The Glorious Becoming (Epic)

by Lee Stephen

  The major nodded. “Exactly. There’s not an exterior scorch mark in sight. Every air-to-air weapon we carry creates an explosion. This hull didn’t explode—it got crushed.”

  “How is that possible? There’s not a weapon that can do that.”

  Tacker hesitated. “Actually, there is. There’s one weapon fully capable of doing this. I’ve seen it done before, just not to a Cruiser.” Several moments passed while the major stared at the vessel. “That weapon...is a neutron cannon.”

  Lilan raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t think we hit this thing at all, colonel. I think other Ceratopians did.”

  PART I

  1

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 7TH, 0012 NE

  1945 HOURS

  RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

  SHORTLY AFTER

  CATALINA SLAMMED her spare magazine onto the rolling ammo cart, her brown eyes viciously narrowed. Behind her, the remnants of Charlie Squad exited their Vultures to prep down. The Canadian’s armor and helmet were removed, ready to be taken in for clean-up and repairs. Her hair, still dripping with sweat, fell around her shoulders in shiny black tangles.

  “Cat!”

  She ignored the approaching voice.

  “C’mon, Cat, give it a rest...”

  Spinning abruptly, she shoved the approaching soldier as hard as she could. “Give it a rest? Are you kidding?”

  Mark Peters raised his hands in protest. “You want to blame me? Fine, blame me, I don’t care. But the truth is, if you had just listened to me in the first place and—”

  Laughing threateningly, she turned away.

  “Cat, stop freaking out for one second.”

  “I am walking away from you right now.”

  He followed her. “We had a string of good missions. We knew this would happen eventually. Both of us screwed up.”

  “I am walking away.”

  “You’re such a little girl.”

  She turned on him, her hair flying, and jammed a finger straight in his chest. “Don’t you even think of trying to spin this as both of our faults!”

  “I—”

  “You leave me behind out of nowhere in the middle of a Ceratopian Cruiser, and you have the gall to try and turn this on me? I’m left outside, chasing a necrilid by my vecking self, and you act like I should be fine with that?”

  A second woman—a blonde in a flight suit—approached the two. Her hazel eyes were deep with concern.

  Catalina went on. “I could have been dead back there! Do you even understand that?”

  “But you’re not dead!”

  “Ungh!” She clenched her own hair. “You drive me insane!”

  “Do we have a problem here, privates?” asked a new voice. Catalina, Mark, and the blond-haired pilot all turned to find Major Tacker, who was eyeing them with disapproval from several meters away.

  “No, sir,” they answered in unison.

  Tacker said nothing else; the operatives resumed their prep down.

  Colonel Lilan was removing his armor when Tacker approached him. “I asked Richmond Command about the intercept,” Tacker said. “Turns out there was none. Not from the continental U.S., anyway. They thought it might have been a remnant from some other intercept. Nagoya or something, just coming down here.”

  Lilan tossed down his shoulder guards. “Did you tell them what we found?”

  “No, sir. I thought you’d want to tell the general yourself.”

  “Lizards shooting lizards.” The colonel brushed back his crew cut. “Friendly fire, you think?”

  “While fighting what?”

  Lilan sighed in frustration. “I don’t know. And that bothers me. I’ll talk to Hutchin tomorrow morning. We’ve got a meeting scheduled, anyway.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  THE DOOR TO Room 419 opened; Catalina and the blonde stepped inside. As soon as the door was shut, Catalina pulled off her jersey and flung it to the floor. “I’m gonna kill him. One day, Tiff, I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna rip his red hair out by the roots.”

  The brown-eyed blonde, Tiffany Feathers, unzipped her flight suit. “You two are totally meant for each other,” she said, smirking. Catalina moaned in aggravation. “What-ever, you can moan all you want. You guys are totally getting married one day.”

  “Like, totally, right?”

  “Har, har.” Untying her ponytail, Tiffany shook her head back. Her hair fell down in shiny locks.

  Catalina looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was shiny, too, but for a different reason. It looked greased. “You look like a model. I look like a witch.”

  “You so do not,” Tiffany said, inspecting her teeth in the mirror. Satisfied with their whiteness, she moved on. “So you killed a necrilid, huh? That is so cool.”

