by Lee Stephen
No one answered her rhetorical question. Almost no one answered at all.
Except for one person.
His grin—the sole grin in the room—stretched clear from one ear to the next. His eyes twinkled like a twelve-year-old boy’s. When he spoke, his drawl filled the lounge.
“Dude,” William said, looking across at Travis. “This unit rocks!”
21
Monday, November 14, 0011 NE
2121 hours
The doors to Confinement slid open as Scott stepped inside. He knew Petrov would still be there, despite the late hour. The scientist had asked to see Scott; he wouldn’t leave until Scott came.
It was impossible not to think of the conversation he’d just had with Svetlana, not to feel lost and confused. The manila folder—Sergei Steklov’s folder—was tucked underneath Scott’s arm. He still felt compelled to bring it along.
Petrov smiled as the lieutenant stepped through the doors. “Good evening, Commander Remington.”
Scott shook his head. “Not ‘commander’ yet.”
“Soon enough, my good friend. Soon enough.”
The Machine’s lack of compassion was disgusting. Captain Clarke has been dead for less than a day. Is that all he meant to this place? He knew the answer and hated it. As long as there were Nightmen in the Fourteenth, Clarke would have always been an uninvited guest. Scott remembered his first conversation with William Harbinger a long time ago. William had told him that the Fourteenth was one of Thoor’s favorite units—because of Clarke. Now Scott knew it was a lie. Captain Dostoevsky and Commander Remington. That was probably how Thoor had viewed it for months.
“Please, lieutenant, sit down. You have much to tell me!”
Scott sat in the indicated chair, taking a moment to survey the cells. They held many of the same inhabitants; not one of them was new. He looked at his folder. All my time here, and I’ve learned nothing. He fought and failed to quell his overwhelming sense of pessimism.
“Tonight will be wonderful night,” said Petrov. “Tonight, we will have an execution. I am very excited.”
Execution? Before Scott could ask about it, Petrov went on.
“Tell me what happened when you attacked the first necrilid.”
Everything was like that in The Machine. Reveal nothing. Demand everything. He forced out thoughts of executions as he was asked to describe his encounter. “It was like any other necrilid. It appeared quickly, then it leapt to attack.” It was strange, but necrilids in general seemed to have slowed down over time. He knew they weren’t literally slower. He was just getting used to their speed. “I took a gamble. I attacked at the same time he did. I won.”
Petrov eyed him a suspiciously. “Did you believe it was a gamble at the time?”
Scott was silent as he remembered his feelings. Pure vengeance. Pure adrenaline. He had poured out his anger on the necrilid, just as he had with Steklov months before. Unbridled rage he’d never known he possessed. “No.”
He watched as Petrov took notes. Rage. In all his life, he’d never felt it before. Not like he felt it now. Not growing up. Not in college. Not in Philadelphia. He had needed something to unleash it. The Machine had been eager and ready.
“Then what happened?”
Scott shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I attacked it. I was tired of losing and being afraid, so I tried something different. I wanted them to fear for a change.” He found it hard to believe he’d actually done what he was discussing, and he wondered if he’d have the courage—or the insanity—to do it again. “I attacked it, then I threw it over my shoulder into the room in front of me. I tried to attack it again before it could get up, but it moved away.”
“And according to the report, it made a sound?”
“I’d never heard it before. It wasn’t normal—it was almost sad.” He couldn’t think of another way to describe it. “That’s when everything changed. They stopped jumping out and attacking and got defensive.”
“Describe this in more detail. Tell me how their mannerisms changed.”
“Who are you executing?”
Petrov suddenly stopped scribbling and looked up at Scott. “Changing the subject so quickly?”
“You want information. I do, too. I want to know who’s being executed.” He was on amicable enough terms with Petrov to be able to make such demands.
The scientist watched Scott for a moment, then laughed under his breath. “Tonight, we will set an example in the Walls of Mourning. We will show the other captives the price of uncooperative—”
“The walls of what?”
