by Lee Stephen
Esther remained next to Auric—they were the only pair of EDEN and Nightman operatives in the hangar. But their interaction was strained as they hauled equipment out of the Pariah for its standard prep-down. In a similar fashion, Boris worked inside the ship.
The small Siberian laika—the sole survivor of the Chernobyl rescue—lay motionless at the edge of the cockpit door. Of the entire crew, Travis wore the only occasional smile, though it was reserved for the dog. He would occasionally stroke its head in the midst of his prep-down procedure. It was the most meaningful interaction among the whole crew.
The only other member of the team besides Scott and Max to abandon them during prep-down was Dostoevsky. Leaving even his slayers behind, the fulcrum left the hangar as soon as the Pariah was parked. He disappeared without a word.
* * *
Dostoevsky whirled around, sending a spinning hook kick across a slayer’s face.
Two other slayers behind him lurched forward to grab hold of him, but he was too quick. Grabbing the nearest one by the collar, Dostoevsky jerked him close, using the slayer’s momentum to propel himself forward, where an uppercut with his free hand hammered the third slayer in the chin. He threw the Nightman he’d grabbed by the collar over his shoulder.
The scuffle took place inside one of the many separated fighting rooms in the Hall of the Fulcrums. The rooms were as secluded as they were simple: limestone walls, torch lights, and a circle drawn on the floor with red chalk. Anyone inside the circle was fair game. Anytime. It was a common practice among fulcrums to challenge multiple slayers to combative practice. This was one of those times for Dostoevsky.
He had said little since returning from Chernobyl other than quietly recruiting slayers for a fight—a request never refused when issued by a fulcrum. Judging by the condition of the three sprawled slayers, groaning and bloodied on the floor, a refusal might have been worth the punishment.
From just outside the room, from the archway of the open passage, an observer clapped his hands arrogantly.
Dostoevsky placed one hand on his hip, huffing slightly as he wiped sweat from his face. He didn’t even have to turn around. He knew the identity of the observer without looking. “What do you want, Strakhov?” The three battered slayers on the ground before him struggled to stand.
Oleg leered from the archway. “Can a good EDEN soldier not talk to his commander after a mission? Or am I not allowed to speak to Nightmen?”
One of the slayers, the one Dostoevsky had punched, assumed a weary fighting stance. He thrust out a jab, but Dostoevsky caught it in mid-air and twisted the slayer’s wrist. The slayer cried out and was flipped on his back.
“You need to learn a new move,” Oleg said. “You do that one every time.”
“Do you have somewhere you need to be?” Dostoevsky asked, still without looking. None of the slayers around him moved to attack.
“Slayers!” Oleg ordered. “Go away. Yuri and I have important business.”
The three beaten Nightmen looked at Oleg, then turned their attention to Dostoevsky. After a cordial exchange of nods, the slayers dragged themselves out of the room.
Dostoevsky placed his hands on his hips again, turning to face the eidolon. Though he wasn’t shirtless, his muscles bulged through his tight-fitting T-shirt. His black hair was dripping with sweat.
“You are becoming a disappointment, Yuri. After such a tragic mission, you simply leave your unit behind to prep down the ship. That is not how a captain should act.”
Dostoevsky scoffed. “A captain. Clarke has not been dead for a day, and you are already talking about his replacement.”
“There is nothing to talk about.” Oleg stepped into the room, pacing along the edge of the red-chalk circle. “You are his replacement. Did you have any doubt?”
“I have not given it much thought.”
“Perhaps you should. You have responsibilities now—more so than in the past. Hopefully you will be more effective as a captain than you have been as a commander.”
“Clarke is dead, and you talk as if he has never existed. Do you not care?”
Oleg dropped his monotone and answered sharply. “No, I do not care. But you do. That is only one of your problems. You have become a liability to General Thoor. Baranov was a respected leader—you are not. When Baranov spoke, those under him listened. When you speak, they insult you behind your back.”