  “Tacker killed it, actually.”

  “Oh. Yah, not quite as cool...”

  “And, of course, who got busted for breaking orders?” Catalina raised her hand. “That would be me. Never mind how Mark screwed up, he doesn’t get a word from Tacker. Just me.”

  “I think Tacker has the hots for you.”

  Rolling her eyes, Catalina grabbed a towel and a cosmetic bag. She stared at Tiffany again. “If I could only be so lucky. I’m going to take a shower. I’ll be back.”

  “Later, gator,” Tiffany said, waving as Catalina stepped out.

  Tiffany was Catalina’s best friend. The two had never met prior to Philadelphia Academy, but had been roommates during their entire stay, Catalina as a soldier, Tiffany a pilot. They weren’t opposites, per say. They were both partial to the party scene, and they shared many of the same likes and interests. But there were definitely differences.

  Catalina was a self-prescribed rocker chick. She could play the guitar and actually sing quite well. Unlike most people at the Academy, she had no idea why she’d joined EDEN. The urge had struck her one day, and like any right-brained free spirit, she just went with it. She was there because she was there.

  Tiffany Feathers, on the other hand, had a reason for being a pilot. She’d been born with a set of wings—literally. Her first official baby gift, as ridiculous as it sounded, was a sky blue, two-seater FunJet, courtesy of her father. She grew up learning how to fly and graduated from the Academy as a Vulture pilot. She was also a ditz—a bona fide California Valley Girl. She defied everything about the pilot stereotype.

  As different as their origins were, Catalina and Tiffany were as close as best friends could be. They had been together through the best and worst of Philadelphia. That they’d been assigned to the same unit upon graduation was just icing on the cake.

  Ahead of her in the hallway, a cluster of African-American operatives was gathered. Their voices were loud, prevalent. Impossible to ignore.

  “Nigga screamin’ like he seein’ roaches!” Obnoxious laughter erupted from the gathering, directed at one of their own. “Nigga like, ahhhh!”

  The Canadian lowered her head, making no effort to stop her hair from covering her eyes. Anything to avoid eye contact. There were five of them in total, and they’d been on the mission, too. They were her teammates.

  “Coach be screamin’, N’awlins be trippin’ over hisself, all like, ahhhh!”

  The target of the ridicule finally replied, “Man, what you do? Why don’t you enlighten us, King? What you do when a necrilid jumps in ya face?”

  “I don’t be shootin’ the floor! Pa-pow, ahhhh!” The laughter reached new heights.

  The men were gathered between Catalina and the women’s shower room; she had no choice but to walk past them. As soon as she was in their vicinity, all sound stopped.

  Don’t look up. Just walk past them. She felt every eye on her, and she immediately regretted stepping out of her room in less than a full uniform. That didn’t always bother her—she liked to be looked at, to feel sexy. She didn’t mind putting on the occasional eye show for the boys. What she did mind was when boys tried to touch. Fortunately, this time, none of them did. But that didn�
��t stop the obligatory comment.

  “Purr for this, momma.”

  Hushed hooting ensued.

  She knew what the remark was in reference to. On her back, behind her right shoulder blade, was a tattoo of a cat’s paw. She’d always been called Cat by everyone she knew. The ink fit. She enjoyed showing the tattoo off at the appropriate times, when she wanted to be noticed by the opposite sex. This was not one of them. She said nothing in reply to the comment—she just went about her way.

  “Scaw, walk away, woman.”

  Catalina had never had a problem with black people. In fact, she came from a fairly ethnic circle of friends back in Vancouver. But none of them made her nervous. This crew did.

  Their ringleader was Tom King. He was an alpha private from Atlanta, Georgia. Ironically, he was one of the smallest in the gang, barely five feet and eight inches. While there were many words to describe Tom, quiet and modest were not among them. Every word out of his mouth—and there were lots—was loud and obnoxious. But the worst thing about Tom was his million-dollar smile. It gleamed like a superstar’s, and if Catalina was being honest, it was one of the most attractive smiles she’d ever seen on a man. Unfortunately, the jackass it was attached to made it almost unbearable.

