by Lee Stephen
Varvara waded through the debris. “Boris,” she called out, “help me look!”
Nicolai and Derrick took cover behind one of the wings that was sticking out of the snow like a shark’s fin. Nicolai’s aim, more careful and precise than Derrick’s, panned from Bakma to Bakma like a sniper. With every shot he fired, an alien fell. Ducking back, he adjusted his comm. “Fifty-first unit, what is your condition?”
The northernmost Vulture replied, “There are six of us here. I and another are unhurt. Four are wounded, one is critical.”
“Understood.”
Derrick was crouched awkwardly on the snow. It was the only way he could function with a bad leg. Pivoting around the corner of the wing, he gritted his teeth and fired.
Back in the Pariah, Travis yelled, “Coming down by the Forty-second!”
Becan and Auric readied their assault rifles as Svetlana took her place behind them. The ship lowered to the snow, and they leapt out. The moment they landed, plasma bolts attacked them from both directions—the Noboats and the Cruiser. Becan and Auric suppressed them while Svetlana ran for the Forty-second’s northern wreckage.
The first thing Svetlana noticed were Bakma footprints in the snow, running past the fallen Vulture en route to the Ceratopian vessel. The aliens had already been there. Of the EDEN bodies everywhere, half were riddled with plasma.
Becan and Auric pressed against the wreckage’s interior hull, leaning around the corners to take outside shots. Becan focused on the Bakma coming out of the Noboats, while Auric targeted the ones by the Cruiser.
“They are dead,” Svetlana said morosely. “It is too late.”
Svetlana’s voice came over the Pariah‘s comm. “The men here were killed by the Bakma. We are moving to the Forty-second’s other Vulture.”
Travis drew the transport to a halt, causing Flopper to slide paws-first through the cockpit door. “I’ll hold off the ones in the Cruiser, Sveta. Make your run.” The pilot pressed the trigger and the nose cannon erupted once more. Bakma around the Cruiser dashed for cover.
Svetlana watched as the Pariah open fire. She firmed her eyes on the other crashed ship.
“Leg it!” said Becan. He and Auric dashed from the wreckage with Svetlana behind them. Despite the Pariah‘s efforts, plasma bolts trained at their heels. One whizzed by the Irishman’s head; he lost his balance and fell.
Auric slowed and turned back.
“Keep goin’!” Becan said, scrambling up.
Svetlana was ahead of the pack, running at a full sprint as she fired pistol shots at the Noboats. A flash of white streamed behind her as Auric’s head was ratcheted to the side. A plasma bolt had struck him. He toppled to the snow.
Becan saw it happen. Running full speed, he reached Auric’s body—but stayed only for a second. The side of Auric’s helmet had been completely blown off. His body was sprawled awkwardly like a rag doll tossed to the ground. Becan had seen men like that before: they’d all been dead.
He abandoned the fallen German for Svetlana.
The Pariah lowered outside the Cruiser, where the Bakma had moved inside. Max, David, and William hopped out. “Travis, send me a map of this thing!”
“Sending!”
Moments later, Max had his request. His visor’s field of view was replaced with layout of the alien ship.
Cruisers paled in comparison with Battleships, but they were still four times the size of Noboats. All Ceratopian vessels bore bumpy appearances, with exterior sections bulging like abscesses. Despite the damage to the vessel, it had managed to land decently.
A blue dot pulsated where Torban, the trapped medic, was supposedly located. It was a straightforward route. All Max needed to do was take the first hall to the ship’s silo. From there, they could get to Torban’s team.
Becan’s voice came over the comm. “Auric’s dead.”
Max turned back to the Pariah to find Scott. Scott was already staring at him. After a moment of silence, Scott spoke. “Let’s make sure he’s the only one we lose.”
* * *
Gabriel’s team rushed into Novosibirsk‘s hangar. None of them wore combat armor—none had any there. The Australian captain scanned the hangar until he spotted a Vulture in the back. “That’s the one she said we could take.” He avoided the sentries’ penetrating stares.