“They have their reasons.”
“I do not care about their reasons. The general does not care, either.”
Dostoevsky’s volume increased. “What does this have to do with anything? Why are we having this conversation? Do you not have important things to do?”
“I have been doing important things all day.”
“Name one important thing, besides letting the captain die.”
“But the captain’s death was very important.”
Dostoevsky’s initial reaction was an ordinary stare. But moments later, it changed. His eyebrows furrowed with confusion. His head cocked to the side. “Oleg. Tell me you did not…”
Oleg stretched his arms to the ceiling. “You have not exerted your authority, so we have exerted it for you. Clarke has been removed, and now you will lead.”
Dostoevsky’s jaw dropped. “Oleg! You killed Captain Clarke?”
“I did not kill him. You did.”
Dostoevsky remained dumbfounded.
“You have not shown the general what he requires. You have not shown him the loyalty of Ivan Baranov. You have not even shown him the loyalty of Anatoly Novikov, may God curse his soul.” The eidolon stepped into the circle. “You have left us with no other options. You have not become a leader by choice, so now you have become one by force. This was our gift to you.”
“But why did you do this? Why did Clarke have to die? Could you not have asked him to leave? Threatened his life? Explained to him that if he stayed, he would be killed? He had a wife and two daughters!”
“Listen to yourself!” Oleg’s words were so loud, Dostoevsky flinched. “This is why you gave us no choice! You are not even the shell of the man you once were.”
“I—”
“Be quiet! We are tired of your excuses, Captain Dostoevsky. You have gone from most feared to most mocked in a matter of months. You are an insult to the uniform you wear. You are almost an insult to EDEN, as pathetic as they are.” He went on before Dostoevsky could interrupt. “Consider Clarke’s murder your final opportunity, ordained by your own incompetence. Show us that we did not give you this new title in vain.”
Dostoevsky fought to express himself. His attitude, once hardened in a default position of coldness, was now broken in horrified shock. “You should have told me what would happen! I would not have—”
“You would not have what? Become inconsequential? Clarke died for you and you alone, because your failures deemed it necessary. But listen to my words, Yuri. If you fail again, you will be the next name on my list. And for you, I will not come so quietly. You would be a joy.”
As casually as he’d first entered, Oleg turned and walked away. When he got to the archway that led into the Hall of the Fulcrums, he stopped. “Perhaps you can take notes from Remington. Spited or not, at least he knows how to take control.” The eidolon left the room.
Dostoevsky stood silent for several moments in the arena, listening to the sound of Oleg’s footsteps receding in the distance. A full minute later, he too walked from the room. But in the middle of the hall, he abruptly stopped—not because someone stopped him, or because he’d suddenly had an impactful thought. He didn’t stop for any reason at all.
He had absolutely nowhere to go.
19
Monday, November 14, 0011 NE
1915 hours
Later that evening
“Dude, it just ticks me off,” William said through a mouthful of food. “They should have let me go on the mission. If I’d have known it was gonna be that big, I’d have stowed away in the landing gear or something.”
The four operatives—William, Travis, Boris, and Esther—sat together at a table in the cafeteria. Of all the men and women of the Fourteenth, only they had grouped after the mission. The remainder of the unit’s members were as dispersed as they were divided.
“The bottom line,” William said, “is that demolitionists should get called for every mission. You never know. You might be in the middle of recon or something, then bam, you get hijacked by aliens.”
“…hijacked?”
“Yeah. Then you just gotta blow people up.”
Neither Esther nor Boris had been particularly talkative since their return from Chernobyl. Boris had been shaken up since fleeing the facility. Esther was moody and edgy.
William spoke through another mouthful. “So you found a dog—alive?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s sweet. What’re you gonna name it?”
“I don’t know. We don’t even know if we can keep it.”
“Whatever you name it, it better be awesome.”
