by Lee Stephen
She sniffled. “I could never be angry at you.”
Her entire goal had been to learn from him, to be guided by him. He realized he could stand to do some learning from her. He smiled faintly. “Do you need a minute before we talk about the cafeteria?”
“Yes sir, if I may.”
“Go ahead.”
Esther wasn’t gone long—barely two minutes. She returned to the room with a fresh face and sparkling eyes. She smiled shyly and returned to the bench, a white body towel wrapped around her.
“All right, Molly Brooking,” Scott said, his tone becoming more formal. “Let’s hear about the porridge.”
She sighed and looked away. “I admit, it was stupid.”
“That’s a start.”
“We had just got back, and I was still so frustrated. I’m not sure what I was thinking. She said something that got me so mad, and I just flipped my lid.”
Scott knew a thing or two about that. Had the culmination of his anger been limited to a bowl of porridge, he’d have been much better off. “What did she say?”
She hesitated. “I honestly don’t even remember. That’s how silly it was. It was just the wrong thing at the wrong time, and I lost control. It was completely my fault.”
He twisted the subject ninety degrees. “What do you think of Svetlana?”
She pondered a moment. When she finally answered, it sounded programmed. “I think Svetlana’s very talented. I think we’re better for having her. She’s an excellent medic.”
Scott nodded. “Okay. So, what do you really think of her?”
She smiled. “I’m sorry. I must sound so pretentious. Maybe it’s just trust. Maybe I have to learn how to trust her.”
“Do you want the unit to trust you?”
“I do. And I’m aware of how selfish I must sound. I’m hardly someone to speak about trust.” She paused. “Maybe she just rubs me the wrong way. You know how women can be—sometimes we’re not the greatest at getting along.”
He knew that well enough. “What does she need to do for you to trust her?”
“It may just take time…I suppose.”
“Then give it time. I won’t ask you to like her, I’ll just ask you to respect her. Eventually, she will earn your trust.”
Esther listened in silence.
“Have you talked to her since it happened?”
The scout eyed him warily. “You could say that.”
That actually surprised him. Svetlana and Esther were taking resolution into their own hands? That was good. “How did it go?”
She pursed her lips for a moment, as the corners of her lips slowly curved. After a moment of contemplation, she finally said. “She paid me a visit in Room 14. With porridge and a pie.”
“She what?” He could feel his face fall.
Esther blushed. “We’re quite even, now.”
“Elaborate.”
“Is there really a need?”
Of course there was a need, for possible disciplinary reasons. But he had another underlying motive—this was getting interesting. “She attacked you with porridge and a pie?”
“Black Russian pie, actually. I’d never tried it before. It tastes surprisingly good.”
“Okay,” he said. “New rule. From now on, if you have a problem, you talk it out or you come to me. Don’t start flinging desserts.”
“Yes sir.”
Though he didn’t want her to know it, on the inside he was actually amused. How was it that he kept missing these things?
Esther’s eyes widened with realization. “You’re enjoying this!”
He tried not to grin.
“I can tell by your face!” She laughed. “You wish you’d have been there to see it.”
He gave up. “I’m sorry. I confess. I do.” He should have known he couldn’t hide from a scout. “But don’t misread that,” he said seriously, pointing at her for emphasis. “Promise me it stops.”
“I promise, sir. You have my word.”
Business or not, it felt good to laugh. This is the kind of camaraderie I’ve been missing out on. This is what goes on when I’m not around. Is it really that bad?
“Lieutenant…”
He came out of his thoughts.
“Please come back to the group.”
The words surprised him—it was as if she’d read his mind.
Esther looked down. “I know things have been so difficult for you. I can’t imagine how the past four months must’ve been. But we miss you.”
For the first time since the start of their conversation, true silence fell between them. Scott wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. He wasn’t even sure what to think. When he finally gave her an answer, it was the only honest one he could find. “I’m trying.”
She nodded knowingly.
“Thank you,” he said, slowly rising from the bench. “We’re all going to get through this.”
“I know, sir.”
“As you were in the pool.”
Scott stepped past her toward the door. The moment he walked out, he felt lightheaded. This isn’t what you’re used to, but that doesn’t make it wrong. He stopped in the hallway just long enough to settle his thoughts, then resumed his trek through the halls.
Behind in the pool room, Esther stood, statuesque, contemplating the door. Then, she grinned. It was the broadest grin she’d cracked since graduating from Philadelphia.
Wandering to the water’s edge, she raised her hands, pirouetted, and dove in back-first.
* * *
The morning cold bit Max as he stepped outside. Despite the fact that it was already seven o’clock, no sunlight illuminated the grounds—it wouldn’t creep over the horizon for another fifty minutes or so. But darkness was no excuse for sloth.
Shoving a hand into his pocket, he pulled out his cinnamon-flavored sprig. Its tip glowed orange as he slid it between his teeth and inhaled, exhaling a plume of scented warmth moments later. Closing his eyes, he leaned his neck to the side. It didn’t pop, but the slight stretching sound of his vertebrae nonetheless brought comfort.
