by Lee Stephen
“Why not?” