by Lee Stephen
It felt colder than ice, and wet and disgusting. He clenched his teeth hard.
No sooner had she finished with the cold gel, she coated his forehead with another gel pack.
“I’m not hurt there,” Scott said. The dizziness was becoming worse. He felt as though he was being connected with an alien, except to a much deeper extent. He felt as though he was beginning to float.
“You are burnt,” she said calmly, taking another handful of the gel and rubbing it on his arms. “This is burn gel. You need a lot of gels.”
Gabriel watched from above. “Is there anything I can do?”
Svetlana looked at him. “Contact our Vulture—it is called the Pariah. Tell the pilot to land over here.” Gabriel acknowledged and moved away.
Svetlana glared at Scott. “That was stupid, Scott. That was stupid. You should not have done what you did.”
Stupid? Saving Captain Gabriel had been stupid? Capturing a fully functional Noboat was stupid? Scott disagreed. Lightheadedness struck him again, coming in waves, each one subsequently worse than the last. He began to lose awareness.
“You have to be careful…”
He eyes started to roll back. His brain throbbed uncontrollably.
The next thing he felt was her hand cradling his head. When she spoke now, her voice was less scolding. It was soft and compassionate. “I know what you are feeling…do not be afraid. It is normal.” She ran her fingers over his hair. “When you awaken, I will be there for you. I will greet you with a smile.”
He wasn’t hearing her words. His mind had disassociated from everything around him.
Scott fell asleep right there on the battlefield. Svetlana held him long after the healing gels had been applied. She held him long after the operatives began to disperse.
Until the Pariah came to take them away.
28
Friday, November 18, 0011 NE
1155 hours
EDEN Command
Archer was sitting at his desk when someone knocked on his door. He answered immediately. “Come in.”
“I can’t.”
The British judge looked up and sighed. Rising from his chair, he crossed the room and opened the door from inside. Every judge’s suite had its own security system. Doors could only be opened two ways: by an eye scanner or from whoever was already in the room. Of all the policies, protocols, and assignments in EDEN Command, it was the one thing Archer could never remember.
The Canadian Judge Rath was waiting in the hall. “The door.”
“I know. I bloody know.” Archer motioned him in.
Rath scowled. “I’ve been trying to talk to you for days while you’ve been gallivanting with Torokin. Are you trying to recruit him, too?”
“I’m getting him off our back. He’s as ignorant as he is obnoxious, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a threat. I have not come this far to have an ex-Vector mess it all up.”
“What did you tell him after the meeting? Was it the truth?”
“It was my truth. Not the truth. They’re close, but they’re not the same.”
“That you spoke to him at all is risky enough.”
“Speaking of Vectors,” said Archer, deflecting the subject, “I can’t talk to you for long. I have a conference call with Hutchin and Faerber in a few minutes.”
“Hutchin and Faerber?”
“In regards to placing his son.”
The Canadian judge sat at Archer’s table. “I’m surprised he’s not going to Berlin.”
“Klaus doesn’t want him to. He wants him out of the battlefront—he’s a very smart man.”
“Hutchin is a weasel.”
Archer didn’t smile. “Brief or not, we have business.”
Pulling a sprig from his pocket, Rath flicked his wrist. The sprig glowed to life. “Unscented,” he said, sliding it through his lips.
Archer watched the vapors for a moment, then sat down. “Malcolm spoke to Carol.”
Rath raised an eyebrow.
“She understands.”
“I knew she would.”
Archer leaned back, crossing his legs. “She gave me a name for our chief of security: Hector Mendoza. Have you heard of him?”
“Yes, I have. He’s someone I’d have never thought of.”
“She says he’s approachable.”
“He’s pure scum. And yes, very approachable.”
“He’ll be here by the end of the month. Inform Willoughby of his imminent transfer. Send him to Sydney.” Archer’s posture stiffened. “Tell me something about Novosibirsk.”