  The second was Donald Bell, who was actually her superior and a demolitionist delta trooper. Technically, he was third in command of all of Falcon Platoon, despite the fact that he wasn’t an officer. What he was, though, was Tom’s first cousin. The two had grown up together, and their mere presence brought an essence of family to Charlie Squad. Just not Catalina’s kind of family. Donald was actually a decent person. He didn’t flaunt his rank, remained generally quiet, and treated everyone above and below him with a level of courtesy that was both rare and refreshing.

  In fact, she could say that same thing about almost all of them, with the exception of Tom. When on their own, each of the men was cooperative and personable. It was when they were together, and particularly when Tom was leading the crew, that their raucousness arose.

  There was Javon Quinton, handsome and tall, with both the build and attitude one would expect from a professional soldier. He had a unique sense of style, often wearing sunglasses that looked two sizes too big for his head and hair that stuck out in all directions, like someone who’d been electrocuted.

  Demorian Mott was from Louisiana. Catalina knew this because, at every available opportunity, his cohorts jokingly called him either “N’awlins” or “that trash from New Orleans.” He was the shortest of the crew, about an inch under Tom, but built like he should have been seven feet tall. He was a miniature bruiser.

  Then there was Leonard Knight. In Catalina’s sincere, televisioninfluenced opinion, Leonard looked how she imagined a gang member should look. He was tall, and his arms were muscular—not the streamlined muscles of someone who lived in the weight room, but thick muscles that looked earned on the streets. He had various tattoos, none of which Catalina could make out. Complimenting his stoic expression was a head topped with cornrows, completing a package that screamed criminal record, despite the fact that he kept mostly to himself.

  The five of them—Tom, Donald, Javon, Demorian, and Leonard—formed the meat of Charlie Squad. All of the men, with the exception of Donald, the demolitionist, was a soldier. The only other soldiers in Charlie were Catalina herself and Mark Peters. Perhaps that was one of the reasons she was attracted to Mark, despite their occasional spats. They were birds of a feather in a group that was different from what she was accustomed to.

  They weren’t all of Charlie Squad, of course. There were a handful of operatives who weren’t soldiers. There was Leslie Kelly, a sweet girl and the unit’s technician. There was Frank Smith, a lovable and somewhat innocent medic. Then, of course, there was Tiffany. They and Mark made up the part of the crew with which Catalina felt infinitely more comfortable.

  Despite the mild sexual harassment thrown her way, Catalina managed to get her shower in. When she stepped back into the hall after she was finished, she was relieved to find Tom and his friends gone. Within moments, she was back in her room.

  She and Tiffany were not the first to go to bed that night, nor were they the last. One-by-one, room-by-room, the operatives of Charlie Squad and Falcon Platoon brought their battle-worn night to a close, their dreams replacing the echoes of gunfire from only hours before. For some of them, this had been their first mission. For most of them, this had been their worst. As the moon offered its twilight serenity, the promise of a new day hovered beyond the horizon. A new day—their reward for surviving the last one.

  Dream, they did indeed.

  2

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 7TH, 0012 NE

  1402 HOURS

  SIBERIA

  “THEY ARE COMING!”

  The cry came from the antechamber ahead. Confirming the functionality of his plasma rifle’s modulator, Wuteel slammed against the wall of his Noboat’s interior hall. The hum of calibrated plasma emanated from his weapon. Sparks popped intermittently from the exposed wall circuitry around him.

  “Wuteel calling Tissana,” the Bakma hissed. “The Earthae are breaching!”

  “They breach here, as well!” his alien comm crackled.

  Projectile erupted in the antechamber, met by a volley of retaliatory plasma. Wuteel pointed. “Move! Hold them until assistance arrives!” The Bakma survivors trotted ahead. “Imminent emergency!” Wuteel barked through the comm. “We require immediate extraction!” Behind him, an armored canrassi growled predatorily.

  “We are nine g-ticks from the homeworld, Nectae-1,” came an answer from Nectae-3, the only of the three Nectaes not already on the ground. “Stand by.”

  “Standing by!”

