The Glorious Becoming (Epic)

by Lee Stephen

  “Get up,” he said, pushing back his chair and throwing some money on the table. “We’re goin’ back to the room.”

  She smirked at the payment. “Is that so I’ll line dance for you?”

  “Yep. We’re done.”

  The journey from Route 66 back to their room was among the most discombobulated walks Jayden had ever experienced. With seemingly every step she took, Esther grew goofier and goofier, the lowlight of the trip occurring when she grabbed a random passerby, looked him in the eyes, and said in the looniest voice possible, “We’re on a secret mission!” Thankfully, her drunkenness was as perfect an explanation for her outburst as Jayden could have come up with on his own.

  It dawned on Jayden midway through the return trek that, beyond the nachos they’d eaten in the bar, none of them had consumed any decent amount of food since the flight from Novosibirsk—undoubtedly a factor in Esther’s quick intoxication. Though the Texan was far from impaired, even he began to feel subtle effects toward the end of the journey. Just the same, he was able to guide them both back to their room with no issues beyond the scout’s inclination to reveal their covert plans to total strangers.

  As soon as the door was opened for her, Esther strutted into the room, swaying like a tree branch in a windstorm. Jayden’s cowboy hat was still firmly planted on her head, up until the point when she grabbed it and flung it like a flying disc atop her bed. “Thank you very much!” she proclaimed, rolling her head back and giggling.

  “You’re so lucky Boris ain’t here,” Jayden said, locking the door and hurrying to her side, grabbing her before she stumbled over. “Okay, you’re getting’ in the shower.”

  “What?” she asked. “I refuse. I’m not even—”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re not even buzzed. I know.”

  Spinning around and tipsy, she stuck her finger on his chest. “You just want to see me get wet, don’t you?”

  “Esther, it’s not even three o’clock. You can’t go to bed this early! You gotta get sobered up.”

  She waved her arms emphatically. “I refuse to get sobered up, because I am not drunk! I am merely observing the world for what it is.” She looked from side to side, then paused. “Leaning.”

  “Okay, go in there, take your clothes off, and stand under some cold water.”

  “Jayden,” she said whiningly, “you’re acting so lame. I have a better idea.” She pointed at his bed. “You sit down, and I am going to make you a nice mustard sandwich.” She cackled.

  He spun her to face the bathroom. “Hurry up, go.”

  “Seriously, Jay,” she said, turning to face him again. “They work wonders. Svetlana does it all the time.”

  Escorting her into the bathroom, the Texan flicked on the light.

  Esther raised a finger. “We should write a song about mustard sandwiches. Do you want to help me write it?”

  “Come on, take your clothes off.”

  “I refuse,” she said woozily. “Now quick, what rhymes with mustard?” Placing her by the corner, Jayden went to grab towels. She carried right on. “Custard. Flustered.” The scout paused. “Bustard.” Cracking up, she leaned against the wall. “Bustard! That’s a funny word!”

  Setting the towels up, Jayden turned on the cold water.

  “Then there’s mustered,” she said, gesturing pointedly. “And by mustered, I mean the other mustered. Not the mustard mustard.”

  “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

  “Were you not paying attention? Do I need to repeat myself? I refuse.”

  Walking back to her, he put his hands at her sides and looked her in the eyes. “Okay, I’m gonna leave the room, but when I do, you gotta get in the shower. You can’t just crash at three in the afternoon.”

  “I,” she said, pushing her finger squarely into his chest, “refuse.” More giggles burst forth.

  “Hey,” he said sincerely, holding her hand with his and looking at her, “I need you to listen to me.”

  The moment their hands touched, Esther’s pupils dilated. Abruptly, her lips parted—as if she’d suddenly made a realization. Quietly, she breathed. “Oh my God, Jay. You are so perfect.”

  He cocked his head. “What?”

  “You’re so perfect.”

  Jayden didn’t even have time to blink. Closing her eyes, Esther grabbed him by the waist; the scout pulled him in. The next thing Jayden registered was her lips crashing against his, and the sensation of her tongue as it slipped between his teeth.

