by Lee Stephen
Neutron was still soaring at him; the beams hammered the walls all around him. He could feel their energy, smell their particles.
Time seemed to stop as Dostoevsky registered his physical body, from his fingers to his toes. He felt his ribs where they had fractured. Rolling onto his side, he pressed his hand to the floor. With his other hand, he detached his helmet.
This was all I wanted.
Pushing upward, he rose to his knees and lifted his head to the alien mob, surrendering his helmet to the floor.
This was all I asked for.
The Ceratopians fired their weapons. Red flashes pulsed from their barrels.
To save as many as I could.
His fingers relinquished their grasp as his assault rifle fell from his hands. He bowed his head in surrender.
I am Yours.
When it hit him, it jostled his bones. Never before had he been struck so hard. The world spun as he flew through the air. His eyes shot open. Inertia kicked in. He gasped for a breath.
It wasn’t neutron that had struck him. It was something much more determined than a Ceratopian kill strike. As the world tumbled in Dostoevsky’s view, he registered glimpses above. He saw flashes of ceiling light—then blackness and horns.
He saw gold.
Time caught up with him again. The world sped back up. As neutron gave way to projectile, he focused his eyes.
Scott leapt from atop him and shouldered his gun. “You’re lucky he’s got a good technician!”
Dostoevsky looked at the intersection. A second man stood there—a man in EDEN armor. Captain Gabriel. Dostoevsky watched as Scott joined him to fight.
Scott fired around the corner of the hall, the heat of gun exhaust blowing in his face. Far ahead, the Ceratopians returned fire.
A woman’s voice came over the comm. “Platis is here, captain! I’m bringing his team up the lift.”
“Good work, Meg,” answered Gabriel. “You’re getting a raise.”
“…right.”
The Australian looked at Scott. “I’m counting about nine.”
Scott ducked to avoid a near-miss. “Not our problem.” They were Platis’s headaches now. He and Gabriel had reached Dostoevsky—that had been their only objective.
Once again, the Australian girl spoke. “We’re on our way up!”
Scott didn’t know the heavyset girl beyond her first name, but she’d singlehandedly saved Dostoevsky’s life. She was Pelican Squad’s only surviving technician. She’d operated the damaged lift with her gizmos. She’d gotten them there in time.
Edging around the corner, Scott fired again.
Everything had fallen into place. The Pariah had survived and was long gone, on its way back to Novosibirsk with Svetlana and Varvara’s teams. Tanneken was leaving with Max and the survivors from the Cruiser. And now, Esther had led her group to the roof, where the squadron of Vindicators would watch over them. It had all come together as if planned.
This went beyond us. Scott couldn’t keep the thought from his mind. This was meant to happen.
The lift opened just down the hall. Scott held his fire and turned to see EDEN soldiers rushing out. Their armor wasn’t standard silver and gray, but crimson and gold. Whatever this unit was, it was a specialty one like Vector Squad. It had to be.
Scott and Gabriel stopped firing and dropped back as the new operatives took their place in the fight. They didn’t hesitate but moved quickly down the hall. At that very moment, Scott realized their battle was over.
“Remington,” a Balkan accent came from his comm. “My Agema will take this operation from here. I await on level one.”
Scott pulled off his helmet. Every inch of his armor was bloodstained, from his golden horns to his featureless faceplate. He ran a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. “Affirmative.” Wiping his brow, he spoke on. “General, there are two Ceratopians down the second corridor from the lift. You should find them unconscious.”
“Thank you, Remington.” The comm channel closed.
Scott fell to his knees, closing his eyes. The mission was over. The battle that had begun with a single Noboat—miles from any Battleship or Cruiser, where they’d left Colonel Saretok behind—had come to an end.
A faint smile crept across his sweat-glistening face—a smile of near disbelief. Yet he did believe.
This is what You hoped for, wasn’t it? This is what You hoped we would become.