There were a good number of technicians working in the hangar. That was always the case at this time. As Max stepped into the massive structure, he allowed his eyes to survey the airstrip. Nothing was there. He hadn’t seen the dog Svetlana called Flopper since frightening it away the evening before. The Pariah was now clean, the stench of dog scat hosed away into a hangar drain. There was no evidence that an animal had ever been there.
Max leaned against the nose of the transport, watching the distant, dark hills. He heard the clattering of technicians’ footsteps in the hangar, but paid no attention. He kept his steely eyes pointed ahead.
“I got your message.”
Max stood upright and turned to see Tanneken Brunner approaching. Her brown pigtails hung over her shoulders.
“I feel like we are back in Philadelphia,” she said.
Max observed her for a moment, then turned away. “I could go for some Philadelphia right now.”
“I am sure that you could.”
Tanneken joined him, leaning next to him against the Pariah‘s nose. Neither looked at the other—they both simply stared at the distance. The Dutch operative sighed. “Why did you call me here, Max?”
He didn’t answer her right away. He only squinted as frozen winds whipped over his face. “I don’t know.”
She chuckled quietly. “Well, here I am.”
“Do you ever miss me?”
Tanneken shot him a wary look, moving her fingers through her hairs as the wind blew them about. She held her head high. “If you mean, do I miss your arrogance? Do I miss your horrible manners? The stupid things you say?” She waited, then continued. “If so, then no. I do not miss you.”
Max inhaled a breath of cinnamon again, then softly blew it out. When he answered, his voice was deflated. “Yeah, guess that’s what I meant.”
Her mouth turned downward.
Max cut the sprig off and slid it back in h
is pocket. “I don’t know what to do, Ann. I got a chance to do something good. Maybe. I don’t even know.”
She crossed her arms. “It sounds like you do not know very much.”
“You’re right about that.”
She smiled faintly, then cleared her throat. “So I am actually right about something?”
“This time, yeah.”
Neither of them spoke for almost a full minute. They just stood, side by side, their backs against the nose of the Pariah. Her eyes surveyed him for fleeting moments, seeming to find him a buffer between looks at the distant hills. Max’s eyes remained far away. For the first time since she’d arrived, the Dutch woman’s expression fell soft.
Max sighed and looked the other way. “Sorry I woke you up. You can leave if you want—I know you’re worried about home.”
“You did not wake me up.”
He made no reply.
Tanneken’s gaze remained fixated on him, even as he didn’t respond. Her green eyes arched sadly as she watched him. Then she turned her eyes ahead. Seconds later, she stood up from the ship.
The American stared on in silence. Even as Tanneken began to walk away, he appeared lost in his own distant world.
There did come a moment as Tanneken made her exit when she stopped and turned around. She turned as if she were about to say something. She even opened her mouth. But nothing came out.
Looking down, she finally made her leave.
Far ahead over the horizon, for the first time, the faint hues of sunrise broke over the hills. Max squinted as he stared through the cold, until another sound caught his ears.
Looking down, Max saw the young dog settle beside him. The technician actually smiled, and a soft chuckle escaped from his lips. “About time. Where you been?”
Flopper wagged his tail and stared up at Max, his tongue hanging out. He swallowed once, then his tongue hung again.
“Yeah,” Max said, looking up. “That’s where I been, too.”
No one else came to find Max that morning, and no one buzzed him on the comm. For the next hour, the lieutenant leaned against the nose of his ship, silent and reflective as he observed the morning light break through the gray. He remained meditative and still, removed from the rest of the world.
Svetlana was cleaning the lounge when her comm beeped. Abandoning her wash rag, she grabbed the device she’d left lying on the table. She stared at Max’s name on the display, hesitating before finally acknowledging. “Yes, Max, I am here.”
Max’s response was so delayed that Svetlana looked at the comm to see if their connection had been lost. Max spoke the moment she did. “What’d you want me to do?”
The corners of her lips slowly curved up. “Max, thank you so much.”
“Don’t mention it. What do you want?”
Closing her eyes, smiling serenely, she whispered a prayer. When it was over, she got back on the comm. “So I have a question.”
“Yeah?”
“What can you do with personal armor?”
* * *
The remainder of the day passed without incident for the Fourteenth. As the reality of Captain Clarke’s death set in, awareness grew that the unit belonged to the Nightmen. By midday, the official word had been relayed: the new leaders were Captain Dostoevsky and Commander Remington. The Fourteenth was under fulcrum rule.
The news brought a new swagger to the slayers of the squad. All four—Viktor, Nicolai, Auric, and Egor—went about their tasks with an air of invulnerability. There was no EDEN captain to keep them in check.
Other news circulated, as well—news of far greater importance than the chain of command. Reports began to pour in from Europe in the wake of the Bakma attack. Despite the fact that Novosibirsk existed in its own frozen world, the impact of the miniature invasion would be felt across the globe. The death toll had not reached millions, as had been feared. Nonetheless, almost eight hundred thousand had died. The global economy was in crisis. Political leaders had been killed. Entire cities and towns were in ruin, as relief efforts began to organize across the planet. It was the largest unnatural catastrophe in the history of the world. Even in its extreme isolation, Novosibirsk too was affected.