  As the Texan went rigid, Esther’s hand traced up to the back of his neck, her fingers disappearing into his hair. Then, as suddenly as she’d begun, the Briton stopped. Mouths still locked, she stared at him bugeyed. Slowly, almost frighteningly, she eased her head back. Their lips broke contact.

  Total quiet. Even the sound of the shower seemed to disappear into an awkward sea of silence. As Jayden stared at her through his good eye, Esther’s mouth hung open. “Oh,” she murmured. It was as red-handed as a soft utterance could be. It was the kind of sound that indicated one had made a brazen mistake. Apprehensively, the Briton touched her check. “I may be drunk.”

  Voice shaking, Jayden swallowed and stepped back. “Yeah. I think you might be.”

  “I didn’t mean what I just did,” she said breathlessly. “Or what I said before I did it. That was the mustard talking.”

  “Yeah—what?”

  “That was the alcohol talking.”

  “Yeah.”

  Her cheeks flushed, Esther brushed back her hair. “I had a really good time.”

  Nodding without eye contact, Jayden said, “Yeah. I did, too.”

  Once again, silence fell between them. Neither looked at the other—Jayden’s focus was squarely on the floor as Esther stared blankly at the shower. “I think I’m just going to take a nap,” she said.

  “Okay.” The Texan’s response was quick, as if he wasn’t even thinking. “I’mma go...umm...you know, I think I’m gonna take a shower instead.”

  “That’d be good.” Wincing, she bit her lip. “That’d be good, if you want it.” Self-disgust struck her.

  He nodded again. “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  Their eyes were still averted from one another as the conversation skidded to an awkward close. Slipping past Jayden, Esther tiptoed out of the bathroom, never once turning around. Feeling behind her back, she found the doorknob and pulled the door shut. Jayden was left alone.

  “Oh, man,” he whispered, rubbing his face with both his hands, then pushing them up through his hair. His eye, glazed and confused, bore into the spot where Esther had just been standing. Absently, the Texan licked his lips.

  On the other side of the door, in their bedroom, Esther was lying flat on her back atop her bed. Her hands, too, were thrust up through the bangs of her hair; she gaped at the ceiling. Rolling over just enough to reach the lamp at her bedside, she clicked it off and pulled the covers over her head.

  By the time Jayden finished his shower and wandered back into the bedroom, Esther was already snoring beneath her sheets. Despite his tipsiness, he threw on his proper uniform and made for the door. Locking it then easing it shut from the hall, the Texan walked away.

  19

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 14TH, 0012 NE

  1414 HOURS

  NOVOSIBIRSK, RUSSIA

  TAUTHIN OPENED HIS eyes slowly and deliberately, as he always did when something perked his senses. As far as Bakmanese personality was concerned, the captive officer favored the subtle side of the spectrum. His motions were faint and rarely indicative. Hands innocuously at his sides, he angled his head just enough to see Confinement’s doors open. Wuteel, the Bakma engineer from the cell opposite him, was being returned. Wuteel had been retrieved earlier that morning by several armed sentries. Where he’d gone was a mystery.

  Wuteel’s eyes locked onto Tauthin the whole while he was led back to his cell, and at no point did the engineer’s bulbous eyes break away. His alien brow furrowing, Tauthin stared bac
k. Turning from Wuteel’s cell, the guards who had escorted him returned to their posts. Only then did Wuteel visibly shift. Very slowly, he turned his head to Ei`dorinthal’s cell. Ed, plainly visible through the glass and also observing the situation, returned the odd look. Gaze lingering on Ed for a second, Wuteel looked back at Tauthin. He wanted a connection without the humans’ knowledge. That was Ed’s queue.

  The human scientists had correctly concluded that there was a certain section of the Ithini brain that was dedicated to telepathic activity. What they hadn’t realized was that an Ithini could completely circumvent entire nerve pathways without any losses in power—only in activity. Like biological jumper cables, electrical impulses could be imported and exported from virtually anywhere to run otherwise unrelated parts of the brain. While Ed was busy connecting, the scientists in Confinement thought he was smelling something. The Ithini had completely defeated their telepathy-monitoring electrodes.