The Fourteenth had done the right thing. Every one of them, from Svetlana to Travis, from Esther to Max. Tanneken and Gabriel, too. Everything had worked.
His smile grew broader; he couldn’t restrain it. After everything they’d been through as a unit, after everything they’d endured together, they had finally found their redemption. Every struggle, every trial, every tragedy had brought them to this. Had it been worth it? At that moment, there was no doubt in Scott’s mind. It was enough to make him shout with joy.
Bring him to Me.
When Scott registered the words, his eyes opened wide. They were authoritative, a command. But they hadn’t been spoken aloud, nor were they his own. They resonated as if from his soul.
It took him a moment to realize who the voice belonged to. It was Someone he hadn’t heard from in a very long time—since the day he’d taken Sergei Steklov’s life. It was Someone he’d forgotten how to hear. But now he heard. As the realization came to him, Scott arched his eyebrows strangely. Bring him to Me? What was that supposed to mean?
It was at that moment when a quiet but unmistakably distinct sound came from behind him. Rasping, breathy releases—the stifling of sobs. Scott slowly turned his head to look back.
It was Dostoevsky—he was curled up in a ball on the floor. His hands clutched the top of his head, hiding his face. His whimpered words were scarcely audible, but Scott could still hear them. They were pleas whispered with impassioned desperation. They were prayers.
Bring him to Me.
Tingles of realization coursed through Scott’s veins.
“I gave it to You,” Dostoevsky cried, tearing at his hair. “I gave my life to You…”
It took almost ten full seconds for Scott to react. Is this actually real?
Dostoevsky whimpered on, “I don’t want to run anymore…”
As Scott’s heart and mind collided, he rose to his feet. It was indeed real—as real as anything else in the room. He rationalized it as he took it all in. Salvation didn’t care who it blessed. It didn’t care what they had done. It only cared that they’d sought it out. That they’d reached for something—Someone—higher than themselves.
That they’d surrendered.
Kneeling next to Dostoevsky, Scott placed his hand on the Russian’s shoulder. He’d have preferred to be somewhere private, a place where people weren’t watching. But this wasn’t his plan—and that was fine. He closed his eyes and fought to find the right words, his throat tightening as they finally escaped. “God…” It was all he knew how to say. “…please forgive Yuri.”
With those words, the outcry began. Everything inside Dostoevsky poured out as he wailed from the floor.
Meters away, standing awkwardly silent, Gabriel watched the scene.
Scott spoke on. “End this for Yuri, right now.”
“…forgive me, my God…”
“Let him know that he’s Yours.”
Dostoevsky’s mouth fell open and emitted a moan that pealed through the halls. It was all things at once—release, agony, defeat.
Then it was joy.
The transition was sudden, but seamless, as if in the span of a single second, the weight of the world had been lifted from Dostoevsky’s shoulders. It was as if a reviving breeze had swept through the hall. Scott opened his eyes.
Dostoevsky lifted his head to look through the ceiling. Then he smiled—a broad grin that stretched from ear to ear.
Scott fought to mask his emotions, lowering his head to hide his own glistening eyes. He pulled Dostoevsky close to him; the fulcrums embraced.
Few men were there to witness the scene, but those who did saw a murderer crumble before their eyes. They saw damnation foiled.
Gabriel said nothing during the entire episode. He only watched until the moment culminated, then turned to leave.
Everything after that was a blur. Gradually the halls cleared out as Platis’s unit secured the ship. Soon everyone was preparing to leave.
During their flight back to The Machine, those who knew Dostoevsky couldn’t take their eyes from him. Not Esther, not Viktor, not Egor. They were captivated by the murderer who had never met his own soul—the man whose veins had run colder than Siberia itself.
The man who rejoiced through tears all the way home.
40
Friday, November 25, 0011 NE
1119 hours
Cairo, Egypt
Two hours later
H`laar growled as human hands forced him to his knees in the sand. The tan Ceratopian was beaten and exhausted. It had no strength to fight back.
