by Lee Stephen
“I suppose that I do,” Torokin confessed. Why it took Archer being corrected in public to warm Torokin up to him was beyond his reasoning. Perhaps it made them seem like kindred spirits.
“I appreciate it, Leonid. Very much.”
“You need not mention it.”
It had been one of the more tumultuous months that Torokin could recall—from Novosibirsk to the invasion of Europe, and now this. The last thing he’d expected was that Archer would turn out to be a bright spot.
Archer offered Torokin his hand. “I hate to cut you off short, but I’ve got some work to do. I apologize if I’m coming across rudely.”
“You do not need to mention that, either.” Torokin could give lessons on rudeness. “I do not take it personally.”
“I’ll see you in the meeting tomorrow.”
“Good enough.”
There was nothing else on Torokin’s agenda for the rest of the day. He was sure something would come across his desk eventually—something always did. But at least he could pretend he was a free man.
Ever since his spat with Pauling, he’d felt the itch to unretire from Vector Squad and return to active duty. That tended to happen any time there was tension in the Council. In the end, the itch would subside—it always did. He’d call Klaus, they’d reminisce on glories past, and he’d come to the conclusion that his hanging up his assault rifle was for the best. Of course, Klaus would have taken him back in a second—he’d told Torokin that many times. But what was done was done. He was a judge for the right motives. One day, he’d make the difference he wanted.
With no other issues to steal his attention, Torokin went his own way.
* * *
Shortly after
Archer leaned back in the leather chair in his room. On his cherry-stained desk, his audio recorder sat in place. He thought patiently before speaking aloud.
“H`laar has been killed.”
He fell silent after just those four words, his eyes distancing into the conch shells on his wall. Twenty seconds passed before he resumed.
“We will have difficulties if you do not get here soon. The Bakma are getting more bold by the week…as I’m sure you now know. The Khuladi will soon have what they wish.
“We are still several months from control. Everything will be in place…but do not underestimate what ‘we’ in EDEN can do. We may be just strong enough to seal our own fate.”
He stopped and pressed his lips together, as if they were on the verge of saying something profound. But nothing came out. He rubbed his chin with his hand while his other hand hovered over the stop button. He succumbed to a sigh.
“Benjamin Archer, ending transmission.”
He stopped the recorder and removed the disk from its drive. Reaching for his comm, he said, “Archer to Intelligence. I have a priority message to be delivered to Kang. Send a courier to my room at once—five minutes, no less.”
“As you wish, judge.”
Pivoting around slowly in his chair, Archer looked at the clock. Five minutes. That was always the time he gave; he was always upset when it took longer. But today, if it took a minute or so more, maybe he wouldn’t complain. Maybe he’d simply smile. The day had already gone well.
He didn’t want to spoil his good mood.
41
Saturday, November 26, 0011 NE
0454 hours
Novosibirsk, Russia
Early next morning
Scott’s eyes opened before his alarm clock went off. As the ethereal realm of dreams melted into the colors of reality, he drew a deep breath. He could sense every rib expand then contract. He could feel the air in his lungs. His body hurt. Pain pulsed in his arms and legs; his battered face still throbbed. But something else overwhelmed all the pains of soldiery. He didn’t notice it right away—not until after a full minute had passed. When it finally occurred to him, he sat upright.
He hadn’t woken up tired.
Pressing his hands gently against the bed, he surveyed his room. It was dark. There were no sounds coming from the hall. Novosibirsk was asleep. Reaching to his nightstand, he deactivated his alarm before it could sound.
Nicole’s picture was next to his clock; she was still facing the wall. He’d turned her there the day before and hadn’t turned her back. He’d slept the whole night without her smile on him. Rising from his bed, he turned the photo until it faced him again.
He ran a hand over his face. His cheekbone felt numb where cold gel had dried overnight. The gel was doing its job well, despite the swollenness that remained; he’d have a black eye for a couple more weeks. As for the burns—they already looked better.
The aftermath of the mission had been one of the most surreal experiences of Scott’s life. He’d spent the entire flight home sitting next to Dostoevsky. The Russian fulcrum didn’t stop crying once; they were the happiest sobs Scott ever heard. He couldn’t even remember ever being that jovial about anything himself.
Everything about the rescue went beyond words. The fact that it’d even happened was hard enough to believe. He gave his teammates more credit than himself for its ultimate success. Even through odds and injuries, they’d persevered. His mind ran through the long list of wounded.
Travis was being treated for second-degree burns, among other scars. He’d miss a week or two. As for William, after several visits to the infirmary, he had been cleared of any internal injuries. He’d escaped only with a significant bruise. Though Auric’s wounds looked the worst by far, they were mostly cosmetic in nature. His helmet had saved his life—and his career. His right ear, while half missing, still functioned. Between Dostoevsky’s fractured ribs and Derrick’s reinjured leg, almost everyone had some kind of impairment.
But the worst wounds belonged to the Pariah, in spite of the fact that it’d returned. Its engines were torched beyond reliability. Its hull was dented and ripped. The feral dog on its tail wing was nothing but char.