  MEANWHILE, ABOARD the also-fallen Nectae-2, Security Lord Tissana and his team of survivors fortified the outer entrance of their ship. The ground outside was cold. Howling winds whipped through the antechamber door; the bloodied Bakma rasped loudly as the Earthae engaged. “Override automatic door control. Block them out!” The Bakma by the entrance complied.

  “Lord Tissana,” one of the Bakma yelled to him, “the Earthae bring titans!”

  Before another word could be uttered, the outer door, still in the process of being closed, erupted in fiery orange. Bakma flew in all directions.

  Falling against the antechamber wall, Tissana heard the Earthae titan fire again. Diving down the interior hallway, the security lord felt the element-melting blast of the titan’s flame cannon behind him. Flicks of debris from the walls peppered his body. He looked back—the antechamber was ablaze. Scrambling to his feet, the Bakma lord’s focus returned to his escape route.

  Too late. Tissana never even noticed the Earthae assassin until he whipped back around. He’d never seen it enter the ship at all. The Earthae propelled itself straight up from the wall, its foot slamming into the side of the Bakma’s head, sending him crashing into solid metal. He spun around desperately, trying to locate the assailant. He found only death. The Earthae’s blades slid into his neck at the exposed line between his breastplate and chin-guard, then were yanked back as fresh warmth poured from the alien’s neck. The last things Tissana saw was mocha skin, brown eyes, and dark lashes.

  And the faintest hint of a smirk.

  WUTEEL GROWLED as a bullet tore through his shoulder. He stumbled but maintained his retreat. He’d felt the projectile go straight through—a lucky break. Behind him, the canrassi reared back and roared.

  “Attack!” ordered Wuteel, pointing to the open antechamber door where his crew was fending off the Earthaes.

  The beast’s roar subsided to a low, threatening growl. Lowering its body, its hind legs propelled it forward through the smoke.

  Wuteel lifted his comm again. “We cannot hold here much longer!”

  IN THE SKY AND approaching the scene, the third Noboat materialized. Eyes focusing on the ice-covered tundra, Operational Lord Du`racchi leaned forward in his chair. “Stand by, Nectae-1. We have arrived.” He swiveled
to face communications. “Status of Nectae-2?”

  “No contact from Nectae-2, lord.”

  Du`racchi swiveled back around.

  “Lord!” The cry came from navigations, as the officer there turned to him. “The Earthae have sent an intercept vessel, class unknown!”

  “Class unknown?”

  “Affirmative, lord!”

  “On screen.” Moments later, the Noboat’s main view screen changed. What appeared was a long vessel constructed of sleek, dark metal. Du`racchi’s eyes narrowed. This vessel...it had armaments. Earthae mounted projectiles, wingtip ballistics. This was no ordinary Vultureclass transport. It was a gunship.

  LUNGING FROM Nectae-1, the canrassi roared and charged forward, diving amid Earthae as they scattered in all directions. Wuteel raised his hand to signal the offensive.

  Ka-pow!

  Wuteel froze, his hand still locked in the air as his opaque eyes bulged with horror. The canrassi toppled over, lifeless, a single clean exit wound visible in the center of its skull.

  It’d been felled in one shot.

  “THE GUNSHIP APPROACHES!”

  “Reenter the rift!” barked Du`racchi.

  “It fires!”

  The Noboat rumbled as it was struck; klaxons wailed through the halls. The outside world was still visible. “Why have we not shifted?” Du`racchi asked frantically from his chair.

  The Bakma at engineering swiveled around. “The crystal is damaged. Rift generation is impossible!”

  Visible on the view screen, the gunship turned to pursue.

  BACKING FROM NECTAE-1’s antechamber, Wuteel shouted at the Bakma holding the door. “Fall back! Give the Earthae our ship—it is already lost! Our brethren in Nectae-3 will arrive soon. We must take the emergency exit to meet them!” No sooner had he said the words, the Earthae breached.

  They were like nothing Wuteel had ever seen. They were like war machines. Black and vile, as if forged by the Khuladi themselves. The Earthae leader, ordained in gold trim, sang a chorus of fury through the blazing tatter of its weapon. Then it faced him. When it spoke, its voice resonated like thunder.