An EDEN Command transport lowered to the ground ahead of him, blowing a new cloud of desert sand in the air. Behind the alien, General Platis drew a deep breath. He and the Agema had touched down three hundred miles southwest of Cairo, in the Libyan Desert. Despite the lateness of November, a warm breeze blew from the dunes.
The alien struggled to stand once again. As it watched the transport touch down, it grunted through hardened jaws.
The door to the newly arrived transport lowered to the sand. Judge Jason Rath appeared in the doorway. Except for his pilot, he was completely alone.
Platis snapped into attention. The rest of the Agema crew followed suit. The Ceratopian exhaled a hard breath.
Approaching EDEN’s regional general, the Canadian judge said, “Well done, General Platis. This is indeed the one we’d hoped to find.”
The bearded Greek took the compliment solemnly. “Thank you, Judge Rath. We took several others alive. Do you require them also?”
The judge shook his head. “This one’s the most important. Bring the others to Cairo.” He looked at the captive. “Did it try to communicate?”
Platis frowned and examined the battered Ceratopian. “It was unconscious for most of the flight. It woke up just before you arrived. It tried to speak, but we did not understand.” Rath did not respond. After a moment of thought, Platis lifted his head and leaned closer. “Judge Rath, if I may ask…who is he?”
The Canadian locked eyes with the alien. Ten seconds passed. Neither of them moved. “He’s one of their leaders,” he finally said. “One of their best. We’re fortunate to have him alive. By the looks of it, the crash almost killed him.”
Platis scrutinized the alien.
Rath was more concerned about the general. “We’ll take him from here. We begin interrogations tonight.”
When Platis saw no guards at the back of Rath’s transport, he asked, “You will take him alone, judge?”
Rath chuckled. “I can hold my own fine. I don’t think he’s in condition to fight.”
“As you wish, judge.”
After an exchange of salutes, the general turned to leave. His operatives in the Agema followed him, leaving the parched Ceratopian behind. As soon as the alien was released, it toppled forward in the sand, heaving dehydrated breaths.
Rath watched Platis and his men as they boarded their ship. He saw their thrusters kick in as they lifted from the surface of the desert. He watched until they were gone.
Only when Rath was alone with the Ceratopian did he speak. “So you’re the great H`laar.”
The Ceratopian grunted with all of its strength. It fought to stand but failed.
“You’re the one that they fear.”
The alien choked and coughed. It strained to push up with one hand. It lifted its horned head to speak. “Dar Achaar veraatat dech.”
Rath blinked in surprised understanding. He gave the alien a strange, lengthy look—a look that indicated he was caught off guard. But the unnerved expression soon fell. Reaching to his belt, he unholstered a high-powered pistol.
The Ceratopian breathed harder as it struggled fiercely to stand. “Dar Achaar veraatat dech!”
Rath disengaged the safety. He aimed the barrel at the Ceratopian’s head. “I’m sure he does.”
“Dar Achaar veraatat—!”
The alien’s last words were cut short. As the pistol discharged, the Ceratopian’s bone frill cracked wide open. Blood spewed from its reptilian ears as it fell to the sand.
Judge Rath stared at the massive body before him as the desert winds blew through his hair. Slowly he let down the gun. He engaged the safety and slipped it back in his belt, then reached for his comm.
“It’s done.”
Several seconds passed before Archer replied. “He’s absolutely dead?”
“Absolutely dead.”
Archer sighed heavily. “It’s about bloody time. Very well, then. Come back home.”
At first Rath didn’t respond; his eyes remained on the corpse. Finally he lifted the comm. “Be thankful you didn’t send Faerber.”
“What do you mean?”
“It would not have gone well.”
Silence ensued on the channel, until Archer replied. “We’re being called into an emergency meeting. I’ll talk to you when we finish and when you return.” The channel closed without further words.
Rath stepped back and turned from the corpse, heading back to his Vulture. He walked up the ramp and slapped the inner hull. The door slowly whined to a close.
