by Lee Stephen
“I—”
“Take me there now.”
Petrov glanced at Mikhajlov once again. After a moment of silent deliberation, the sentry nodded his head. Petrov said to Judge Blake, his voice quaking imperceptibly, “As you wish, judge. Please, follow me.”
The two men led Blake from the room.
* * *
Carol June scribbled in her notebook as another Nightman entered the chamber. It was a room she’d requested, a small one that wasn’t in use. The lights were low. She was there by herself, except for the Nightmen. They came in, one at a time, as she asked for them. This was the fifth one she’d addressed.
As the latest Nightman to arrive stood before her, she sipped her now tepid tea. “Tell me your name.”
The Nightman hesitated before answering. “My name is Petr Radin.”
“And do you have a rank?”
He turned his eyes from her. “I do not, judge.”
“So you’re unregistered?”
“…that is correct.”
She scribbled in her notebook. “So tell me, Mr. Radin, where were you during the Assault on Novosibirsk?”
“Where was I?”
“That’s right. This battle came suddenly. Surely you must have been somewhere other than the airstrip.”
After several moments of silence, he answered. “I was asleep in my room, judge.”
Taking another sip of tea, June leaned back. “So when the attack took place, you were asleep in your room. I assume that when the alarms went off, you and your comrades immediately rallied to the airstrip, correct?”
The Nightman said nothing.
“Please answer my question, Mr. Radin.”
“Yes, judge. What you say is correct.”
“Really? You immediately rallied to the airstrip?”
“Yes, judge.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” she said, eyeing her notebook, “because so far, that’s what every Nightman has said.” She unfolded a paper from her lap. “Until of course, I mention our official log of the event. That’s when everyone’s story seems to change.”
Eying him suspiciously, she revealed the paper’s contents aloud. “The assault came at 0136 hours. Your Nightman comrades charged the airstrip at 0225. That’s forty minutes—hardly what I’d call an immediate response.” She paused to let the information sink in.
“So you say you immediately rallied to the airstrip, but evidence says that’s not quite the case. Tell me, Mr. Radin. How’s your story going to change?”
* * *
With every passing step through The Machine, Petrov and Mikhajlov grew more perturbed. Judge Blake, on the other hand, was fearless. The bald judge walked behind them, hands clasped confidently behind his back. Their path first took them across the outer grounds of the frozen base, then into the halls of the officers’ building.
Finally, the men stopped walking. Blake stepped several paces in front of them, then stopped to look around. They stood in a hallway no different than the ones they’d been traversing. Doors lined both sides of the hall.
“I’m tired of walking in circles,” said Blake with irritation. “Take me to the Citadel now.”
“Judge,” Petrov said, “we have.”
Blake gave both men an uncertain look.
“The three doors on your left, judge. Open one of them.”
The judge suspiciously eyed the doors. There was nothing remarkable about them—they even were numbered in sync with the rest. Reaching the first door, Blake cautiously took the knob and twisted it. As the door swung open, his eyes widened in awe.
It wasn’t a room. It was a dimly lit staircase descending straight down. Blake turned to the men. “Does this lead to the Citadel?”
“That is correct, judge.”
Blake no longer hesitated. He strode purposefully down the stairs, with Petrov and Mikhajlov behind him.
The stairs continued down until moldy discoloration replaced the painted walls. Finally, they reached a landing, where it gave way to a narrow stone passage, devoid of all but yellowish institutional lighting. At the end of the passage was a wooden door.
Blake pointed. “Where does that door lead?”
“To the Hall of the Fulcrums. It is the main corridor of the Citadel. From there, you can go anywhere.”
“And what do you people call ‘Confinement’ here?”
The scientist hesitated. “The Walls of Mourning.”
For several seconds, nobody spoke. Blake turned to the scientist with an expression that walked a line between suspicion and willful ignorance. Then he whipped around, swung the wooden door open, and strode through.
