The Glorious Becoming (Epic)

by Lee Stephen

  “I’ll talk to him,” Scott said, still watching the Texan work. “I’ll call him to my room.”

  Svetlana didn’t reply audibly. She simply smiled, reached out, and squeezed his hand—her way of telling him she approved. Together and without another word, they joined the Fourteenth for prep-down.

  * * *

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER

  WILLIAM HUMMED blissfully beneath a blast of steaming shower spray. The massive demolitionist was among the first to claim a curtained stall, as he typically was. Grabbing his shampoo-bottle-turned-microphone and bristling back his wet crew cut, he closed his eyes and belted a falsetto. “And I took the devil for a riiiiide!”

  “Hey Willie?” Becan asked as the curtain behind William was tugged open.

  The demolitionist blinked and turned around. “Huh—?”

  Poof! A white cloud erupted as flour pelted William’s face. Hacking frantically, the southerner stumbled and wiped his eyes. “Veck it, man! Again?” A chorus of laugher erupted outside.

  Such juvenile post-mission antics were normal in Room 14, particularly after missions as successful as that day’s—and shower pranks led the way. William’s flour facial was only the latest instance. The previous week, Esther had hopped in only to discover, seconds too late, that her entire bottle of conditioner had been replaced with ranch dressing. Wisely, the culprit was yet to step forward.

  By far the most daring display of tomfoolery had come against Max, who’d once finished a shower to discover that the entire room had been emptied of people, and more importantly, clothing. Even the bed sheets had been removed. The sole article of anything left behind had been a single piece of white lingerie. “Coincidentally,” a call had been placed to Tanneken Brunner moments earlier asking her to rush to Room 14 as quickly as possible. Needless to say, she was more amused by what she found than Max was that she’d found it.

  Only a few of the Fourteenth had escaped the pranks thus far: Scott, Dostoevsky, and the slayers chief among them. That Svetlana had managed to avoid them was more notable, if for no other reason, because she had a habit of reminding Scott about it whenever they discussed unit behavior during her medical reports. “I am above that,” she always said. Only Esther seemed to care that the medic had stayed clean.

  Drying her hair at the side of her bunk, Svetlana smiled as a shirtless Max approached. The lieutenant-technician tossed down his towel and pulled a white t-shirt over his head. “I saw what Flopper did today,” Svetlana said, clicking her tongue to draw the playful pooch close. “He is becoming good little soldier.”

  “I think he thinks missions are a game,” said Max. “Chase the guy in the purple suit. Sit, Flop.” The dog obeyed, perking its ears. “Good boy.” Quiet fell between them before Max finally sighed. “I know it’s only been a couple of missions, but we need to talk about Jay.”

  Running her hand through her hair, Svetlana eyed the Texan from afar. “I know. I told that to Scott in the hangar. He is too weak to be fighting right now.”

  “It’s not even that. It’s like he’s dead, Sveta.”

  “Who’s dead?” Derrick asked, approaching the two. Travis and Boris followed behind him.

  “The Bakma are dead. Go mind your own business.”

  Svetlana eyed Max with disapproval, then turned to the newcomers. “We are talking about Jayden.”

  Derrick frowned heavily.

  “We are just concerned. I am sure things will get better in time.” Her voice was weighted with forced optimism.

  “You know what’d make me feel better?” asked Max. “Wrapping my hands around Viktor’s neck.” He watched Viktor and Varvara across the room. The couple was in the midst of a hushed conversation. “I wouldn’t mind turning Varya a shade of blue, too.”

  Svetlana hit him. “Do not say that.”

  “You’re gonna defend the girl?”

  “Be mad at her, that is fine. I am mad at her, too. But do not say you will hurt her, even if you are joking. It is not funny.”

  “Look at ’em,” said Travis as the couple shared a kiss. “Broad daylight, like nothing’s wrong with it at all. They’ve got some nerve.”

  Max slipped on his boots. “How do you like the way she’s been cakin’ herself with makeup? Viktor must be into mimes.”