Rath frowned. “Uzochi found out how they’re getting their supplies. There’s no money trail because there’s no money. They get supplied from small towns and businesses, in exchange for ‘police’ protection. They have third party forges all over Russia. They run it like the mob.”
“A Nightman police force,” said Archer. “That’s a crime deterrent if I’ve ever heard of one. Add it to the list of charges.”
“I still fail to understand why Novosibirsk is so important.”
Archer squared his shoulders. “Because the Nightmen breed resistance. Resistance is contagious. I’m curing a pandemic before it begins.”
“You do realize that after Europe, Novosibirsk won’t be the Council’s priority?”
“Yes, I do. Europe was awful and ill-timed. But that doesn’t matter. The Machine is an obstacle that must be removed.” He examined his fingernails. “Pauling will not have the stomach to challenge Thoor. We shall wait until he retires if we must. According to Nharassel, we have two years.”
“Two years? What else did he tell you?”
The Briton hesitated for a moment. “Some small bits of interest, but there’s a lot more he’s not telling me. I’m not sure he’s aware of how much I know.”
“And how much do you know?”
Silence fell between them. As sprig vapors drifted through the room, the only sounds were of the ticking clock and air conditioning.
Finally Archer spoke. “I know time is critical. The Golathoch are sensing urgency and fear. I know no other species will get involved, at the risk of being next on the list.” He looked at Rath steadily. “And I know those points are moot if we don’t find H`laar.”
At the mention of that name, Rath sighed.
“He isn’t at Novosibirsk,” Archer continued. “Wherever he is, he’s priority number one, even above Thoor. We are so close. Let us tie up these loose ends. Then all will come.”
Rath scratched his head and leaned back. His hazel eyes rested on Archer. “I’ll keep looking. We’ll find him.”
“We must.”
The Canadian stood up to leave.
“Malcolm and Carol will be returning shortly,” Archer said as Rath crossed the room. “I’ll see you again soon enough.”
“Right.” Rath left, shutting the door carefully behind him.
Once again, Archer’s suite fell into silence. The faint clouds of sprig vapor disappeared, and his eyes drifted to his wall clock. His conference call was one minute late, but that didn’t matter. For some things, timing was of the utmost importance, but the call wasn’t one of them.
Reaching to the conference comm in the middle of his table, Archer input several numbers. After a series of rings, a man answered.
“Hutchin.”
“Hello, general, it’s Benjamin Archer.”
“Ah, yes, judge! How are you tonight?”
“Oh, is it night?” Archer asked, the corners of his lips curving up. “Over here, we’re never quite sure.”
* * *
Novosibirsk, Russia
At the same time
Judges Blake and June crossed the hangar. Their transport, a Vulture from EDEN Command, was ready to take them back home.
The afternoon cold was relentless. Snow covered the landscape in all directions; the airstrip was one of the few areas kept bare. Both judges were dressed in thick overcoats, earmuffs, and gloves. Even so, they shivered.
Blake and Ju
ne were about to board when a shout stopped them, and they both turned.
It was a Nightman sentry. He was trotting toward them as fast as his armor would allow. He stopped several meters from the ship. “Judges, General Thoor requests an audience before you leave.”
“He requests an audience now?” asked Blake. “After ignoring us for over a week?”
The sentry said nothing.
“Well, by all means. Lead the way.”
The walk to the Citadel of The Machine was quiet. The sentry’s pace was purposely slow as he led the judges through the officers’ wing and down the hidden limestone stairwell to the Hall of the Fulcrums. While Blake had the look of a man who knew what to expect, June’s demeanor was far less confident. It was her first time into the underworld of Fort Zhukov.
Soon, even Blake’s familiarity came to an end. As they reached the end of the Hall of the Fulcrums, the corridor narrowed to the point where the flames from the wall torches could be felt. Their fragrance made the air oppressive. The judges stopped when they came to a set of wooden doors, and the sentry stepped aside to allow them to pass.