The conversation had been William’s alone since the four of them had gone to the cafeteria. He seemed the only one inclined to talk, and Travis exchanged conversation sparingly. William was also the only one eating. Travis and Boris picked at bowls of borsch, while Esther ignored a full bowl of porridge. There was the unspoken understanding among them that they needed to eat, they just weren’t particularly in the mood.
Boris was the first to notice Svetlana approaching. The medic walked into the cafeteria alone, her standard uniform replaced with a simple gray and pink sweat suit. As soon as she saw Boris and the others, she approached them.
Travis raised his head in acknowledgment as she neared, smiling faintly. “Hey, Sveta.”
Svetlana returned the smile and lowered herself between William and Esther. “Hello, Travis, everyone. How are all of you doing?”
“I guess how we should be,” said Travis.
“How’s Derrick?” asked William between bites.
Svetlana cleared her throat in an effort to sound professional. “He will be fine. He does not have anything to threaten his life. He will need to recover, but we will have him back in a couple of weeks. They have good treatment for his injury here.” She looked at Travis again. “Have you seen Varya?”
“No, why?”
“I was just wondering. I visited Jayden and I thought she would be there.”
“How’s Jay doing?”
A span of awkwardness ensued before she answered. “He does not realize how bad his condition is. Or he does not want to realize.” Her frown deepened. “He told me he was ready to start rehabilitation. I told him first to rest. It was hard to know what else to say. He cannot even move yet.” Then she brightened. “I visited Becan, too. He should be back very soon, in limited action. Maybe even in a few days.”
Esther continued to stare at her porridge. She had yet to acknowledge Svetlana at all.
“Did you tell them about Clarke?” Travis asked.
“Becan, yes,” Svetlana answered, frowning. “I did not think it wise to tell Jayden yet. Not until he recovers more.”
“We need Becan back.”
“I agree.” She allowed the faintest of grins to emerge. “Where is Flopper?”
Travis chuckled softly. “I fed him some scraps. He’s still in the ship.”
“Who’s Flopper?” asked William.
“That’s the dog.”
The demolitionist looked disgusted. “You named it Flopper? Dude, that name sucks!”
Svetlana looked at him a wryly. “It will be good to have Flopper. It will be something different. Maybe, I do not know, we can keep him? The poor dog does not have a home.” When no one answered, she said determinedly, “I will ask Scott. Maybe having a dog will make him happy. I think it will.”
Next to her, Esther’s nostrils began to flare. She played anxiously with her spoon.
“This is a hard time for him, for everyone,” Svetlana went on, “but we must believe things will improve. In tragic times, sometimes people find strength. I believe things will get better soon.”
“You really think so?” asked Travis.
She smiled. “Of course. That is why I am here.”
“Good enough for me.”
Then it happened.
It was too sudden to predict or prevent. In a single, emotionally driven burst, Esther swept her arm across the table. Her body whirled Svetlana’s way. Svetlana didn’t even have time to finch; Esther’s entire bowl of porridge slammed into her face. A wave of oatmeal crashed over her head.
Everything stopped, from the conversation at the table to the motion in the cafeteria. Travis, Boris, and William’s mouths simultaneously fell, as Esther’s face twisted with hatred.
“Do you even sodding hear yourself talk?” The scout screamed at the top of her lungs as she rose to her feet. “Things will get better because you’re here?”
Svetlana’s mouth hung open in shock. Globs of porridge dripped from her hair and slid down her face. The plastic bowl fell to the floor.
Esther went on. “You’re a catastrophe on so many levels, it pains me to think! You’ve caused nothing but tension with David, you’ve cut us off from Dostoevsky completely, and if things weren’t proper wrecked enough, on the battlefield you’re a bloody disgrace!”
The scout pointed at herself. “I am the last person to sound supercilious when it comes to performance on a mission. I have made my mistakes. It’s called being flustered.” Her finger turned to Svetlana. “But in Chernobyl, you were nowhere near flustered. Flustered means you get nervous and press the wrong button, or you drop ammunition while loading a gun. All of that is well and understandable. But not so with you. You didn’t know how to shoot, you didn’t know how to move, you didn’t know how to act. You couldn’t even tell the difference between a woman and a flesh-eating alien. You could’ve gotten us killed!”