  “Don’t stare,” Svetlana warned. “You will only make it worse.”

  “I could break both their necks.”

  She slapped his shoulder hard. “Stop that, Max, now. We just had good mission, we do not need to ruin it. This is the only problem with the unit right now—there are a thousand other good things to think about.”

  “I’m not like you, Sveta,” Max said. “I can’t just turn it off.”

  She sighed exasperatedly. “I am not turning it off. Do you think I am not just as frustrated as you? But we do not need this. Jayden does not need this, Scott does not need this, and you most certainly do not need this.” She looked him in the eyes. “You work with Viktor. He is a lieutenant, like you are. You must get along.” Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by Varvara’s voice.

  “Excuse me.”

  The younger blond medic cautiously made her way past them to reach her own bunk. No one said a word as she scooted by. At least, not until she was through.

  “Whore,” said Max.

  Varvara spun around. “What?”

  That was all it took to make the whole room react. Every head whipped to the scene.

  “I am not a whore!” said Varvara, pointing her finger squarely at Max. Then, before Max could rise to his feet, Viktor was there. The slayer-medic grabbed hold of Max’s collar, slamming him against a bunk. Max punched Viktor back. The street fight began. Grabbing Viktor from behind just as Svetlana stepped in to try and break up the fight, Becan tackled the adulterous slayer to the floor.

  “Everyone, stop!” Dostoevsky, wrapped in a towel in preparation for a shower, grabbed Becan by the jersey and tore him off.

  Becan maintained his balance. “He started it—”

  “Shut up,” Dostoevsky cut the Irishman off, turning to Viktor. The slayer’s lower lip was busted open.

  “It was not Viktor,” Varvara said. “He came here to defend me. Max called me a whore.”

  “That’s ’cause you are a whore,” Max said.

  Surging around Dostoevsky, Viktor charged at Max again. Dostoevsky snagged him by his collar and slung him toward the showers, where he narrowly missed Esther’s wet head.

  “The next person who moves—” Dostoevsky caught his own anger. He drew a breath, then turned to his fellow Nightman officer. “Viktor, go to your quarters.”

  Viktor’s eyes bore into Max. “Da, commander,” he answered, straightening out his collar and storming for the door.

  “Egor, go with him.”

  The hulking slayer complied.

  As soon as Viktor and Egor left the room, Dostoevsky, still draped in a towel, directed his glare to Svetlana. “Sveta, how did this begin?”

  The first look that hit Svetlana was shock. Desperation ensued. “Yuri, please do not make me—”

  “Answer me,” he interrupted her. “Now.”

  A suffocating silence blanketed the room. From those closest to the scene to those watching from afar, everyone seemed to be holding their breath.

  “Don’t,” Max whispered, looking at Svetlana. “Please.”

  She shook her head disgustedly. “I cannot lie for you, Max. You have a problem!”

  Dostoevsky spoke immediately. “Max, go to the lounge.”

  “Veck,” Max muttered.

  “Go to the lounge, close the door, and defuse your temper.”

  Eyeing Svetlana bitterly, Max disappeared through the lounge door.

  “Do you see what you did?” Svetlana asked angrily, turning to the now red-eyed Varvara.

  “Sveta...” warned Dostoevsky.

  “Do you see what you did to this place?”

  “Svetlana Voronova!”

  Svetlana flinched, her blue eye
s breaking away from her younger blond counterpart.

  “Go and tell the captain what happened,” Dostoevsky said.

  Throwing down her towel, Svetlana moved away from the bunks toward the front door. She slammed it in her wake.

  No one said a thing—no smart aleck remark, no comforting word. Even William abstained from his usual quirky last comment. Awkwardly, the operatives of the Fourteenth ambled away from the scene, some to the lounge, some out of the room completely. Only Varvara and Dostoevsky remained.

  After giving Varvara the only look of sympathy she’d received during the whole ordeal, Dostoevsky returned to his curtained shower stall.

  The young medic was left alone.