“You do not know of the Walls of Mourning?”
Scott had never heard of it in his life, nor was he sure he wanted to. But now he had to know. “No, I’ve never heard of it before.”
Petrov appeared skeptical of Scott’s lack of knowledge. “The Walls of Mourning are within the Hall of the Fulcrums—in the Citadel of The Machine.”
That explained it. The Citadel of The Machine. The lair of the Nightman sect. Scott had never set foot there. He’d never had the desire.
“It is…’our’ Confinement.”
That caught Scott’s ears. “You have another Confinement? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I am sorry,” Petrov said defensively, “I did not imagine you were unaware. You are a Nightman. Do you not walk the Hall of the Fulcrums?”
“No, I don’t. What’s in this Confinement?”
“Everything we want for ourselves—what we deem important.”
“Is it an interrogation room?”
“It is a torture room.”
The casualness of the word sent chills down Scott’s spine. A torture room. The Walls of Mourning. He should have known. “I want to see it.” He had no fetish for torture, but he felt an urge to see this place.
Once again, Petrov sounded confused. “You do not need my permission. You are a fulcrum. You can see it any time you wish.”
“I want you to take me there, tonight.”
“That is fine.”
“Now. You can ask me about necrilids later.”
Petrov rose from his seat. “Very well, commander. Let me collect my things, and we will go together.”
Scott couldn’t believe it. All this time, coming to Confinement over and over again, and not once had he heard of a secondary brig. He realized that must have been intentional. There was probably no mention of a torture room anywhere outside of the Citadel itself.
“Are you ready?” asked Petrov. “Follow me.”
For the first time, Scott felt as if he were a legitimate part of the Nightman sect, not just someone who had happened to get caught in their snare. He was entering the Citadel of The Machine. The home of his kind.
To his surprise, the passageway that led to it was one marked as a custodial closet. Scott had passed it many times and never suspected otherwise. When he saw the limestone stairwell and dimly lit walls, the reality of Novosibirsk struck him hard. This place went well beyond Old Era—it was almost medieval. He felt strange breezes as he walked, from crevices that couldn’t be seen. It was like stepping back through time.
The Hall of the Fulcrums was deathly quiet. No other Nightmen were about, which didn’t surprise Scott at all. The Machine was known for keeping strict curfews. When they reached the doorway that led to the Walls of Mourning, the two sentries who guarded it were the first signs of life Scott had seen. They opened up the doors without question.
As Scott stepped through the doors, the putrid and overpowering smell was the first thing to hit him. It was the smell of illness, disease, death, and of exposed, rotting flesh. When the fullness of the room came into light, he actually had to stifle the urge to vomit.
There was blood everywhere. Battered and beaten aliens of all species were segregated in cages like animals. Untreated sores, missing limbs—it was like walking through a grotesque biological junkyard. Or a slaughterhouse.
Petrov seemed completely unaffected. In fact, he appeared almost inv
igorated by the place. In a way, Scott wasn’t surprised. It was a lesson he’d learned several times: a friendly face and charming smile meant nothing here.
There were three other men in the Walls of Mourning, all of whom appeared to be workers. None wore armor, but their uniforms were stained with long-dried blood. When Scott entered with Petrov, the three men turned.
“This is Lieutenant Remington of the Fourteenth,” Petrov explained, “soon to be their commander. He has decided to observe our execution.”
The workers offered Nightman salutes, which Scott perfunctorily returned.
“Would you like to participate, lieutenant?”
“Not in the least.” He felt guilty for even being there. He clutched the manila folder tighter.
“Very well.” Petrov turned to the cages and began to walk. “Then allow me to introduce to you our beloved guest of honor.”
Beloved guest of honor? Was that how Petrov referred to a death-row prisoner? He was beginning to see the man in a new, twisted light.
“This is Tauthinilaas.”