  Tauthin felt the mental click in his mind. Ed was connected. Wuteel’s presence was there as well. Tauthin’s thinking was deliberate, intended. I am here. And via Ei`dorinthal’s connection, Wuteel answered immediately.

  The Earthae possess a functional Zone Runner.

  Despite his subtle tendencies, Tauthin’s eyes widened at the revelation. A Zone Runner. Noboats as the Earthae called them. Never had a captured Zone Runner been mentioned by the scientists.

  Wuteel went on. They brought me to it to explain the rift generator. They know nothing of how it works. Glancing briefly to the scientists as they bustled about, Wuteel looked at Tauthin again. I was blindfolded—I do not know the way to it. If we can locate it, we can escape.

  Before more communication could take place, the door to Confinement opened again. The Bakmas’ focus was disrupted as Tauthin’s bulbous eyes shifted to the newcomers.

  “So, explain to me again why you want to talk to the alien?” David asked as he followed Svetlana into Confinement. Glancing about at the various scientists, he pinpointed Tauthin’s cell.

  Svetlana’s ocean gaze was steadfast. “Scott is being forced on this mission because of me. The least I can do is help him.” Adjusting the yellow notepad and ink pen in her hand, she approached one of the women scientists on duty. Petrov was nowhere to be seen. “Hello. I would like to speak with one of your prisoners.”

  The woman eyed her behind spectacles. “Who are you?”

  Apprehensively, Svetlana answered, “I am Svetlana Voronova. I am with the Fourteenth.”

  “That name means nothing to me.”

  David cleared his throat. “This is Scott Remington’s girlfriend. That name mean anything to you?”

  Glancing at David irritatingly, the woman returned her focus to Svetlana, scrutinizing her as if to sum her up. Smiling only half-politely, she motioned to Tauthin’s cell. “Please, Miss Voronova. Be my guest.”

  Despite the sarcasm in the scientist’s words, Svetlana acknowledged cordially. Following the woman toward Tauthin’s cell, she shot a quick look back to David, mouthing a sheepish “spasibo,” Russian for thank you.

  “Do you require a translator?” the woman asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  Opening the cell and motioning for a sentry to guard it, the scientist stepped away to retrieve Ed. The moment Svetlana entered Tauthin’s cell, the Bakma angled his head curiously. Goose bumps appeared on Svetlana’s arms, but she managed a smile nonetheless. Pulling a chair to the front of the cell, she sat down.

  David chuckled. “Looks like a job interview.”

  As soon as Ed was ushered in, the scientist stepped from the cell. “Remain with them,” the scientist instructed the sentry. He nodded, adjusting his assault rifle as if to challenge Tauthin to attempt a hostile act.

  Ed’s connection came without any prompting from Svetlana—a natural inclination for the Ithini whose job was to do that very thing. Touching her temple faintly, Svetlana looked at Tauthin and tried to smile.

  Tauthin’s dark purple gaze bore into Svetlana. After several uncomfortable seconds passed, he spoke in Bakmanese, his words translated seamlessly into Svetlana’s mind via Ed’s connection.

  “What is your purpose here?”

  “Do you remember me?” Svetlana asked.

  The Bakma nodded. “You are Setana.”

  At Tauthin’s recognition, she eased slightly. “Yes. I am here to visit you today. Scott was unable to come.” Looking at her notepad, she examined the topic scribbled at the top of the first page, written simply: Tauthin’s Planet. “Tell me about your planet,” she said. Ink pen at the ready, she held it against the yellow paper, awaiting the alien’s response. When none came, she looked up. Tauthin was staring at her with a look that rivaled human indifference. “Tauthin?”

  Tauthin said nothing. No thoughts or emotions were being conveyed from their connection.

  With David watching uncomfortably, Svetlana shifted in her chair. Her focus stayed on the Bakma. “Do you understand me?”

  “Did Remata send you for this?” Tauthin asked.

  Crossing her legs, Svetlana bit the tip of her pen. Glancing down at the unanswered topic, she returned to Tauthin with an honest stare. “No, he did not.”

  Tauthin dipped his head forward. “Are you asking on behalf of Remata?”

  “No.”

  “Then why should I answer a question that is irrelevant?”