  * * *

  SCOTT SAT FORWARD in his leather chair, hand propped on his chin as he stared at the document before him. It was an official document, one that referenced things Scott knew next to nothing about—medically speaking. Though he hadn’t written the document himself, the ten words that captivated him were his own doing.

  ...recommends that Jayden Paul Timmons be reinstated to active duty...

  Upon learning of Jayden’s original prognosis months earlier—a prognosis that doomed the Texan’s EDEN career—Scott had marched into the doctor’s office and, in no uncertain words, demanded the prognosis be altered. Altered it was, and Jayden was given a second chance in Novosibirsk. To that day, no one but Scott knew the truth behind the reinstatement document. Scott’s run-in with the doctor had been one of his more Nightman-esque moments to date. It might have also been an error. Jayden was still as accurate as ever with a sniper rifle, but did that justify the destruction of a good man? Had Scott left Jayden’s prognosis alone, there would have been no drama with Varvara. More likely than not, she and Jayden would have broken up under the understandable circumstances of distance. Though there was no way Scott could have predicted the events of the infidelity, indirectly, his involvement with Jayden’s reinstatement allowed it to unfold the way it had. He should have just let Jayden go home.

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  Scott sat up in his chair. He recognized Svetlana’s knock immediately. He also recognized the sound of a problem. Rising and walking to his door, he pulled it open. Indeed, it was Svetlana. And if her narrowed eyes were any indication, then indeed, something was wrong.

  “Can I come in?”

  Stepping aside, he allowed her to enter, watching as she ran her hand through still semi-damp hair. “What’s wrong?”

  Initially, all Svetlana did was shake her head disgustedly. Then the words came out. “Max and Viktor got into a fight.”

  “What?”

  “In the room. Varya walked by Max, and he called her a whore.” She huffed out a single, pathetic laugh. “She did not respond well. Viktor came over, someone pushed someone, then there was a fight. Yuri broke it up.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Her blue eyes met him. “I wish I was kidding. Yuri sent Max to the lounge and had Egor take Viktor to his room. That’s where we stand right now.”

  Closing his eyes, Scott massaged his eyelids with his fingers. For four months, order had been maintained despite the unit’s animosity toward the adulterers. So much for that.

  “You must remove Viktor, Scott,” said Svetlana. “He will not work here.”

  “Wait a minute, Sveta.” It was about to get complicated. “If it went down like you said it did, this isn’t on Viktor.”

  She conceded quickly. “Yes, I know, but—”

  “No. There are no ‘buts.’ If Max called Varya a whore, then I don’t blame Viktor for retaliating. If someone called my girlfriend a whore, I’d have done the same thing.”

  Svetlana gave him pleading eyes. “Please, Scott, just listen for a moment. Unit cohesion is important, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you must—must—remove Viktor. There will never be cohesion here as long as he is in the unit. Varya should go, too.”

  Shaking his head, Scott walked to his desk. “This is ridiculous.”

  “Okay, so Varya can stay, whatever! The important thing is that Viktor is gone.”

  “I’m not gonna kick a guy out the unit for defending his girlfriend. If Max started this, then Max needs to be reprimanded, not Viktor. We can’t make this a personal issue.”

  The blonde growled in frustration. “But this is personal issue! Everyone has a personal problem with Viktor. They have a problem with Varya, too, of course, but she has always been easily manipulated. It is Viktor who caused this entire situation!”

  “He didn’t cause Max to call Varya a whore, Sveta.”

  Crossing her arms, Svetlana raised an eyebrow. “How do you Americans say? You call it like you see it?”

  Scott moaned in frustration.

  * * *

  DOSTOEVSKY SHUT OFF the hot water valve, reducing the showerhead’s steamy spray to a gentle pattering of droplets. The fulcrum slicked back his jet black hair, set his hands on his hips, and sighed. No effort was made to reach for his towel; the sliding trails of water were the only source of motion on his body. Closing his pale blue eyes, he lowered his head.

