by Lee Stephen
Scott’s jaw clenched as he assembled his armor piece by piece, clamping his leg guards around his thighs and ankles, sliding his arm guards over his forearm and biceps, moving his fingers in their metal-laced gloves. Then came his shoulder harness, then his chest plate. Everything engaged with solid metal clanks.
“The Fifty-first and the Forty-second are being dispatched to the Ceratopian vessels,” Saretok explained. “We are to engage and capture the fallen Bakma Noboat they left behind. Never before have we witnessed an air-to-air confrontation between the two alien species. Taking prisoners is our primary objective.”
The last part to come down was Scott’s helmet. As he slid it down over his head, his face disappeared behind a featureless plate. The fulcrum was complete.
Standing alone in the troop bay, his back to the open bay door, Scott angled his head to take in Saretok’s words.
Saretok wrinkled his nose. “It has come to our attention that the Fourteenth’s leadership is unstable. That is why I am here.”
Dostoevsky looked at the floor.
“I am here to eliminate all doubt. Today, you will see what a leader is supposed to be. There will be no question as to who you should follow—” Saretok stopped abruptly, his focus suddenly shifting to the Pariah. The operatives stared at the colonel strangely, before their own heads followed his gaze.
Scott was standing on the ramp of the Vulture. His black fulcrum armor gleamed with dangerous luster as he firmly gripped his E-35 assault rifle. His m-19 handgun was attached to his belt. So were two grenades.
The horns of his fulcrum armor were as sinister as ever, spiking back around his featureless faceplate. But something about that spiked half-collar was different. It was the first thing everyone noticed—it made them gasp in astonishment.
The horns were made of gold.
Scott approached Max and Svetlana. His words—amplified by the mechanizations in his helmet—were as much a question as a statement. “You did this.”
“Talk to the blonde,” Max said, smiling. “It was her idea.”
Svetlana’s eyes settled on Scott. “You told me you could not wash your hands of this sin,” she said. “That it would devalue the life that you took. You told me this was who you were.” A faint smile curved up from her lips. “Perhaps you can be something else, too.”
Scott glanced at the rest of the unit. Across the board from EDEN to the Nightmen, the operatives looked on with awe. A black and gold fulcrum. It had never been seen.
“Be who you are, Scott Remington,” Svetlana said. “Fallen or not.”
The meaningful moment was cut short. “Cute, but irrelevant,” said Saretok. His attention returned to the others. “Board your transport, Fourteenth. We have a mission to accomplish.” No one looked at him; their eyes were on Scott alone.
Turning away, Scott walked back into the ship.
As soon as everyone was inside, Max explained the assignment to Scott. The very nature of the mission demanded Scott’s focus—two Ceratopian vessels shot down by the Bakma. Were the Ceratopians and Bakma actually enemies?
Dostoevsky sat alone across from Scott. Even as the Pariah rolled onto the airstrip in preparation to lift, he only stared at the floor.
Saretok stood in the middle of the cabin. “We are expecting low casualties from the fallen Noboat. It has not endured heavy damage in the crash.” When he looked at the cabin floor, he frowned. “What is this?”
The dog stared up at the colonel, paws outstretched as its head lay on the floor.
Dostoevsky cleared his throat. “We took the dog from Chernobyl, colonel. It is ours.”
Saretok glared at the animal and then at Dostoevsky. “This is very disappointing, Yuri.”
Dostoevsky didn’t reply.
Turning to the other Nightmen, Saretok said, “The general wishes to take prisoners alive. Use lethal force for the initial defense. Incapacitate the rest when given the chance.”
Restraint. Scott found that concept ironic when presented to Nightmen. Lethal force was what they knew best.
“The crash site is in the middle of frozen plains. Pilot, you will drop off my team thirty meters south of the Noboat’s location. You will then hold suppression fire while my team converges.” He puffed up his chest. “There is no place for the Bakma to hide. We will attack them outright.”
Esther had been listening intently to Saretok, and Scott knew why. “Colonel, Private Brooking is a scout. She could be dropped off in advance to—”
“She is of no use in this terrain,” Saretok said, clamping on his helmet. His mohawk was replaced by black metal. “The Bakma will be suppressed by the Vulture until we reach the Noboat. Full participation will not be required.”
Scott realized it right then: Saretok had no intention of using anyone from EDEN.
“Goronok,” Saretok said, turning to Egor, “you will use explosive shells to clear the antechamber. You will then accompany me, Dostoevsky, and the German into the aft hallway. We will sweep the storage rooms, living quarters, dining hall, and engine room.” He turned to Scott. “You and Romanov will clear the bridge of the vessel. Ryvkin will remain in the antechamber as backup for both teams.”
Scott felt the cabin deflate. This had all been planned from the outset. Why even bother bringing the others along?
“Pilot, what is our ETA?”
“Not long.”
Never before had Scott heard Travis so dejected—so uncaring—not even when he’d been criticized in Room 14.
Surprisingly, Saretok accepted Travis’s answer. The fulcrum colonel readied his gun.
Scott pondered. This wasn’t the way to keep a unit stable. If that’s what Saretok had intended, he was failing miserably. As he surveyed his teammates, Scott saw that every head was down except David’s. The older man was staring straight at him, the expression on his face revealing his thoughts.
This was not right.
Before long, the Pariah reached the crash site. The transport decelerated as its descent began. Once again, Travis’s emotionless voice came over the speakers. “Coming down.” The Nightmen collected near the rear door.
Snow crunched softly as the Pariah landed. The rear bay door lowered.
Customarily, this was when ground leaders offered a final word. But no such word came from Saretok. He stood in silence by the door, his E-35 in his hands.
“Pilot, engage.”
The Pariah‘s nose-mounted cannon erupted. Bullets clanged and sparked against the Noboat’s antechamber door.
Saretok burst from the ship with Scott and the other Nightmen fast in his wake, taking an angled route toward the vessel to avoid Travis’s shots. The cannon fire was deafening. The heat it produced was in shocking contrast to the frigid air. Bullets peppered the Noboat, tearing a gaping new hole in its closed outer door.
“Hold fire!” Saretok ordered through the comm. He looked at Egor. “Fire your hand cannon.”
Egor aimed the weapon forward, sending a projectile explosive toward the alien ship. It detonated, and the antechamber burst into flames.
There was little resistance en route to the door. Within moments, all six armored men were ready to enter. The assault began. Saretok, Dostoevsky, Auric, and Egor moved through the antechamber to the aft hallway. Viktor remained behind, as Scott and Nicolai dashed to the bridge.
Even in battle, Scott was critiquing Saretok’s command. Esther could have come in through the Noboat’s top entrance, as she did in the forest. She could have supplemented Saretok’s team. Svetlana and Varvara could be here preparing to treat wounded Bakma. Without even realizing it, Scott had gunned down several Bakma. Nicolai had killed some as well. They were knee-deep in a firefight around the corner of the bridge doorway.
Noboat bridges were not large—roughly the size of a Vulture’s troop bay but octagonal. There were six workstations: one for the captain, pilot, navigator, chief engineer, weapons specialist, and a communications officer. At least those were the human equivalents. The ceiling wa
s lower in the bridge, and almost every station was built into the wall.
The crash had been mild, but the room was still damaged extensively. There were four Bakma in the bridge, holding their own against Scott and Nicolai. Scott could hear the battle on Saretok’s end.
Darting around the corner, Scott fired a round. One of the Bakma was shot in the shoulder. It dropped its weapon and crashed to the floor.
Nicolai executed a similar attack and a second alien was incapacitated.
Make them surrender. Take them alive and save our medics the trouble. “Grrashna!” Scott yelled from the corner. He knew his Bakmanese was incorrect—technically, he was telling the Bakma he was surrendering. But he knew they’d know what he meant. Popping around the corner again, Scott unleashed another burst of gunfire. Intended to be a warning, his bullets tattered violently against the bridge walls.
There was a brief volley of return fire and then the defense effort lulled. An alien shouted from the bridge. “Grrashna!”
Scott didn’t hesitate. He rushed the bridge, his assault rifle forward.
Two unscathed Bakma threw down their weapons and held their hands in the air. Six more in total were sprawled across the room—two injured and four dead.
The Bakma survivors stared at Scott. It struck him just how different he must have looked with his golden spiked collar. The Bakma probably thought it was some kind of a rank.
This collar…is this why Sveta and Max crafted it, so I could charge into battle and leave them behind? Was this what they envisioned would happen?
Gunfire subsided far behind him; an eerie quiet arose. Saretok’s voice crackled over the comm. “Aft section secured.”
“Bridge secured,” Scott answered. He looked at the Bakma. “Come on. Out.” Gathering their wounded comrades, the aliens complied.
Back in the Pariah, the other half of the Fourteenth was sitting in wait. Little had been spoken since the assault began.
Travis had his feet propped on the control panel dashboard as his hand pressed idly against his cheek. He had the Fourteenth’s comm chatter routed through the Pariah‘s speakers so that everyone in the unit could hear.
Saretok’s voice came over the comm. “Ryvkin, we have three wounded.” His words were in Russian. “Hurry and stabilize them.”
Viktor complied.
“Sveta, Varya, come help with the wounded,” Scott said through the channel.
Svetlana lit up when she heard his voice. Both medics rose to their feet.
“Negative, Remington,” Saretok said. “Ryvkin does not need assistance. Prepare the hostages for transfer to the Vulture.”
Frustrated, Svetlana and Varya returned to their seats.
The speakers were cut off. “That’s all I can take,” Travis said from the cockpit. The frequency squeaked and twisted, settling on something altogether different—on Russian voices none of them recognized.
“Fall back, Teterin. We’re stuck at the corner.”
“One down—where is the technician?”
“Falling back, captain.”
Travis looked back from the cockpit. “That’s from the Fifty-first at the Ceratopian site. Might as well listen in—it’s not like we’re doing anything else.” He adjusted the volume to background level.
Max tossed down his helmet.
“Do not get upset. This will pass,” Svetlana said.
“Hope is a carrot,” answered Max. “We’re the horse.”
William looked at him strangely. “What?”
“It’s a metaphor.”
“What’s a metaphor?”
“What I just said.”
“A carrot is a metaphor? Is that like a petit four?”
Max stared at the demolitionist. “If you’re serious, I’m killing myself.”
“Noboats! Noboats!” The comm chatter erupted.
Every operative jumped.
“Fall back! Noboats engaging! Pavel, lift off!” There was a burst of static, followed by screaming.
“Is tha’ from the Fifty-first?” Becan asked, hurriedly sitting upright.
Travis turned up the volume, as unintelligible statements blared over the speakers.
The operatives swapped frantic looks. “What the hell are they saying?” Max asked Svetlana.
She translated the words. “They’re saying, ‘Vindicators down!’ And now, ‘Forty-two down!’—they keep repeating, ‘Forty-two down!’”
Max and David said it simultaneously. “The Forty-second’s Vultures.” Max leapt on the comm. “Scott, get in here now.”
Travis furiously worked the communication lines. “Pariah to Fifty-one! Pariah to Fifty-one!” He looked at Boris, who was already contacting Novosibirsk. “There were four Vultures between those two units, Boris. I’ve lost all four signatures.”
“Novosibirsk, this is the Pariah,” Boris said. “We are hearing chatter from the Fifty-first and Forty-second.”
“Pariah to the Fifty-first, Pariah to the Fifty-first, is anyone receiving this?”
A disjointed reply crackled through. “Pariah…from the air, by Couriers…Battleship! We’re…”
“What the hell does that mean?” Max rushed to the cockpit door. The operatives behind him prepped their weapons.
Travis shook his head. “Fifty-first, I did not receive your full transmission. Please transmit again.”
This time, the answer was clear. “This is Captain Tkachenok! Bakma Noboats are engaging us and the Ceratopian vessels! Our Vultures have been destroyed. We are trapped inside the Battleship!”
“What about the Forty-second?”
“Forty-second is destroyed!”
Max stormed into the troop bay just as Scott appeared from outside. “Get ready to lift!”
Scott ran up the ramp and tore off his helmet. “What’s going on?”
“Noboats are attacking the other units. They took out the Fifty-first and Forty-second’s Vultures—they’ve got operatives trapped on the ground.”
That was all Scott needed to hear. “Gear up and get ready!” he ordered, clamping his helmet back on. “William, go armor-piercing.”
“Aye aye!”
The next voice they heard was neither frantic or eager, but as collected as anyone could have been. “We are returning to The Machine with the Bakma prisoners.” Saretok calmly walked up the ramp. “Pilot, set in a course for Novosibirsk.”
Travis stared blankly.
Scott lowered his rifle. “Colonel, the Fifty-first and Forty-second are under—”
“I know of the Fifty-first and Forty-second. I have already been advised by Novosibirsk. There will be no rescue attempt by us or anyone else. Those units are not our concern.”
“Not our concern?” Max gaped.
Dostoevsky and the slayers appeared at the bottom of the ramp. Bound Bakma captives were clustered behind them.
“We have captured extremely important prisoners,” Saretok said. “We must return them to Novosibirsk at once.”
Max stared past Saretok to Dostoevsky. “Yuri, we’ve gotta go after ‘em!”
Dostoevsky removed his helmet, revealing a look of total helplessness. “Colonel, perhaps we can leave someone to stay with the Bakma while we—”
“Shut up, Dostoevsky. We are returning to The Machine.”
Scott couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Over the loudspeaker, the battle continued.
“Ozerov down!”
“Come back to the corner!”
“Captain, we cannot!”
The next words, though Russian, were universally understood. Captain Tkachenok was calling for help.
“Novosibirsk! Novosibirsk! If you are receiving this, please answer!”
No answer came.
“NovCom’s ignoring them,” Esther said quietly.
Scott lowered his head in mounting frustration.
“Yuri, take back your unit!” Max shouted. “This isn’t right!”
Dostoevsky’s mouth hung down in stupor.
“How can y
ou let this happen? You’re the captain of this unit, not Saretok! How can you stand there like a coward and do nothing?”
Saretok glared at Max. “You have spoken enough.”
“You ain’t half the man Clarke was,” Max spat at Dostoevsky. “Clarke wouldn’t care what this guy said!”
Behind Dostoevsky, the slayers exchanged anxious glances. Dostoevsky tried desperately to speak. “Max, there is nothing I can do—”
“You can do something!”
“Enough!” Saretok bellowed, his voice shaking the walls. He looked at Dostoevsky at the bottom of the ramp. “You are pathetic. You command nothing here. You are a disgrace.”
For the briefest of moments Dostoevsky’s eyes shimmered.
They’re all going to die, thought Scott. He had no idea who was in the Fifty-first or the Forty-second. He didn’t know any of their names. All he knew was that they were in the middle of a battle between two alien species, with no way to escape. Regardless of who won, they would lose.
From the corner of his eyes, he could see his golden collar—his horns. It had been so long since he’d done anything close to heroic that he almost couldn’t recall how it felt. He looked at the expressions of his teammates—Max’s anger, Travis’s terror, David’s disbelief. He saw the pain in them all. Enough is enough. He turned to Travis. “Set a course for the Ceratopian crash site.”
At Scott’s defiance, Saretok took off his helmet. “Remington, this unit is yours.” He pointed at Dostoevsky. “His time is finished. Do not make this mistake and sacrifice it all. They are not worth it.”
Scott faced him dead on. “Who is not worth it? What exactly do you mean?”
“Do you think you are saving anything by going to their rescue? Give those units another mission and they will still die. You are delaying the inevitable at the risk of your future.”
“I saw Nightmen with those units before we left,” Scott answered. “I saw them with the Fifty-first and Forty-second. Not many, but they were there.”
“Some Nightmen are not worth saving.”
Dostoevsky stared at the debate. Not once did he move.
