by Lee Stephen
He allowed himself several minutes to gather his clarity before he commed Svetlana to let her know he was up. As he waited, the origins of his wounds slowly came back to him. The scorch mark on his back was from the near-miss of the plasma rifle, and the cuts and burns on his hands from the missile explosion. The damage to his face was a combination of burn and battery. Svetlana would have an array of injuries to check on.
As the minutes passed, the other events of the mission returned to his mind. He’d negotiated with extraterrestrials—an Ithini and a Bakma. Captain Gabriel had been held hostage at gunpoint. Then Scott and the aliens had talked. They had connected telepathically somehow through one of the Ithini that he’d gunned down afterward.
He remembered becoming dizzy and throwing up. He remembered bits and pieces of the Bakma’s words. The Bakma had wanted to know about him—about the Nightmen. The alien had specifically noted that Scott and his comrades were not from EDEN. They knew who the Nightmen were. Of course they did. They must have. The Nightmen had destroyed their outpost in Siberia.
“We are to bring you to Khuldaris.”
Those were the words the Bakma had spoken. The Bakma wanted to take the Nightmen with them. They were willing to release EDEN captives to do it. They wanted to evaluate them, but for what purpose?
Four words orbited Scott’s brain. Interference. Indication. Allegiance. Judgment. All of them had been said by the Bakma. But what did they mean? He’d only understood bits and pieces.
Finally, a knock came to the door. Without waiting for an invitation, Svetlana opened the door and stepped inside.
Scott smelled food. When Svetlana approached, he saw a plate in her hands. Cradled against her chest was a jug of ice water. He stared at her strangely.
Even through the dimness, he could see she was smiling. “Good morning, Scott.”
“What are you doing?” His face hurt when he spoke.
“I am making good of my word.”
Making good of her word? What word?
She padded across the room to his bed, placing the plate on his nightstand. She pulled up a chair. “Some time ago, I told a young soldier I would cook for him—in payment for the bad thoughts I had.”
It took him a moment to recall, but recall he did. She had promised him in the first conversation they’d had, that night in the lounge months ago, that she’d make him breakfast. It seemed like so long ago.
“I apologize for not bringing you porridge,” she said with a self-
depreciative grin. “I’ve had quite enough of it for a while.”
Scott had forgotten all about the breakfast. In the midst of his recollections, he actually laughed, but regretted it instantly as the pain seared his face. “You really cooked something?”
She showed him the plate. It was a sandwich—two slices of bread with something in between.
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”
“What do you mean, ‘that is it?’ Do you know what this is?”
He could smell it—an odd mixture of breakfasty things.
“This is a Russian ham sandwich,” she said.
Before he knew what he was saying, the words were out. “I could make that when I was six.”
She lifted one end of the bread. There was no visible ham; rather, it looked like yellow, chunky paste.
“What in God’s name is that?”
“It is eggs, ham, butter, and mustard. With pepper and salt. It is blended together.”
“Ugh.”
She pouted. “Do not just say ‘ugh.’ This is how it is made here. Try it. You will like it. It is something different.”
“That I can see.”
“The eggs and ham are very fresh. And you will like Russian mustard.”
“Do I need the jug of water to wash it down?”
She allowed herself a wry grin. “Very funny. That is for the mustard. Russian mustard is very hot—the hottest in the world. Try it, you will see.”
He wasn’t intentionally trying to be rude. It just wasn’t something he’d seen—or smelled—before. “Thanks.” He tried not to sound disgusted.
“Just trust me, doubter. It will be good.” She set the plate to the side. “Now let me see your face.” Scott turned her way, and she placed her fingers under his chin. “How do you feel?”
“Tired and sore. It’s hard to explain.”
“What is hard to explain about being tired and sore?” She wiped her hand on a discarded paper towel. “And sweaty.” Rising, she walked to his sink.
“I don’t even remember what happened. I’ve never blacked out like that before.”
Grabbing a small towel from his vanity, she ran it under the faucet. “You connected with an Ithini for the first time. That has an effect on the brain.” Ringing the towel out, she walked back to him. “That is also why you were nauseated.”
“That happens every time people make a connection?”
“Only the first time.” She wiped his forehead. “The brain is not used to such a connection. There are many things that come with it. Nausea, dizziness, headaches.” She smiled. “And yes, passing out. The second time you connect, it will be better. If there is a second time.”
He closed his good eye as she did her work. A second connection was the last thing he wanted. “It didn’t hit me until after the Noboat. I just fell to the ground.”
“You had a lot of adrenaline. When the battle was over, it began to go away.”
“What happened?”
“After the mission?” She placed the damp towel aside. Leaning close to his face, she examined his cheek. “Very much. Not all of it will be fun to discuss.”
Scott wondered how he looked. He knew his cheek was swollen, but he had no idea just how much. He’d hardly glanced at his forearms and hands. “What happened to Gabriel’s crew?”
“Captain Gabriel is fine.” Lifting a medical kit from the floor, she pulled out the burn gel. “But there are many from his unit who have died. Eleven from Pelican Squad survived. Only one from the other squad survived—she is in critical condition.” Svetlana frowned as she put burn gel in place.
Frogmouth—that was the other squad. Only one person had survived? That was terrible.
Svetlana sighed. “There is something else I must tell you. Promise me you stay lying down.”
He nodded.
“Oleg was a Nightman.”
Scott’s good eye opened wide. “What?”
She placed her hand on his chest. “You just listen, and I will continue to work.” She moved on to his hands. “Oleg was part of the eidola. It was Becan who found out. I do not know everything, but apparently he met someone from the First and figured out that Oleg had never been there. There were some other things, too, but…I will let Becan explain.”
“What…?” The word happened never came out.
“He is out of the unit,” she answered. “They brought him back to Novosibirsk, like he was a prisoner. Then he disappeared. I suppose he has gone back to Thoor, but…he cannot remain with the eidola now. People know who he is. I do not know where he will go.”
Scott was in shock. On the other hand, some things now made sense. He’d seen Oleg fight—he fought like no one Scott had ever seen. Nonetheless, it was hard to comprehend. “Did Dostoevsky know?”
“Yes. He too left when we arrived. Nobody knows where he went, either.”
Scott’s feelings toward Dostoevsky were torn. Of course he felt anger, but not enough to strike at him. Even though Dostoevsky had something to do with Nicole’s murder, it wasn’t he who actually did it. Scott wasn’t sure why that had ever mattered.
“I will let Becan tell you everything later,” Svetlana said. “Let us get to good news. You have been requested by Confinement again. Apparently you are very good guest.”
His mind returned to the alien negotiation—his conversation with the Bakma in the crashed Vulture. Interference. Indication. Allegiance. Judgment. What was the meaning of the other words? What was Khuldaris? Was it a
planet? A ship? Was it an individual?
She noticed his look. “What is wrong?”
He didn’t know how to explain it. “I bargained with a Bakma. He made threats—I think. Did any of you hear it?”
Shaking her head, she pulled the sheets down, exposing his boxers. “No, I am sorry. We heard his words, yes, but we did not hear what they meant. You were the only one with a connection.”
Scott had never heard anything about interferences, alliances, or judgment before. Judgment for what? Was this war all about judgment for something? The word indication had been used, too. What was being indicated?
“Roll over, away.”
Scott painfully complied, and she checked his back. His mind returned to Svetlana’s revelation and his summons to Confinement. Petrov would want to speak to him again, but he didn’t like or trust the man as much anymore. Their visit to the Walls of Mourning shed a disturbing light on him.
“Okay,” she said. “You are good. Now get up, out of bed. To the sink.”
“To the sink?”
“We are washing your hair.” She stood up. “You must have sweated all night. You feel very gross.”
Everything felt very gross. She’d just smeared gel on his cheek. Could she wash that off, too? “Can I walk?”
“Scott, you are not crippled,” she said flatly. “You have several burns. Some are bad, others are not. But you do not have broken bones. Now get up—to the sink.” She picked up the ham sandwich and placed it in his cooler. “This can wait.”
If washing my hair means not eating that, rinse and repeat. Use conditioner. Give me a shave. He cringed in pain as he rolled out of bed. He didn’t care what she claimed—his back hurt.
As he got up, he noticed his armor was gone from the closet. “Where…?” He turned to find her, but as he did so, he caught a glimpse of himself for the first time in the sink mirror. “Oh my God…”
He looked like a corpse that had been tortured to death. The right side of his face was swollen to the point of deformity. He had a black eye and abscesses on his forehead and temple. His entire face was in ruins.
Svetlana placed her hand on his shoulder. “Do not be scared. I know how it looks.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Your cheekbone has very minor fracture. It will heal on its own. Scars will be very little, I promise.”
Scott stared at his hands. They too had burned and abscessed wounds. So did his palms and forearms.
“Your hands will heal. Everything will heal, in good time. Please trust me, Scott. I would not lie.”
Now everyone’s shocked reaction to him on the battlefield made sense. They’d seen his injuries when they were fresh. He wondered if they looked worse then or now.
“Your armor is being repaired. It was not exactly designed to survive missile attacks, but it still saved your life.”
His fulcrum armor had saved his life. But the armor was his symbol of sin. Deep inside, he wondered if he’d have survived had he worn EDEN’s equipment. He was afraid the answer was no.
She urged him to the sink. “Do not look at yourself. It will only make you feel worse.”
Scott looked down from the mirror, forcing himself to stare at the sink’s basin. Turning around, he sat down in the chair she had placed there.
Svetlana turned on the faucet, placing her hand beneath the water as she adjusted the temperature. “Lean your head back.”
He hesitated, but did as he was told. The moment the warm water hit his scalp, a soothing wave coursed through his veins. It was the best thing he’d felt since waking up.
She ran her fingers through his hair. “Not all the news is bad. As much as it pains me to say it, you should be proud of our friend, Molly Esther. She helped capture a functional Noboat—that does not happen often. She did very well.”
Esther had done well in more ways than one. He remembered what she’d done for him personally. She’d stopped him from shooting two surrendering Bakma—she’d held him in check. He was grateful to her and ashamed of himself.
Svetlana squirted a dollop of mild shampoo into her palm, then turned off the faucet. She massaged it into his scalp. “Scott…what I saw you do in the forest, I have seen from you before. I saw a man risk his life to save strangers he did not even know. A Nightman would not have done that.”
For the first time, he was not inclined to argue. He allowed her words to sink in.
“It is the truth, Scott. I did not see a fulcrum in the woods. I saw a lion. Things have happened to you, and yes, you have changed. But in your heart, you are still a good man.”
He knew she was trying to get him to look at himself positively, but his thoughts were almost solely on her. He was a fallen man in a miserable state who’d made her stay at Novosibirsk anything but easy. Yet there she was, taking care of him with a level of caring he’d rarely experienced from anyone. As horrible as he had acted in the past, as awful as he looked now, her compassion had never once wavered. She’d been frustrated, even angry, but she’d always cared. Now she was washing his hair. What medic did that?
“I forgive you for what you have done, Scott. We have all made mistakes. You know of mine.” Her fingers slowed and rested against the sides of his scalp. “You have done what you have done, but it does not define who you are. It does not define who you can be.”
She turned the water on again, but his mind had already gone somewhere else. Flashes of the past swirled in his brain. Flashes of Chicago—of saving the remnants of Cougar Platoon. Leaping for Svetlana in Siberia. Retaking the turret tower in the Assault on Novosibirsk to help fend off the Bakma.
There was a key ingredient to every one of his best moments: none of them were about him.
Svetlana turned off the water and grabbed a towel from the side of the sink, wrapping it over his head. “Lift your head up.” He did as told, and she rubbed it gently.
That was the lesson. He’d been doing everything for himself—it seemed so obvious now. His actions should have been about them—his teammates and the ones they were helping in battle. His priorities had been reversed, even in Chernobyl.
“Now,” Svetlana said, “here is some burn gel. Apply it to your cheek three times a day. It will help you to heal.” She allowed him to rise. “You could be active in as few as five days.”
As few as five days? Five days felt like so long. Then he thought about Jayden, and five days didn’t seem as bad.
“I am leaving cold gel with you, too. You can apply it at the same time, to your cheek. It will speed up the healing and help with the pain. There is penicillin with instructions in your drawer, to ward off infection.”
A strange mix of emotions ran through him. Remorse and irritation with himself, but at the same time hope. It was a new feeling.
She walked to the door. “I will check up on you. And you can always come to find me.” She turned with a grin. “Do not forget, in your cooler.”
His ham sandwich. He’d have preferred if it remained forgotten.
“It will be good. Just remember, stay close to the jug. I was not joking about Russian mustard—it is hot.”
“Thank you, Svetlana.”
She winked. “What are medics for?” Reaching behind her, she opened the door. “You know where to find me, if you need.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I love you, Scott.”
The words resonated through the room, but somehow he wasn’t surprised and he didn’t react strangely. He knew what she meant when she said it—he felt that way, too.
Smiling gently, she left the room and closed the door.
As he sat on the edge of his bed, he was amazed at how little he hurt now that he’d moved about. He wondered if it had something to do with the gel—or maybe it was because of something else.
Turning to his nightstand, he looked at the picture of Nicole. She smiled at him still, as she did every second of every minute of every day.
Drawing a breath, he opened his cooler, where the ham sandwich lay in wait. Taking the plate in his
hands, he lifted up the top slice of bread. It wasn’t the most appetizing meal he’d ever encountered, but Svetlana had made it for him. She cared enough to keep a promise he’d completely forgotten about. She had not had to do it, but she did. Taking the sandwich in hand, he opened his mouth and took a first bite.
Within five minutes, Scott was back on his feet. He crossed his room without a grimace of pain. He went straight to his sink and turned on the faucet.
He’d finished his first jug of water—his mouth was on fire.
30
Saturday, November 19, 0011 NE
0759 hours
At the same time
The morning was snowy like so many others. The eight o’clock sun was on the verge of making its entrance as the lights of the base flickered on to illuminate most of the grounds. Accompanying the steady, gentle drizzle of snow was a contrastingly eerie fog. It hung over the ground as far as one could see. None of it bothered Esther Brooking.
The British scout was not in her uniform. There’d been no morning session to kick-start the day, nor a Captain Clarke to impress with professional garb. Esther simply wore an overcoat over a plain gray T-shirt. Her hair, tied back into her usual loose ponytail, was held down by fluffy white earmuffs. She was a walking touch of class in an otherwise uncaring facility.
She walked with purposeful strides as her brown eyes surveyed the grounds, scrutinizing every male in the vicinity. When she spotted the one she wanted, she veered his way.
David was walking along the outskirts of the base, where only a narrow, little-used pathway ran. Unlike Esther, he was in full uniform, wearing his standard EDEN outfit and coat. When he saw her approach, he stopped and stared at her attire. “Do you have a date?”
“Just with you! Don’t tell your wife.”
Smiling faintly, David waited for her to get close. “I used to enjoy waking up early,” he remarked. “I’m trying to get back into it.”