  Besides the tattering of water drops behind Dostoevsky’s shower curtain, no other sounds had emanated from the bunk room over the past ten minutes. Abandoned by the majority of the unit some time ago, a shadow of solitude had been cast across the sleeping area. Reaching up, Dostoevsky snagged his towel from the curtain rod. After rubbing it haphazardly over his head and upper body, the commander tied it firmly around his waist. Sliding his feet into his sandals, he whisked open the curtain to reenter the bunk room. Then he stopped.

  She was still there, sitting on her bunk, bent over with her hand cradling her face. Varvara. With the exception of Flopper, whose furry little body lay sadly at her feet, the young medic was alone.

  For almost thirty full seconds, Dostoevsky watched her from behind. Beyond the lounge room door, the sound of muffled conversations could be heard. People were present in Room 14—just nowhere near Varvara.

  As Dostoevsky walked away from the shower, Flopper looked up at him, the jingle of his name tag sounding loudly in the silence of the bunk room. Beheld only by brown canine eyes, the shirtless fulcrum approached.

  Varvara made no outward indication that she heard Dostoevsky draw near to her. She simply sat, one hand resting on her knee while the other covered her eyes, from which drops of saline slowly fell to the floor.

  Flopper lowered his head again.

  Stillness once again prevailed, until Dostoevsky reached out to set his hand tenderly on her shoulder. He gave her a single squeeze. It was the faintest of gestures, the gentlest expression of compassion. But it said more than words could have. It said, I forgive you for being human.

  Nothing else was exchanged between the two. As Dostoevsky resumed his walk to his closet, the only sound in the room was the jingle of Flopper’s name tag as he looked up, then laid down. After donning his Nightman uniform, Dostoevsky left Room 14. Varvara was left to the stillness.

  * * *

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER

  SCOTT AND SVETLANA had been arguing for nearly a half hour when a knock at the door interrupted them. Upon answering it, Scott found Dostoevsky standing in the hall. “Hey,” Scott said, motioning for his commander to enter. “I’m glad you came by. Sveta told me what happened.”

  Dostoevsky’s eyes met Scott’s for a moment before the commander lowered his head and stepped in. No smile was offered to Scott or Svetlana as Dostoevsky stood between them. When he spoke, his voice was solemn and stern. “I did not come to talk about the fight. I came to talk about Varya.”

  Further down the hall but still in the officers’ wing, a second knock occurred. Unlike Dostoevsky’s knocking, however, this knock was anything but firm. It was timid—barely a knock at all. Upon opening his door, Viktor Ryvkin found Varvara standing before him. Immediately, the slayer’s face reddened. Leaning his head into the hall, Viktor looked in both directions. Once their privacy
was assured, he grabbed her arm, jerked her inside, and slammed the door.

  “What Varya did was wrong,” Dostoevsky said. “No one can deny that. But this is not right.”

  “Did you see?” Viktor bellowed, grabbing her face and jerking it face-to-face with his. “Did you see what happened?” He shoved her as hard as he could. She cried as her body hit the wall; she crumpled to her knees. “They treat me this way because of you! They despise me because of you!”

  “It does not matter that she is guilty,” Dostoevsky said. “What matters that she is ridiculed and no one defends her. That she cries and no one consoles her.”

  With every strike of Viktor’s hand, Varvara’s sobs became less and less defined. Face twisted horribly, she whined with closed eyes, her body curled protectively against the wall.

  “No one should feel the hurt that she feels, captain.” Dostoevsky faced Scott fully. “You and I, we took a life to wear the uniforms we wear—I have taken many lives. Varvara broke a heart. Whose sin is worse? Yet we pray for forgiveness while persecuting her. This should not be so.”

  “Please...please...” Varvara’s words were barely audible as she lay heaving on the floor, protecting her head with her hands as the beating carried on. Her tear-streaked face reddened with each strike that connected.

  “Worthless, hideous woman!”

  “I have heard it said that Varya gets what she deserves. What do we deserve, Scott? What do you deserve, Sveta?”

  There was nowhere to flee—no one to save her. Varvara’s reprieve rested at the hands of her tormenter, whose bellows blended in with the sounds of his assault.