The name meant nothing to Scott. He was only curious as to what it was. Alongside Petrov, he approached the targeted cage. Inside was a Bakma warrior. Its body, frail to the point of near uselessness, lay crumpled on the floor. It was laying face down, limbs splayed awkwardly. It looked to be already dead.
Petrov shouted something in what had to be Bakmanese. He kicked the cage hard and the emaciated alien jumped on the floor. It lifted its head to regard them, looking Scott straight in the eyes.
It was completely unexpected, and it happened the moment Scott locked eyes with the alien. He started back, as his mind surged back in time.
Scott held suppression fire as the last of the Eighth dove into the tower. He watched and attempted to count them as they bolted up the stairwell. Was that everyone? Yes. It was. He whacked his hand over the inner print sensor and it acknowledged him. Security lockout activated. He heaved the door shut.
It stopped within an inch of the frame.
Scott stared at the alien in disbelief. By the look of it, the Bakma was having the same revelation. Scott’s memories whirled on.
Scott staggered to his feet. The handgun stayed out. “Do you understand me?”
The Bakma looked puzzled.
“Do you understand me?” Scott repeated.
The Bakma hesitated. “Duthek horu `Uman lkaana?”
What was that word? Scott’s mind raced as the gun-checked Bakma stared back at him in confusion. Grrashna! That was it. The Bakma word for self-surrender.
“Grrashna!” Scott said emphatically. He motioned his handgun to the ground.
The Bakma’s eyes grew wide with understanding. “Grrashna,” it nodded. It lifted its hands above its head and sunk to a knee.
Scott knew exactly who this alien was. “You…”
Petrov shot him a puzzled look. “What?”
Inside the cage, the fragile Bakma attempted to stand. His efforts failed as he crumpled back down.
“Where did he come from?” Scott demanded.
“He was captured during the Assault on Novosibirsk. Do you mean to tell me you recognize him?”
“Yes, I recognize him.” It was unfathomable—surreal. But there it was, collapsed in a heap before his eyes. “I was the one who took him prisoner.” It was the Bakma from the assault—the one who’d stormed into the turret tower that Scott and the Eighth were trying to capture. The Bakma whose body had been rippled with muscles. Scott scrutinized its now-frail form. It had dwindled to almost nothing.
Petrov’s eyes lit up. “That is amazing! In that case, it must be you. You must have the honor of execution.”
Execution? Not on his life. “Open the cage.”
Petrov arched an eyebrow.
“Open the cage!”
Flinching, the scientist did as told. The rusty bars of the boxed prison swung open.
Scott wasted no time stepping inside. Bending down, he slid his arms under the Bakma’s arms. He propped the alien up against his chest. “Bring me some calunod.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Calunod! Bakma food! Calunod!”
Petrov and the workers stared at Scott from behind, repulsed yet fascinated. Finally, the scientist spoke again. “Is this some kind of last meal?”
Last meal? The Bakma looked like it averaged one meal a week. “There won’t be an execution tonight.” His next words were for the Bakma. “Or any night. I didn’t keep you alive for this.” As Scott and the alien moved out, the Bakma appeared to make some kind of noise. It was too weak to speak coherently.
“Lieutenant Remington, this prisoner is scheduled for execution. It would not be wise to go against what is ordered.”
Scott glared at Petrov.
“Okay. Okay. Whatever you wish.” Petrov turned to the workers. “Bring calunod from the store room.”
Scott could feel the alien’s bones. Inside, his fury was quickly building. It wasn’t the kind of anger that had gotten him into trouble in the past; rather, it was the anger of injustice. What once had been a strong, proud creature was now reduced to something as breakable as glass. Enemy or not, this was egregiously wrong. “We’re taking him back to civilized Confinement.”
“Lieutenant, that is not such a good idea—”
Scott snapped back before Petrov could finish. “Do you have any idea how fast I could kill you? Ask yourself if you should do what I say.”
Petrov conceded. “It is better to be your friend than your enemy. We will bring him upstairs.”