Numerous units, none of which were Nightman in origin, had been transferred from Novosibirsk to various bases and stations throughout Europe. Recruiters were hitting the city of Novosibirsk as well. An entire continent needed to be restocked with operatives.
Stockholm had been all but obliterated. The lack of industry in the city diminished the impact of its losses on the rest of the world, but SwEDEN was left in chaos. The financial losses were too high to calculate, and the dual loss of both its capital and a cultural metropolis had crushed the country’s morale. EDEN bore the brunt of the anger as spin doctors quickly attempted to deflect attention to the responsible Bakma. Despite their efforts, almost every official estimate contained words like complacency and outrage.
Copenhagen, on the other hand, had fared considerably better. EDEN forces in Denmark, though still overwhelmed, had made a much larger dent in the Bakma offensive. They had held the aliens off long enough for additional forces to arrive. Though the city had taken its fair share of damage, as had Stockholm, it had not been shut down. It was already even forming a recovery plan.
But beside the loss of a few units, the impact on Novosibirsk was still less than that of other places. The global economy was of little consequence to The Machine. Political leaders didn’t matter, nor did almost anything concerning the rest of the world
And so the Fourteenth moved on. Soon Becan and Derrick would be returning, if not to active combat right away. Jayden’s eye continued to improve. Relations between many of the unit’s operatives were more strained than ever. Only a handful were optimistic about the future, though cautiously so. That was the world of the Fourteenth.
It was the only world that mattered to any of them.
24
Wednesday, November 16, 0011 NE
2010 hours
The City of Novosibirsk
The next night
From inside his vehicle, Dostoevsky carefully watched the small gathering of men and women outside the funeral home. He followed their smallest movements while he shifted apprehensively in the driver’s seat. His hands—gloved with black leather that matched his jacket—held fast to the steering wheel in front of him.
It had snowed all day in the city of Novosibirsk. Fresh white piles were on the sides of the street and the rooftops of the buildings. Dostoevsky’s own vehicle, a polished black Dovecraft hoverquad, was parked against the road a block from the funeral home. He had not had the courage to park any closer. In front of the building, in crudely written letters on an outdoor bulletin board, a simple message was displayed.
Nathaniel Edmond Clarke
7.21.25oe - 11.14.11ne
Dostoevsky was nervous. He had never attended a wake before; he’d never been emotionally affected enough to go. Looking around the street hesitantly, he muttered to himself in Russian.
No one else from the Fourteenth was present—or at least there were no EDEN vehicles to indicate otherwise. Dostoevsky was the only member of the unit who owned a local vehicle. Dovecrafts were expensive, but money was never an issue for fulcrums; they had access to anything they wanted.
Once again he scanned the front of the building. His hand trembled against the door, until he finally pulled the handle. He pushed the door out slightly, and it automatically slid back to open the way. It slid shut in his wake when he stepped out.
The air was frigid, and he slid his hands into his pockets. The sun had set over an hour earlier, and the unhindered arctic wind had come in full force. As he walked, head angled tensely to the ground, icy vapors escaped from his lips.
Dostoevsky was from Siberia. The cold was nothing new to him; tonight, however, it felt particularly uncomfortable—more so than ever before. He intentionally avoided eye contact as he strode up the short stairway that led into the funeral home. As soon
as he was inside, he shook the ice from his jacket.
The building was small and modest in appearance. He was standing in a rectangular foyer with two open wooden doors leading into the viewing room. Several people made desultory conversation, and he identified a few British accents. He purposely avoided meeting their eyes.
Inside the viewing room were only two sparse groups of people. One consisted of two middle-aged men, laughing softly at what sounded like business. On the other side of the room, two men and two women appeared engaged in light conversation. But it was the center of the viewing room that caught Dostoevsky’s attention. There, next to a simple display of flowers and photographs, he beheld a white wooden casket. He stared at it for several seconds, mesmerized, before he felt a tug on his jacket. Snapping out of his momentary daze, the fulcrum turned around.
A little girl, barely three feet tall, stared up at him with bright hazel eyes, matching his stare with a toothy smile. In her hand was a small card.
Dostoevsky took the card in hand. Flipping it over, he stared at the photograph on its front. It was a picture of Captain Clarke. He was leaning back with a wide, goofy grin, with a red clown nose on his face. Underneath the picture was a poem.
Blessed are they who bring smiles to our souls. Blessed are they who put laughter in our lives. Blessed are they who fill our homes and our hearts with warmth.
Beneath the poem was a single sentence: In loving memory of Dad.
When Dostoevsky finally pulled his eyes away from the words, he found the girl still smiling expectantly. After a moment of awkwardness, the Nightman offered an uncomfortable nod. “Spasibo.”
The girl grinned and swayed back and forth.