Seth Camm, Gabriel’s pilot, hurried to keep up. “I need two minutes, sir.”
The sentries intercepted them. “Halt.” Gabriel stopped in his tracks. “You are not authorized to be here. Return to your guest quarters.”
“Apologies, mate,” Gabriel said staunchly. “We need to get to that Vulture.”
The sentries aimed their assault rifles. “Negative. Return to your quarters.”
Before Gabriel could argue, a voice from behind cut him off. “You must let them through.”
The sentries and the Pelican Squadders turned. It was Tanneken—all five feet of her. Two other men, one of them large, followed behind. Gabriel blinked in genuine surprise.
The sentry turned to Tanneken. “Explain.”
“General Thoor has ordered us to take them back to Sydney,” she said, pointing to the Australians. “He does not wish to wait for a civilian airbus.”
The sentry pointed his assault rifle at her. “Those orders were not sent here. You will return to your—”
Tanneken snatched the barrel of the sentry’s rifle, shoving it away and causing him to flinch. “Get that thing out of my face.” She stood on her toes and leaned close to confront him. “Do you think I enjoy this, you fool? Do you think I would not rather go on missions than be your pitiful leader’s errand girl?”
“I—”
“I am talking, and you are listening. If you do not let us through, I will report you to General Thoor, and it will be your severed head on a stick. You did not get the order? I do not care. I was given the order, and if you do not move, I will bust you in your head and then report you. You can take both disgraces to your grave.”
Gabriel arched an eyebrow.
After exchanging a hesitant look with his partner, the sentry stepped back and motioned her through.
“Thank you,” she spat, then glared at Gabriel’s crew. “Why are you still standing here? Move!”
The Australians hurried away.
Tanneken watched them walk ahead. Placing her hands on her hips, she exhaled a frustrated breath. “I hate beach people.” She and her escorts followed from behind.
The sentries stared as she marched off. Then, very quietly, the one who’d remained out of the conversation snickered under his breath.
“What?” the other sentry asked. “Shut up.”
When Tanneken arrived in the transport, the Pelican’s pilot was already prepping the ship. The rest of the crew was gearing up with generic armor from the lockers.
Gabriel eyed her. “Can’t say I expected that.”
Tanneken said nothing.
“You weren’t supposed to be coming. We only needed your ship.”
She slid on her helmet. “I have my own reasons for this. Besides, if I had not shown up for the sentries, you’d already be dead. Sometimes, it takes a woman.”
The two women in Gabriel’s crew swapped a grin.
“She’s primed and ready,” the pilot said, turning back around. “Should we get clearance to leave?”
Tanneken gave him a stupid look.
“Right,” the pilot said. “No clearance it is.”
* * *
Back in Verkhoyanskiy, the Pariah was making its final run. The gargantuan Ceratopian Battleship towered before them. They had no way of knowing how many Bakma or Ceratopians were already inside.
Dostoevsky had been uncommunicative since Scott had removed Saretok. He stared blankly at the cabin floor.
“Captain,” Egor said.
Dostoevsky looked at him.
“You are still my captain.”
Several feet away from the faint conversation, Scott and Esther turned their heads to observe.
Ever so slightly, Dostoevsky nodded at Egor.
“Coming down!” said Travis.
Dostoevsky shouldered his weapon. The troop bay was hushed as he made his way to the rear door. Once it was down, he leapt out, with Viktor and Egor following behind.
Scott and Esther remained alone in the troop bay. As the Pariah took off for its last drop-off point, the scout shook her head. “It almost makes you feel bad.”
Scott looked at her.
“Almost,” she said.
Varvara and Boris were still searching for human survivors in the snowfield. Nicolai and Derrick continued their defensive effort.
Boris lifted and pushed away a hull panel, revealing a survivor beneath. Half of his body armor had been blown off, leaving a charred mass of twisted flesh to be dealt with. Varvara immediately went to work.
Farther south, Becan was providing cover from the wrecked Vulture in the wake of Auric’s death. With a troop bay that was still intact, the Irishman was able to take shelter behind the rear bay’s exit door. He leaned around the corner to shoot.
Bakma resistance from the Cruiser had diminished after Max’s team disembarked, which eliminated an entire direction from Becan’s concern. The one direction he faced was challenging enough on its own.
Behind him, Svetlana searched for more survivors. The troop bay was littered with mangled corpses. As she rummaged through body parts, she found her first patient. He was an older man—he looked to be in his fifties. His left arm was severed at the elbow, and his body was shredded and bloody. But he was alive.
“I have you,” she said softly in Russian as she opened her medical kit. “Stay alive for one moment more.”
Suddenly another sound caught her ears. She instinctively turned.
It was a second survivor. His body was horrifically twisted and barely distinguishable from the mangled wreckage, just like the old man she knelt over now. But there was a difference that made her lock up. The second survivor looked younger than her.
For several seconds, Svetlana did nothing. She only stared wide-eyed at the young man. Then she thoughtfully looked at the older one beneath her.
Becan continued to fire his assault rifle, but Svetlana didn’t hear it. She could only stare at the old man’s unconscious face as the world around her went still. Slowly, she reached out to touch him. Her eyes glistened. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I am sorry.”
Grabbing her medical gear again, she leapt over the old man and away. She dashed to the side of the younger patient.
Scott was about to be dropped off at the rear of the Battleship. He readied his assault rifle next to Esther. “First we clear the opening room, then we work our way to the trapped operatives. Follow my lead.” He activated his ExTracker and the overlay appeared over his holographic map. The first room on the display was an antechamber with three corridors branching off: one to each side and one heading in.
Scott had never been inside a Battleship; few people had. They had been ubiquitous during the initial Ceratopian attacks, but in recent years they’d slacked off. Visually, they were similar to Cruisers—they bore the same bulbous shape. But their sheer size dwarfed the Cruisers’.
“Coming around!” Travis warned. The Pariah fired at the Bakma coming from the two eastern Noboats; they scrambled for cover. “You should beat most of the Bakma inside, but some might already be in! Watch your backs—as soon as I leave they’re going to come in behind you!”
They’d have to move fast. Scott leapt from the ship with Esther close behind him. Scrambling to their feet in the snow, they ran for the Battleship. The outer door was massive—large enough for two Ceratopians to pass through. Scott took point and entered the vessel.
He hit immediate resistance in the form of three Bakma crouched next to a left-hand hallway. Firing his assault rifle, Scott dove sideways to avoid their plasma blasts. He wasn’t firing to hit them—he just wanted them to fall back. And they did, back down the left-hand hall.
Esther came through the door a half second later, cutting left against the wall by the corner, out of view of the Bakma who’d fallen back. She’d timed it perfectly with Scott’s firing. The aliens had no idea she’d come in.
Lure the Bakma back out. Esther can attack their blind side as they pass her.
Esther must have sensed his plan. She ducked back into the corner in preparation to fire. But before they could act on their plan, a new wave of plasma burst out, this one from a deeper corridor. Scott fell back against the corner opposite Esther.
Everything went still.
There are Bakma coming at us from two directions. If Esther or I move, we’re in sight.
Letting one hand slip from his assault rifle, Scott grabbed a grenade. Esther watched him closely as he depressed the activate button.
Thrusting his hand around the corner, Scott flung the grenade down the deeper hall. Boom! The two operatives cowered as smoke and debris flew into the antechamber. Almost immediately, the three Bakma stormed from the left-hand hall. Their plasma rifles were trained directly on Scott.
Esther cut them off from behind. The moment they emerged, the scout opened fire. One Bakma collapsed as the other two turned to find her. As they did, Scott opened fire. Between the two humans, the three aliens were down. Across the antechamber, Esther looked eagerly at Scott.
According to Scott’s ExTracker, the deeper hallway led to the trapped members of the Fifty-first. Adjusting his comm, Scott tried to make contact. A reply came almost immediately.
“This is Lieutenant Papanov. There are three of us left alive here—we are trapped. My commander is here, badly wounded, and we have no medic.”
“Where are the aliens relative to you?” Scott asked.
“There are Ceratopians ahead of us. The Bakma have pushed us farther in but they are backing off now.”
Scott knew why: the Bakma were falling back to face Esther and him. “I have you on ExTracker. We’re on our way.”
At the other end of the Battleship, Dostoevsky and his slayers were in the midst of a bloodbath. Beyond the massive doorway of the alien vessel, a smorgasbord of hostiles had collided. In all his years both with EDEN and as a Nightman, Dostoevsky had never witnessed anything like this. Bodies of every species—humans included—were strewn along every corridor. The halls were rank with the odors of death.
The Nightmen had also done their fair share of slaughtering. By Dostoevsky’s count, he had personally dropped seven Bakma. Viktor and Egor had been equally lethal.
As soon as the first lull came, Dostoevsky knelt down. “Captain Tkachenok, this is…” he hesitated, “…Captain Dostoevsky.” Something about saying that title made his voice waver. “We have broken through the rear line of the Bakma. What is your condition?”
“Captain Dostoevsky! We are in—”
The signal cut off, going dead silent. There was nothing else at all.
Dostoevsky shot a look to his slayers. Both men stared back at him. Rising to his feet, Dostoevsky aimed his rifle ahead. “Point—Zulu.” Ryvkin and Egor slid into a triangular formation behind him, leaving the fulcrum captain at the lead.
According to his map, Tkachenok’s team was forty meters away and one level up. The three Nightmen moved in unison down the hallways. The occasional Bakma they encountered was ruthlessly cut down. Canrassis lasted only slightly longer.
“Necrilid!” Viktor called from the rear. All three Nightmen swung around, where a necrilid was bounding at them from behind. Before they could fire the first shot, the creature leapt in between Viktor and Egor, straight into Dostoevsky. It knocked the fulcrum onto his back.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
The creature contorted as bullets peppered it from behind. It crumpled to the ground, nerves twitching in its final movements.
Dostoevsky stood as the two slayers stared at him.
“Why did it go after you?” Egor asked him. “We were right in front of it.”
Viktor answered before Dostoevsky could. “Be
cause they sense fear.”
Egor faced Viktor, lowering his weapon, his body language indicating his shock at the blatant words of his comrade.
Viktor said nothing else. He simply readied his rifle for the corridor ahead.
Dostoevsky looked forward again. Carefully, he curled his fingers around his assault rifle to reaffirm his grip. But for the first time, he noticed something different—something about his hands.
He was trembling.
36
Friday, November 25, 0011 NE
1121 hours
The Citadel of The Machine
At the same time
“It has a fully functional crystal,” said the technician. “There is no reason it would not work.”
General Thoor clasped his hands behind his back. His expression was emotionless but he was clearly deep in heavy thought.
The lone Noboat was dimly illuminated in the underground hangar. It was one of only two vessels there. The other was a simple Vulture transport—the general’s personal one.
Another man, this one with a thin salt-and-pepper ponytail, slid a sprig from his mouth, exhaling smoke over his goatee. “You will not find a pilot to do this,” he said in a calm, gritty voice. “It is asking for treachery.” He was the only man in the room not wearing a Nightman uniform. His jersey bore the emblem of EDEN.
“We have pilots of our own, Antipov,” Thoor answered.
Antipov laughed mirthlessly. “You are not serious, general. The Khuladi would destroy us from a million miles away.”
Another man chuckled at the remark. In contrast to Antipov, he was outfitted in fulcrum armor, with spiky black hair and a clean-shaven face. “In space, a million miles is not very far.”
Antipov exhaled another plume. “You asked for my opinion. This is it. I will do this mission if you ask, general, and I will bring my best men. But what purpose does it serve if we are blown out of the stars?”