The alien’s body remained on the ground. As the EDEN Command transport lifted off, a wash of sand flew over it. Almost like it belonged.
No other transports came to the desert, not from the Agema or EDEN Command. The only vultures that landed were those looking for carrion.
They found it in full.
* * *
EDEN Command
All eyes in the conference room focused on Pauling. As the president propped his hands on the table in front of him, he furrowed his brow in intense thought.
The High Command had convened in an emergency session in light of the Bakma-Ceratopian confrontation. The Council had kept a tight lid on the interspecies conflict up until that point. Disclosure was now unavoidable.
Torokin observed the president with genuine curiosity. The past few days had been awkward for him, ever since he’d questioned Pauling’s effectiveness. He’d become the black sheep of EDEN Command, despite the fact that Rath, Jun Dao, and Blake had approached him secretly to agree. Grinkov and Lena didn’t need to approach him in secret—their agreement was understood without words.
“All right,” Pauling said, turning to Judge June. “Confirm to the media that it took place. Tell them the situation is ‘evolving.’ Let them chew on that for a while, while we figure out what we’re going to do.”
Torokin observed June’s reaction. She had the unenviable task of being their official crisis spokeswoman, but for good reason. No one could spin better yarns. June nodded her head.
It was one of the more intimate meetings Torokin ever remembered. This time there were no arguments about policies or plans of action. Besides Pauling’s brief reaming of Archer over his rashness in sending Platis to the scene, it had actually been a constructive effort by everyone—with the exception of Rath. For whatever reason, the Canadian judge wasn’t there.
Pauling concluded, “We’ll meet tomorrow at 0900, after Malcolm and I have had a chance to deliberate. We’ll let you all know what we came up with.” He looked at Blake. “Malcolm?”
Judge Blake rose and ordered, “Everyone else is dismissed.”
Torokin stood and pushed his chair in. Grinkov also prepared to leave—he placed an encouraging hand on Torokin’s shoulder in a way only a comrade would understand.
Torokin had no idea how Pauling and Blake would decide to proceed, now that the world knew that the Bakma and Ceratopians weren’t friends. He hoped their solution would be agreeable to everyone. Only tomorrow would
tell.
He sought out Archer, frowning when he saw the judge making his way out of the conference room alone. The chastisement Archer had received from the president had been scathing. In Pauling’s own words, Archer “couldn’t have handled it worse.” Archer’s defense had been that he didn’t want Thoor handling such a sensitive situation—a defense that several judges seemed to share, though no one spoke up on Archer’s behalf.
Torokin understood the British judge’s rationale. Would he have approached it differently himself? Perhaps—he wasn’t sure. But regardless of his own feelings, he knew Archer had gone into it with the best intentions. Torokin actually felt sorry for him. Hurrying his pace, he caught up before Archer could leave.
“Benjamin.”
Archer waited outside the conference room until Torokin caught up, then the two resumed walking.
“Do not let what happened discourage you,” Torokin said. “You did what you thought was right at the time.”
“I made a mistake. I handled it awfully. There’s nothing more I can say.”
“I know why you did what you did. I have done things like that, too.”
Archer tried to smile but failed. “You live and you learn. It’s a lesson learned the hard way—that’s how I see it.”
The British judge had a good attitude—better than Torokin’s would have been.
Archer changed the subject. “I’ll be talking to Ceratopian No. 12 later this evening, if you’d care to come along.”
Torokin had been meaning to talk to him about that. After careful deliberation, he’d come to the conclusion that as excited as he had been to assist Archer in interrogations, it wasn’t for him. He didn’t have the patience for it. “I think I am more of a hindrance than a help. Answers do not come quickly, and…it frustrates me. I trust you to do it alone.”
At those words, Archer smiled. “You trust me?”
It took Torokin a second to realize what his fellow judge was saying. That had been his issue with the Briton since the beginning—trusting the man who’d replaced the dead Judge Darryl Kentwood. He’d just told Archer he trusted him without even realizing it.