  Svetlana brushed her hair back and looked away.

  The alien continued. “Do you not think my brethren have been asked this question ten thousand times in ten thousand more effective manners? It is among the first questions a conquering prisoner of war would be asked by its target species.” The alien’s nostrils curled, a sign of irritation. “You demand trivialities that would have been made known long ago, were any of their answers significant. That you believe you can receive them from me now is cause for scoff and disdain.”

  “Okay,” said Svetlana, leaning back and exhaling as if on the verge of walking out.

  Studying her reaction, Tauthin asked, “Why are you here and not Remata?”

  “Because he is gone,” she answered harshly. Despite Tauthin’s blatant interest in her answer, she went on before he could follow-up. “Because I love him, and I am doing this for him in the lone hope that something I discover will be of value to him. That I might help him in some way.” Her speaking was fast-paced and bitter. “But you do not know of love, do you? I would ask you, but I am sure it was asked of your brethren in ten thousand better ways. How dare I entertain the thought?” Immediately following the frustrated tirade, Svetlana looked away. Glancing at the blank notepad, she muttered in disgust.

  Silent and still standing, Tauthin observed Svetlana with an almost humanlike solemnness, her reflection centered in his dark purple lenses. Slowly, he took a step toward her, prompting the armed sentry to raise his rifle immediately. Lifting his hand as if to indicate he meant no hostile action, Tauthin’s focus returned to Svetlana.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You are correct,” Tauthin answered. “My species does not know of love.”

  Brow quirking curiously, Svetlana sat upright. Briefly, she readied the ink pen in her hand, only to pause and abandon the effort. She set it and the yellow notepad on the floor. “Why do you not know of love, Tauthin? Has no female Bakma caught your eye?”

  “I have never seen a female. I do not know what they look like.”

  Svetlana’s mouth dropped. She stared at him disbelievingly.

  Tauthin knelt on the floor. “Reproduction is monitored and maintained by the Khuladi. This is how they control their slave species. One gender is kept under their watch. Failure to comply with their commands results in gender eradication and inevitable species extinction. No physical contact occurs between genders—all procreation is by artificial insemination. My eggs have already been removed.”

  “Your eggs?” she asked shockingly. “I don’t understand.” Behind her, David raised an eyebrow.

  “In natural Bakma
reproduction, eggs develop in the male ovary and are transferred to the female for fertilization and incubation until the hour of hatching.”

  “Wait, whoa,” Svetlana said, holding her hands up. “The male ovary? The hour of hatching? You need to explain this.”

  The Bakma shook his head. “I can only explain what I possess knowledge of. What I have shared is the extent of my experience with reproductive lore. I do not know how ovaries work.”

  “Well, that part’s about right for a man.”

  “Nor do I understand the physical act of transfer or the incubation processes of females. All hours of hatching are catalogued. Mine is—” A momentary garble hit the connection, an indication that the concept could not yet be understood by the recipient. Tauthin seemed unaware as the translation picked up again. “Beyond that knowledge, I know nothing.”

  The temptation struck Svetlana to grab the notepad again. She resisted the urge. “So your eggs were removed, I assume, by the Khuladi? And no male Bakma under the Khuladi has ever had sex. So you are all virgins?”

  “Words cannot express how weird it is listening to only half of this conversation,” David said.

  The sentry next to him nodded. “You got that right.”

  Tauthin went on. “I cannot associate your word, sex, with any physical action. Is sex your process of procreation?”

  Mouth hanging, then receding, then hanging again, Svetlana answered awkwardly, “Yes. And also of pleasure. It is an act of love.”

  “Is Remata your partner for this act?”

  Svetlana blushed immediately.

  “I heard a Remata in there,” David said. “I know what he just asked!” He nudged the sentry—both men chuckled.

  “Okay,” Svetlana said, looking back at them, “we are having a very serious conversation. Can we be grown-ups, here?”

  Tauthin tilted his head curiously. “Why does your face change color?”

  “Ugh.” She slid her fingers in her hair. “We do that when we are embarrassed. It happens to me a lot. To answer your question, no, Scott and I have never procreated.” She snapped her fingers and pointed behind her before either of the men could comment.