Nonetheless, numerous components still worked. The skeleton of the troop bay was intact. The communication system still functioned. Even the controls and navigational circuits could be salvaged. It had fought its most perilous fight, and despite its battle-torn body, it had survived. It was scheduled to be flown to Atlanta—for a complete overhaul.
That was a miraculous sign by itself.
The same positive words could not be said for the two rescued squads. The Fifty-first and Forty-second were in ruin. Before Captain Tkachenok had taken ten steps out of his transport, he’d been informed by sentries that he was stripped of command. His unit would be split apart and dispersed. The Fifty-first would be Nightman alone.
No such bad news awaited the captain of the Forty-second, but for a totally different reason: he was dead. Only seven operatives from that unit had survived. Like Tkachenok’s squad, the Forty-second’s survivors would be dispersed with other units.
Tanneken Brunner received no ill-treatment upon her return to Novosibirsk, much to Scott’s pleasant surprise. Gabriel received a lecture and no more. Custer was allowed to seek medical attention in the infirmary for his shoulder wound, after which he and everyone from Pelican Squad—recovering or not—would be forced to leave. They would return to Sydney again.
The only person whose fate Scott didn’t know was Colonel Saretok’s. But that suited Scott just fine.
The battle had presented him with many things, from gold-horned armor to strange Ceratopian words. But those things paled in comparison to what mattered most. It had given him his soul back—at least, what little of it remained. A little was better than nothing at all.
Scott was in the middle of brushing his teeth when he heard a sound from outside his door. He turned to see a single white envelope sliding in at the base.
When do I ever get mail?
No one would have written him. His brother Mark would never have sent him a letter. Nor would anyone else outside The Machine. He spit out his toothpaste and rinsed, then walked toward his door to retrieve it.
It wa
s from NovCom, and he immediately realized what it was: his request for Jayden to remain at the base. A knot formed deep in his stomach. Taking the envelope to his desk, he sat down and ripped the top open. He unfolded the letter and read.
The beginning was a stock paragraph dedicated to stating the real contents of the letter. He skipped to the very last paragraph, stopping only at the three words that actually mattered.
…should not return…
The knot in his stomach unraveled, leaving an ache that lingered. He didn’t want to read any more of the letter—he wanted to throw it straight in the trash. But he looked at the paper again, forcing himself to read the whole sentence.
Due to the extent of the injury sustained, at the recommendation of Novosibirsk’s medical staff, it has been decided that Jayden P. Timmons should not return to active duty.
Scott didn’t read any further. Crumpling the paper into a ball, he hurled it against the door. It stopped rolling next to the wall.
Why Jayden? He posed the question to God. Of all the people to punish, why is it him?
He hated even the thought of breaking the news—of walking into Jayden’s room, looking him in the one eye he had left, and telling him his journey was through. Scott didn’t care if there was legitimacy behind the decision. He knew that Jayden wanted to stay to prove himself; the Texan had no further motive or wish.
Scott looked at the paper again. He wanted to pick it up and hurl it down a second time for good measure, but that wouldn’t change what it said.
He had planned to wake up and run a morning session, with the intention of starting the day off with something good, but the bad news about Jayden made that impossible. He looked at his fulcrum armor in his closet, cleaned from the battle. Even in low light, the golden horns shone. The new feature was the Fourteenth’s reward to him for turning himself around—for giving redemption a try. Where was Jayden’s reward for always being the dedicated sniper that he was?
Crumpled in a ball on the floor.
The walk to the infirmary was one of the worst Scott had endured. With every step, he was closer to crushing Jayden’s heart. He hadn’t bothered to take the letter with him. He didn’t want the Texan to see it; he just wanted to get things over with. He’d never be able to concentrate on morning session with the dread of breaking bad news on his mind.
Of all the Fourteenth’s operatives, none had earned Scott’s trust like Jayden—not even Svetlana. The Texan was the most reliable person he’d ever worked with. So far as Scott could remember, Krasnoyarsk was the sniper’s only error. He’d never failed to locate an enemy before. That that one time had cost him his career was cruel.
The infirmary was warm when Scott entered. It was bustling with more activity than outside or in the officers’ wing. He walked past the receptionist’s desk and down the hall.
Undoubtedly Jayden was capable of recovery. Would it be difficult? Yes. Would being restricted to one eye be a hindrance in the field? Yes. But Scott would take a hindered Jayden over any other fully functional sniper any day. Before he knew it, he was standing outside Jayden’s door. He poked his head into the room. The Texan was asleep.
How in the world am I supposed to do this? There was no delicate way to deliver the news, no gentle way to wake up the Texan, stand next to his bed, and say, “Sorry, they don’t believe you can do it.” But who were they to say what he could or couldn’t do?
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right to rip away Jayden’s sole desire without giving him a chance to prove the odds wrong. None of them knew Jayden’s heart. None of them knew Jayden at all.
Scott turned away from the door and stormed up the hall. They didn’t know Jayden, but that no longer mattered. They were about to know someone else.
It took Scott all of one minute to find the right door. He knocked calmly, and a small-framed, balding man opened it from inside. He was wearing a doctor’s lab coat.