The journey back to Confinement was difficult. Although there were almost no Nightmen about, avoiding everyone was simply impossible. As Scott and Petrov assisted the Bakma—Tauthinilaas—out of the Citadel and back to Confinement, they were met on several occasions by random passers-by. Word about this would get out quickly. Scott would deal with that when it came.
The transportation was made more difficult for another reason: Tauthinilaas became unconscious halfway through the trip. His malnourished body, though not heavy, was still cumbersome dead weight. Petrov commented that it was doubtful the alien would survive more than a few days. Scott ignored him.
When they arrived in Confinement, the Bakma began to phase in and out of awareness. Its body would spasm and jump. Saliva dribbled from its mouth.
Opening one of the vacant cells—there were only two to choose from—they moved the Bakma inside. The workers had brought calunod, but it was soon obvious that the captive was in no shape to eat. It was simply too weak.
“It is as I told you,” Petrov said. “He will not survive. He cannot even consume food.”
As Scott removed his hand from beneath the Bakma’s head, it rolled limply to the side. For a moment he wondered if it was already dead. But the faint movement of its chest was still visible. “Get me a medic.”
For the first time during the entire ordeal, Petrov didn’t argue; instead, he obediently stepped out of the cell.
The Bakma’s opaque eyes flickered and rolled back. It was the first time Scott had seen the white of any alien’s eyes. He hadn’t known there was white at all. Bakma were almost bug-eyed—their huge, dark eyeballs unsettled even the staunchest of human warriors.
Scott slapped the alien on the side of the head. “Stay with me, Tauthin.” He knew he’d never pronounce Tauthinilaas correctly. Tauthin would have to do.
Petrov reentered the cell. “There is a medic coming—he is bringing equipment. They are prepared for this sort of thing.”
Scott tapped Tauthin again. “Don’t go to sleep.” If the alien went to sleep, it might not wake up.
“Lieutenant Remington…”
Ignoring Petrov, Scott continued to try and awaken the alien. Finally, he stopped and turned around. “What is it?”
Petrov fought to hold back his frown, but it escaped nonetheless. “What do I tell them when they ask why this has happened?”
Scott thought for a moment. He was asking for trouble doing this—he kn
ew that well. He was asking to be noticed, and that was the last thing he wanted. “Don’t tell them anything. Just send them to me.” Petrov was putting a lot on the line in satisfying Scott’s request. Even his life. “Tell them I threatened to kill you.”
Petrov said nothing.
It took six minutes for the medic to arrive from the infirmary. Two nurses were with him, each transporting various instruments and equipment. A rolling bed. Feeding tubes. Things Scott didn’t recognize. He wasn’t sure how much training in Bakma anatomy the medic had, but he must have had some knowledge. Sometimes aliens needed to be kept alive.
Scott stepped out of the cell as the medical crew went to work. Tauthin was moved to the rolling bed as the tubes were set into place. Several needles were injected into the alien’s body. One of the nurses was holding its wrist.
Scott couldn’t help but inquire. “What are you doing?”
The nurse was silent for a moment, then answered in Russian. “I am checking his pulse.”
“His pulse?” Scott was surprised. That seemed so human.
The chief medic spoke to Scott without looking. “Underneath their skin, they are not so different from us. Of all the other species, they are the most similar to humans, even more so than the Ithini. A medic almost doesn’t need special training.”
The Bakma were the most humanlike—he’d never considered that. “Is he going to live?”
The medic didn’t answer immediately. When he did, he sounded doubtful. “I don’t know.”
Scott looked back at the alien. It seemed so exposed, so defenseless. He almost couldn’t believe it had once been a threat. Why do I care so much? I have comrades in the infirmary. I have discord in the Fourteenth. Why do I care about this creature? Scott studied the Bakma as it lay still. Then he looked at the folder in his hand.
Because Steklov might have cared.
He looked at Tauthin again. There were still no signs of conscious activity. But that didn’t matter—what mattered was that the alien was still alive. If not for Scott, the execution might have already taken place. It was the second time he had saved the alien’s life.
