly. “At least, I hope that is what you believe.”
Her smile lasted for a moment, then faded and was replaced with an expression of guilt.
“Let us go. He will be here when you return.” She nodded and they walked out together through the infirmary doors.
Several minutes later, a doctor entered the foyer of the infirmary. His apron looked recently washed, despite being spotted with old stains. Stopping in front of the now-abandoned chair, he looked around, puzzled. He returned to the main desk and found the attendant. “The young woman. Did she leave?”
The woman looked at the doctor, then through the main doors. “She left, not even five minutes ago. She left with another man.”
Sighing, the doctor placed his hands squarely on his hips. “That is very unfortunate.”
“Is something wrong?”
For a few moments, the doctor did not respond. Then he said, “No, actually, it is not wrong at all. I wanted to give her the news.”
“What news?”
“His right eye. We ran some tests to determine progress. We were surprised at how good it looked. There is a good chance it can be saved.”
“That is wonderful!”
“He has been under anesthesia since he came in. I was going to wake him and let her come see him. I am sure he will be confused when he wakes, so I thought she would be the best person to greet him.”
Both of them fell silent. More surgeons and doctors passed through the hall. Occasionally a nurse pushed a cart.
“I will go back, then,” the doctor finally said. “I will explain to him myself what happened.” Offering a nod to the attendant, he turned and walked away from the desk. The attendant resumed her work.
No one else visited the infirmary that morning. Varvara never returned.
12
Wednesday, November 9, 0011 NE
0702 hours
Two days later
As Judge Blake stepped out from the transport on the icy airstrip of Novosibirsk, he rubbed his arms together. “Frozen hellhole.” Carol June, the auburn-haired judge, appeared equally cold. She stepped out of the transport behind him.
Blake looked in the hangar’s entranceway, where two Nightman sentries hurried to intercept them. “Here come the welcoming committee.”
The first sentry spoke. “You were not authorized to land.” Then he froze. His zombified stare caught the judges’ insignias.
“Yes, well,” said Blake, “I’m afraid we’re authorized to land wherever we please. What is your name?”
For a moment, there was no response. The two Nightmen stood like metal statues, apprehension detectable in their stances. When one of them finally answered, not even his mechanized voice could hide his anxiety. “Mikhajlov, judge…”
“And your counterpart?”
The other man spoke. “I am Petrenko…”
“Very well. My name is Judge Malcolm Blake. This is my good friend, Judge June. Now that we’ve been properly introduced, Mr. Mikhajlov, might you be so kind as to escort me to Alien Confinement? And Mr. Petrenko, might you be willing to entertain Judge June while she asks you a few short questions?”
The sentries stood in unified hesitation. Then Mikhajlov replied. “Of course. It would be my pleasure, Judge Blake. Follow me, please?”
“By all means, lead the way.”
As Mikhajlov turned to leave, he cast a final look back to Petrenko. They exchanged bewildered hand gestures before they were forced to break apart from each another.
Carol June looked at Petrenko. “Mr. Petrenko—jog your memory for me concerning the Assault on Novosibirsk. And while you’re doing so, fetch me some tea.”
* * *
“Dostoevsky is still feared as a fulcrum,” Oleg said, “but the unit’s respect for him has diminished. Clarke addresses him only when necessary. He and Remington have no relationship. His role as commander has become awkward.”
General Thoor stood, arms folded, along a wall of the Inner Sanctum. “The commander has not asserted himself as I had hoped. He has allowed the Fourteenth’s leadership to fall into question. That makes the Fourteenth useless to me.”
“He will never assert himself, general. He is suffering from a disconnect. He still has the capacity to lead, but his fervency is no longer there. He no longer has passion.”
“And Remington?”
“There is a problem with Remington, general. It is the woman, Voronova. She should not have been allowed to return.”
“Elaborate.”