They entered an enormous corridor. Torches lined every wall, accompanied by ancient chandeliers on the ceiling. Except for the lighting, the room was Spartan. Nightmen milled about everywhere—slayers, sentries, and fulcrums. As soon as Blake appeared, they all froze.
The stalemate didn’t have time to turn awkward. The EDEN judge spoke at once. “Take me to the Walls of Mourning. No delays.”
“Yes, judge,” Petrov said. “Follow me.”
The trek to The Machine’s version of Confinement took a mere minute. Ignoring the Nightmen who watched warily from ever corner, the three men crossed the Hall of the Fulcrums until they came to a single iron door. Nothing on it revealed its identity. Blake pulled the door open.
The room had depth. There were no separated chambers, no other doorways or hallways. Instead, iron-barred cages stretched far ahead along every wall, placed one right after the other.
The first thing that hit Blake was the stench, but what he saw made him cover his mouth. Blood. Everywhere. On the walls, on the floor, even on the ceiling. The headless corpse of an Ithini was nailed to the wall with iron spikes. It had apparently been there for some time. Miscellaneous weapons lay strewn about—swords, axes, and maces, among other things. Chains hung from the ceiling. The whole room reeked of decay and death.
Bakma prisoners lolled in the cages, many with missing limbs and missing eyes, some twitching in near-lifelessness. Ithini in separate cages appeared in much the same state. Some were bleeding as they writhed in mute agony. Not an alien in the room was unscarred.
Blake was speechless. His formerly defiant expression had faded into pale shock. His mouth hung open; his arms hung limply at his sides. He didn’t breathe.
Several other Nightmen moved around the room; all were bloodstained and occupied. One by one, they looked at the door. When they recognized Judge Blake, they stopped.
“He knew,” Petrov explained to the Nightmen in Russian. To Blake, he said, “Do you not torture at EDEN Command?”
For the first time since entering, the British judge spoke. “This isn’t torture. This is sadism.”
Petrov walked forward as Blake followed. They came to the first cage, which held a Bakma. Both of its arms had been removed, and the trauma appeared to have gone almost untreated. The creature writhed in pain on the floor, surrounded by blood.
“This is Lu’tikmanassa. He is a soldier. We thought he knew more than he did. He will not live much longer.”
The Bakma evidenced no indication that it was aware of their presence.
Petrov stopped at the next cage. Another Bakma sat on the floor inside, but this one’s limbs were intact. Its body was grotesquely malnourished. “This one is Tauthinilaas. He is an officer. He was captured during the Assault on Novosibirsk.”
As Blake leaned closer to the bars, the Bakma looked up at him. The alien’s skin dangled loosely as if a once muscular body had atrophied beyond repair.
“We are sustaining him for questioning, though he has not given us much. If he does not cooperate soon, he will be killed.”
Blake interrupted him. “Do you have any Ceratopians?” His voice broke. His eyes stayed locked on the Bakma’s.
“…yes, judge,” Petrov confessed. “Come with me.”
The Bakma was left to its emaciated state.
Blake was directed to the oppos
ite side of the room, in the far corner. There were two Ceratopians present, but only one seemed conscious. The other lay crumpled on the floor.
“This is Gag`hraffthra,” Petrov said, pointing to the better-kept brute. “It is a hard name to pronounce, but they all are. We received him very recently, and we’re considering our options.”
Blake turned to the other, worse-off alien. One of its horns had been removed, and the wound had festered. But the alien was alive. “What is this one’s name?”
“H`gath. He was wounded when we recovered him from a crash.”
“Is that how he lost one of his horns?”
“No…”
Blake stifled a gag. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Are you all right, judge?”
Blake waved Petrov off and hurried back to the iron door. The Nightmen in the room exchanged dark looks.
As soon as Blake was in the hallway, he placed a hand on the wall to steady himself. “This is evil,” he whispered under his breath. “This place is pure evil.”
Petrov and Mikhajlov were right behind him.