“The general awaits,” he said.
Blake looked at him warily. “He waits in there?”
“Yes, judge.”
“What’s behind that door?”
“The Inner Sanctum.”
Blake and June turned to the door. Besides the one who’d led them, there were two more sentries in front of it—one at each side. “Are we just supposed to walk in?” Blake asked.
No sooner had he said it, a groan of ancient wood cut through the tunnel. The doors swung open. Both judges stared into the lair of General Thoor.
Blake’s eyes followed the path of crimson carpet leading into the room. At the end of the carpet, ensconced in the dimly illuminated throne, sat Ignatius van Thoor.
“He sits on a throne?” June whispered to Blake. “This can’t possibly be serious. How can he look at himself and not laugh?”
Blake scanned the rest of the room. Standing on each side of the carpet, in uniform lines, were two rows of fulcrums. Each was perfectly still, almost as though they weren’t breathing. Their dark horns stabbed upward through the dank air of the Inner Sanctum like statuesque, demonic knights, assault rifles displayed at their sides.
“He awaits,” said the sentry.
Nothing moved. The two judges looked at each other hesitantly, then stepped inside.
The wooden doors slammed hard behind them, causing both judges to jump. Then the two rows of fulcrums moved. They extended their rifles forward, snapping them to their opposite sides of their bodies. Then all was still again.
“I take it you haven’t been here?” June whispered as silence recaptured the room.
“They left this part out of the tour.”
All of a sudden, Thoor began speaking in Russian. His autocratic tone reverberated through the room, as Blake and June looked on in awe. When the general stopped talking, he was answered in loud unison by both rows of fulcrums. All went silent again.
“Approach!”
The judges flinched. Thoor’s words boomed through the room as if his vocal cords were megaphones.
Blake took a step forward, but June grabbed his arm. “Wait.” She pushed him aside and addressed Thoor. “We’ve been here for nearly a week! Why do you summon us now?”
Thoor sat motionless atop his throne. He said nothing back.
“You should approach,” the fulcrum nearest them said. The fulcrum’s face was hidden behind his featureless helmet. Thoor still hadn’t moved, nor had either row of Nightmen. After a shared moment of apprehension, both judges approached forward.
The room was shrouded in darkness. No torches illuminated the chamber; instead, fires hung from ancient chandeliers. Their flickering was the only sound in the Inner Sanctum.
They stopped meters in front of the throne. Thoor wore a black uniform devoid of almost any insignia, save the Nightman crest. On his head and hiding his eyes was a dark visor hat. A cloak flowed down past his chair.
Blake cleared his throat and addressed him. “General Thoor, why have you ignored our visitation?”
The Terror said nothing.
“We have issued new regulations in regards to interception. As far as our records indicate, you have not complied with any of them. Are you aware of these new regulations?”
Still Thoor was silent.
As Blake opened his mouth to speak again, June cut him off and stepped forward. “General, why have we been brought to this place?”
This time, they got a response. Silently, Thoor pointed at the left-hand wall.
The judges turned. As soon as they both faced the wall, the room came alive as torches illuminated what had previously been black. Along the wall, arranged in a single-file line, stood a dozen bound men and women. Aside from the blindfolds that covered their eyes, they were stripped bare. Their hands were tied behind their backs as they nervously breathed.
EDEN’s spies.
June’s hand shot over her mouth. “Oh my God!”
Thoor barked out a lone Russian word. The fulcrums turned and raised their assault rifles to take aim. They fired before the judges could scream.
Blood exploded into the air as bullet holes burst across the chests of EDEN’s agents. Their bodies were thrown against the walls where projectile fire kept them on their feet. The agents’ shrieks lasted mere moments, replaced by gurgles of death.
Both judges stood paralyzed in shock.
The firing ceased as the corpses collapsed. Blake turned to the throne. But Thoor was already on the bottom step. Before Blake could cry out, the general’s iron-knuckled hand snatched his throat. June screamed as fulcrums grabbed her from behind.