Svetlana’s stare remained frozen during the entire outburst.
“Don’t think for a second we don’t know why you’re here. Oh, I’m sure Scott Remington isn’t in your lusty little dreams. I’m sure your motives are completely platonic.” Her sarcasm was only matched by her scowl.
Esther shoved in her chair. “So while you sit here, bamboozling everyone into thinking you’re some kind of saint while you doll up for the lieutenant, I’ll be busy trying to improve. I’ll be trying to salvage whatever dignity this unit has left by working to make myself the best I can be. Because that, Svetlana, is what Scott Remington needs.” She tightened her lips. “He most certainly doesn’t need you.”
“Enjoy supper.” With those words, the scout whirled around and stalked out of the cafeteria. The glass doors swung shut in her wake, as the whole of the cafeteria looked on in disbelief.
The silence in the cafeteria was deafening. Every pair of eyes—and there were hundreds—watched until Esther was out of view. Then they turned on Svetlana.
Porridge still dribbled down her face, sliding in wet clumps from her hairline. When she dipped her head forward, her oatmeal-drenched bangs dangled straight down. Finally, she showed enough self-respect to wipe her face, leaving faint trails of cleanliness behind as she slung the watery clumps to the floor. Her bottom lip tensed for the first time.
William was the only observer to speak. His mouth curved into a blatant grin as his falsetto voice filled the cafeteria. “Wamp, wamp, waaaaa!”
Travis and Boris stared at him in shock.
Svetlana maintained her composure. Pushing back her chair, she rose to her feet, turned around, and made for the exit.
Silence prevailed again. Just as all eyes had watched Esther leave, they now watched Svetlana. Only when she was out of view did they find their next target: the oversized southerner. The man who looked as bewildered as they did, but for an entirely different reason. The man who didn’t have a clue.
“What?” William asked.
*
* *
Since he’d returned to his room hours before, Scott had been at war—with himself. He regretted his reaction to Max in the hangar. It was one of the few times that his fellow lieutenant had ever tried to reconcile anything, and Scott had rejected it as if it had meant nothing. In the wake of Captain Clarke’s death, Max had stayed calm and collected. Scott had not, and he felt as though he’d lost all remaining shreds of dignity.
Who was the horrible lieutenant now?
His back began to itch terribly, where the necrilid had punctured him in Chernobyl. The puncture wounds alone hurt fiercely, despite not being too deep. But the itching was almost too much to bear. It wasn’t venom or poison—it was a common necrilid scratch side effect.
He recalled the dog they had rescued. Someone would have to drive into the city of Novosibirsk to dispose of the animal. He’d have to find out where there was a shelter. It was just another thing he had to do.
Since returning to Novosibirsk, Scott had been exhausted but unable to sleep. It ended up working out better that way. No sooner had he arrived back at The Machine than he was summoned to Confinement by Petrov, the scientist he usually visited. The Fourteenth’s Nightmen had challenged necrilids and won, and now Novosibirsk demanded to know more. This was fine with Scott. It was another excuse to go to Confinement and do his own kind of searching—the same searching he’d been doing there for months. Now, after winding down from the mission, he was finally ready to make the Confinement trip. He left his room, clutching the manila folder that always went with him.
They’re going to ask a thousand questions. What gave me the idea? What thought process was I following? What was my rationale? He sighed. There’s no way they’ll understand. That was the truth. In the hours that followed the Chernobyl battle, the reality—and the insanity—of what he’d done had set in. It all came down to one fact: he hadn’t wanted to lose. The entire motivation for his actions was to avoid coming up short. Did that make him admirable or dangerous? In the end, though, it wouldn’t matter. The Machine would make its own judgments as it always did. And so, he continued down the hall, rounding a corner onto the main corridor.