“She has had an effect on the unit,” answered Oleg. “She has had an effect on Remington himself. He feels, now. I observe him from a distance, and I see it in the way he carries himself. He does not like what we have made him.”
Thoor stepped into the illuminated portion of the room. “Do you like what I have made you, Strakhov?”
Oleg responded instantly. “Yes, general. I do.”
“Monitor her actions. If she becomes a nuisance, relinquish her of her breath. Her return may have been EDEN’s prerogative, but I will not allow her to become an obstacle to my will.”
“Yes, general.”
Thoor was silent for several moments, letting the background noises of the Inner Sanctum come into prominence. When he spoke again, his voice cut through the room. “My patience with Dostoevsky has worn thin. If he will not lead by choice, he will lead by necessity. Exterminate Clarke.”
Oleg bowed his head. “I would be honored, general.”
Before any more discussion could ensue, the doors to the Inner Sanctum burst open and a slayer hurried inside. Thoor and Oleg turned his way.
“General!” the slayer said, huffing as he knelt before Thoor. “There is an urgent situation at hand.”
“Speak.”
“It is EDEN Command, general. They have sent two of their judges to Novosibirsk. They are here now!”
“And this concerns you?”
The slayer blinked. “But general, they are freely roaming The Machine. One has gone to Confinement, while the other interrogates our sentries.”
“Interrogates them concerning what?”
“The Assault on Novosibirsk, general.”
Oleg turned to Thoor.
Once again, the noises of the giant room became louder. The general’s eyes grew threateningly cold. “Let them roam. Let them interrogate. Let them bask in their own inferiority. They wish to intimidate us with their presence. They do not yet understand where they are.”
The slayer bowed his head reverently.
Thoor turned to Oleg. “Send word to the eidola. Lift our veil of ignorance. Deliver EDEN’s informants to me.”
“Yes, general.”
“Leave at once.”
The two Nightmen—Oleg and the slayer—offered closing salutes to General Thoor. They strode down the crimson carpet of the Inner Sanctum, opening the wooden doors and stepping out. Their footsteps disappeared into the Hall of the Fulcrums.
* * *
“And these are all of your specimens?” Blake asked. He turned
to Petrov, the chief scientist in Confinement.
Petrov hesitated. “Yes, Judge Blake.”
Blake turned to the cells. Several aliens peered from their glass prisons. “So Novosibirsk possesses no Ceratopians?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“Mm-hmm.” Blake pulled a notepad out of his pocket and scribbled a few words. “And if you were to recover a Ceratopian, what would you do with it?”
The scientist hesitated a second time. “We transport all Ceratopians to Cairo within one week of capture. That is what EDEN has instructed us to do.”
“Do you always do what EDEN tells you?”
Several other scientists standing along the walls and watching the episode swapped leery looks. Mikhajlov, the sentry who’d escorted Blake, listened intently.
“Of course, judge,” answered Petrov. “We are a part of EDEN, are we not?”
“Of course.” Placing the notepad back in his pocket, Blake turned to one of the Bakma prisoners. He stared at the captive’s face. “Mr. Petrov, why are you lying to me?”
“I do not know what you mean, my judge.”
Blake broke away from the Bakma. “You are just aware as I am that this is not the only Confinement in Novosibirsk. This is not the Confinement I wish to see.”
“But Judge…”
“I wish to see the one in the Citadel of The Machine.”
At the door to Confinement, Mikhajlov gasped.
“That is what you call it, correct? Or is that something I’m not supposed to know?”
Petrov fumbled for words. “The Citadel of The Machine, yes, I forgot about that, but…”
“But what?”
“But that is not so much a Confinement, it is more like…” His words trailed off again. They never returned.
Blake walked to him. “More like a what, Mr. Petrov?”
Petrov looked back at the sentry helplessly, wiping newly formed sweat from his brow. “It is a different kind of Confinement.”
“Then I would like to see your ‘different kind of Confinement,’ if you would be so kind as to take me there.”