Blake pounded Thoor with his fists, kicking as the general lifted him off the ground and stared into his panicked eyes. When Thoor spoke, the ground seemed to shake. “Our tolerance has come to an end.”
Blake writhed in the general’s stranglehold. His face slowly turned blue.
The Terror’s grip tightened. “You have no authority over The Machine. If you make any attempt to interfere with our operations, you will behold a massacre like none you have seen. We will slaughter your soldiers like sheep.”
Still held captive by the fulcrums, June cried out in terror as Blake’s eyes began to bulge.
“Do not regulate this facility. Do not send us new personnel. We have personnel of our own.” Thoor’s voice was monotone. “You will continue to supply us with equipment and aircraft. We will continue to cooperate as we see fit. This is not a declaration of war. That is something you cannot afford.”
Blake’s eyes were popping out of his head, while his lungs struggled and failed to find air. Then Thoor set him free. The judge fell to the floor, sucking in great, gasping breaths.
The fulcrums released June. She ran to Blake’s side.
“Leave my facility,” Thoor said. “Do not return.”
Blake scrambled to his feet, and he and June fled down the carpet toward the door.
Neither looked back.
PART III
29
Saturday, November 19, 0011 NE
0653 hours
The next morning
Scott sat up with a jolt; his hand shot up to cover his chest. A plethora of sensations swept over him. His hair was wringing with sweat. His body was sore. His heart was pounding like a drum.
Everything was black. Where was he? What was going on? He knew he must have been asleep because he remembered dreaming. He’d dreamt about screams—screams in his head. That might have been what caused him to wake. But where was he now?
The softness under him gave it away. He was in bed. And not an infirmary bed, but his own.
As the world leveled off, a new wave of sensations overwhelmed him, hitting him from all sides. His hands stung with crustiness, and an excruciating pain burned in his back. His right eye was swollen shut, and that side of his face was numb. His forehead was sticky.
Ho
w did I get here? What happened?
The mission—that was the last thing he remembered. He had charged the fourth Noboat in the forest. Then they’d been repelled by the Bakma. No, that wasn’t right—they hadn’t been repelled. They’d entered the ship. They’d cleared it.
What in the world is going on?
His memory was foggy. He knew he and the other Nightmen had stormed the enemy Noboat and that the Bakma had been defeated. But the details were hazy and few.
He reached up to his face, causing yet another pain to register in his forearm. When he touched his right cheek, he felt his entire eye socket was puffed up. He recalled getting hit by the butt of a plasma rifle.
His brain felt more sore than his body. There was a pain similar to lightheadedness that came with awareness. It was like the echo of deep mental strain.
Groping blindly at his nightstand, he felt for the photograph of Nicole. The movement caused his body to shriek with pain. Instead of the picture, his fingers found a folded piece of paper—one he didn’t remember putting down.
Despite the burning sensation on his back, he forced himself upright. He tugged the cord of his lamp and dim light filled the room. Squinting at the paper, he saw that it was a note, placed right by his comm.
Still groggy-eyed, he gingerly unfolded the note. It took a moment for his vision to clear; when it did, he read the note to himself.
Dear Scott,
Please comm me when you’re awake. Medic’s orders!
—Sveta
He closed his good eye and lay down. Svetlana. He had a fleeting memory of her presence at the end of the mission. She was rubbing his forehead. Why? Reaching up to his hairline, he felt something hard; his hair there was prickly and his skin was tight. It was dried gel.
What happened to me?
She must have brought him back to his room—there was no other way he could have gotten there. Turning to his nightstand again, he looked at Nicole’s picture. It was still facing the wall—Svetlana hadn’t turned it around. Taking the picture in hand, Scott held it in front of his face. Nicole’s smile sent him into a vortex of anguish, just as it always did. He continued to stare at the photo for some time, then placed it back on the table.