“Take me out of this place,” Blake said. “I’ve seen enough.”
The men affirmed and escorted him out.
* * *
EDEN Command
Thirty minutes later
The view screen on Archer’s desk flickered on as Blake’s face appeared. His typically amiable expression was absent behind a veneer of disgust.
Archer sat alone in his suite. “Don’t you look lovely?”
“If you’d seen what I’ve seen…” The statement was left unfinished. “Forget every preconceived notion of civility you thought this place might have had. These are barbarians.”
“Is he there?”
Blake frowned apologetically. “No.”
Archer’s face noticeably altered. He fought hard not to scowl. “This does not bode well, Malcolm. We do not have as much time as we thought. He must be found.”
“I understand.”
“What of Thoor?”
“We haven’t seen him. We’ve succeeded in catching him off guard, that much is for certain. You should see the looks we’ve been getting. They’re definitely unprepared.”
“Good. Has Carol made progress?”
Blake attempted a smile. “You know Carol.”
“Have you spoken with her?”
“Not yet. I want to make sure it’s the right time. I want everything to go smoothly. If I don’t find the opportunity to speak with her here, I’ll talk with her during the flight home.”
Blake paused and continued. “As ironic as it may be considering where we are, they’ve made our accommodations quite comfortable. We’ve been given neighboring suites in their officers’ wing. One of the entrances to Fort Zhukov is just down the hall. I’m not sure how long we’ll stay. Possibly several days, possibly a week. Much of that will hinge on Thoor’s responsiveness. But we won’t leave until we get the job done.”
“Stay as long as your obligations permit. Find out all that you can. Novosibirsk is a threat we can’t afford.”
“As you wish.”
“That’s all for now.”
Blake acknowledged and the view screen went blank.
For several moments, Archer simply sat there, his arms folded as he stared at the blank screen. Eventually, his gaze moved to the conch lamps that provided the room’s dim illumination. “Carol June, you sour little witch. Come to the light.”
13
Wednesday, November 9, 0011 NE
1342 hours
That same day
Scott rarely visited the infirmary—for any reason. A certain uncomfortable feeling accompanied him whenever he was forced to make the trip—one unmatched by anyplace else. He recalled his own time there after his first mission in Siberia with the Fourteenth. He knew how confining it felt to be restricted to a bed. It was like being in a prison cell.
Two days had passed since he’d attempted to visit Jayden. This was the day they’d instructed him to return. Despite the fact that he hadn’t seen the Texan since Krasnoyarsk, he had received several updates through Svetlana. Those were the only times when he and her had talked.
According to Svetlana, the surgeon had awakened Jayden from his multi-day slumber, sadly, alone. Jayden learned of his condition not through the gentle words of Varvara or any other friend, but from the man who’d removed his left eye.
He had broken bones over his body. In a strange twist of fate, however, none of the breaks were major. Considering the fall he’d taken, it was a sheer miracle. Had he no other problems, a full recovery could have been expected in a matter of months. But unfortunately, broken bones were the least of his concerns.
His face had been torn apart by his visor. A local cosmetic surgeon had come to base specifically to stitch him up. Supposedly, this was Jayden’s first day without his face wrapped up in bandages. Though Scott hadn’t yet seen him, according to Svetlana the surgeon had done very well. But the truth could not be denied: he’d never look the same again.
Then there was his vision.
Scott had specifically asked Svetlana to refrain from describing the gritty details. Scott had overcome his initial queasiness when it came to blood and grown accustomed to seeing gruesome things on the battlefield, but the fact that it was Jayden made the subject taboo. Scott wanted the gist of things and nothing more.
Jayden’s right eye, after all, had fared unexpectedly well. It was being treated with antibiotics and something Svetlana called a cycloplegic to reduce inflammation. He’d need to wear an eye patch for a few days, but the outlook was optimistic after that. At that point, the members of the Fourteenth would take any degree of optimism they could get.