Scott spoke in Russian. “Are you the doctor responsible for Timmons?”
The man looked at Scott’s name badge and appeared to recognize his last name. He looked startled. “Commander Remington, good morning. Yes, I oversee Timmons. How can I help you?”
“Is it all right if I come in?” Scott said as pleasantly as he could, offering a smile.
The cordiality was acknowledged in kind. “Of course. Please, come in.” Stepping aside, he let Scott inside and closed the door. “Have a seat.”
Scott didn’t want to have a seat. “A week ago, I put in a reinstatement request for him. I got the refusal back this morning. Was that your decision?”
The doctor hesitated. “Yes, I made that decision. There were too many potential risks to allow him to stay. I couldn’t grant the request in good conscience—I am sorry.”
“I understand.” Scott strolled to the other side of the man’s office. He stared at family photographs on his desk. “Am I correct in assuming your approval is all he needs to remain?”
“That is correct.”
Scott remained facing away. “I’d like you to reconsider your assessment.”
The doctor’s chuckle was well-intentioned. “I understand why you’re here. I know comrades become very close. You care for your friend, and he wants to stay. I wish it were that simple.”
“What if it is?”
“Life is never that simple, commander. Many difficult decisions must be made. I make them every day.”
Scott lifted his head. Still facing the desk, his back to the doctor, he stared at the wall. “So do I.” He turned his head just enough to allow the doctor to see part of his face. He meant it that way. “Before today, did you know who I was?”
“Oh yes, I know of you well.” The doctor smiled. “I have treated many of your fellow Nightmen—the ones that you train. You are quite a dangerous man!”
“Think about that.”
The tension didn’t hit right away. For several seconds the doctor just stared—Scott could see him in his peripherals. He could see the well-intentioned smile on the man’s face. He could see when realization slowly hit. Only then did Scott turn around, allowing the scope of his displeasure to come into view—revealing an edge that wasn’t quite gone.
“You said you understood why I was here,” Scott said, stalking toward the doctor. “I don’t think you do.”
The doctor froze with new fear.
“I think Timmons will recover just fine. I think he’s shown enough improvement and commitment to persevere through his initial diagnosis. I think you’ll agree.”
The man gaped, then his entire body flinched as Scott struck for his chest. But not to deliver an attack. Instead, Scott grabbed the pen from the doctor’s coat pocket. He held it in front of the man’s face. “Now…do I need to grab the letterhead, or will you?”
Ten minutes later, Scott was standing in front of Jayden’s door. In his hand was a signed sheet of paper—an official response to his reinstatement request. He stepped inside and tapped on the wood.
The Texan had been sleeping. He stared confusedly at Scott.
“Sorry for waking you up, man,” Scott said. “I know you were sleeping.”
Jayden stared oddly until his cognition kicked in. “Hey, man.” His voice was groggily deep. “It’s okay. What’s goin’ on?”
Scott stepped inside, holding the letter in hand. Then he smiled. “Have I got some great news for you.”
* * *
Every step Dostoevsky took made him cringe with pain. He was in Nightman uniform, despite his three fractured ribs. Unseen by anyone else, his chest was a patchwork of bandages and body straps. He had been summoned to the Inner Sanctum while in the infirmary. Injured or not, he had to comply.
As he approached the wooden doors, the sentries at guard parted ways. “Captain Dostoevsky, the general awaits.”
The fulcrum nodded and the wooden doors opened. Far ahead, in the darkness of the Terror’s domain, the stairway to the throne appeared. Dostoevsky drew a pained breath and stepped in.
Even
though shadows surrounded General Thoor, his cold features came into detail. His jaw protruded. His narrow eyes watched Dostoevsky’s every step. As soon as the fulcrum was before him, he wasted no time in speaking.
“Your uselessness reeks from the walls.”
Dostoevsky lowered his head.
“You have failed as Baranov’s successor. You were given an opportunity to grab the Fourteenth by the throat and control it. This was our gift to you, and you have done nothing.”
Dostoevsky barely breathed. He simply stood, eyes downcast as the diatribe continued.
“Were you any other fulcrum, you would have already been terminated. That you will walk out of my sight alive is a testament to your dedication in the past.” The general’s voice maintained its dark resonance. “You are stripped of your captaincy. The Fourteenth is Remington’s to lead. You will serve him as commander, as you served Baranov. You will behold the fruits of your own insignificance under his reign. You will witness what it truly means to command. And when—”
Dostoevsky restrained a soft chuckle.
Thoor froze the moment he heard it. From atop his throne, his rancorous eyes bulged.
Outside the Inner Sanctum, beyond the still-wide-open wooden doors, the two sentries swapped a sudden look. They turned their heads inside the room.
“Dostoevsky,” asked Thoor, “are you laughing?”
Dostoevsky couldn’t hold it back. His soft laughter escaped. “I hear you, general. I hear every word that you say. I will forfeit my captaincy. I will serve as commander for Remington. I will do all of these things.” There was no trace of spite in his voice. “But I will not tremble at the sound of your voice. You are still my general, as you always have been. But you are no longer my God.”