That was all Scott knew when he walked into the infirmary. He was aware of the fact that, no matter how prepared he was to see Jayden for the first time, reality was liable to shock him. What he saw when he entered the room made him cringe. The Texan looked like a mummy. His entire body, save his face, was wrapped in plaster casting. He was thoroughly immobilized.
His face looked like a swollen patchwork quilt—a labyrinth of stitches and puffy, discolored skin. Both his right eye and vacant left socket were covered with patches, leaving him effectively blind as he was. Had Scott not known it was Jayden beforehand, he’d have never recognized him upon entering the room.
Walking to the edge of Jayden’s bed, Scott placed a hand on the sniper’s cast arm. As softly as he had ever spoken, Scott said, “Hey, Jay.” For the life of him, he had no idea how to sound confident or even professional.
What Scott saw next almost broke him. In the midst of his wretched condition, Jayden smiled. He smiled at the sound of Scott’s voice. Scott was moved nearly to tears.
“Hey, man,” Jayden said quietly. His voice was barely audible, but it held a faint trace of enthusiasm.
Scott wasn’t sure if Jayden had made a deliberate attempt to whisper or if that was the extent to which the Texan could speak. He thought it best not to ask. Instead, he blurted, “How do you feel?” He regretted the question the moment he asked it. What a stupid thing to ask.
“Good, man.”
Good. Of all the miserable ways Jayden could have answered, he’d said good. Scott couldn’t help it—he bit his fist as his eyes started to well. I pale next to someone like this. If I’d gone through life with an attitude like his, I wouldn’t be a fulcrum.
He swallowed his emotions before they could become audible; he didn’t want Jayden to hear him break down. “You had a lot of company?” He couldn’t think of anything else to ask.
“Clarke came earlier,” Jayden mumbled, slurring his words slightly. “And Svetlana and Esther. Becan, too.”
Scott caught the omission of Varvara. Surely she must have visited him by now. If an injured Becan could make his way over, surely Jayden’s girlfriend must have come, too. The Texan had probably still been unconscious at the time.
“What’s Varya doing?” Jayden asked.
&n
bsp; He didn’t know how to answer. “She’s been busy with everything going on. It’s been pretty crazy.” It was an absolutely meaningless answer, and a lie. He had no idea what Varvara was doing. But whatever it was, it apparently hadn’t been with her boyfriend—at least not when he was conscious. You better have visited him, Varvara.
“Man,” Jayden said, “I’m so glad you came. What’s been goin’ on?”
“Heh,” Scott said without answering immediately. So much had happened. He wasn’t sure where to begin. “William and Derrick are moving to the unit.”
“Yeah, Clarke told me. I think that’s great.”
The simplest of conversations, but it made Jayden happy. Scott honestly felt good about that. He decided to leave out the details of William and Derrick’s addition, which was the execution of Ulrich. The Texan may have already known anyway.
“I think I’m gonna be able to fight again,” Jayden said. “The doctors told me there’s a chance.”
Scott’s good feeling quickly turned to rot. Jayden would be able to fight again? That wasn’t what he’d heard at all. “Just take it easy. Worry about getting better first.”
“I’m serious, man. I really think I can do it. I’ve been asking a lot of questions.”
Scott waited for the out-of-place statement to be furthered, but it never was. So Scott prodded on. “What kind of questions?”
Jayden never answered Scott’s inquiry. Instead, he repeated his earlier statement. “Svetlana came. Man, it was so good to see her. Clarke and Esther came, too.”
Scott knew it right then. The Texan wasn’t in his right mind—there was no telling what he imagined the doctors had told him. He was probably drugged up. “They did, huh?”
“Yeah. Svetlana said I was gonna get better.”
Scott tried to sound well-intentioned. “I guess that means you’ll get better. She knows her stuff.” He felt sick with disgust.
“Yeah.” Jayden stared without eyes at the ceiling, but his grin never left. “I’m gonna get better.”
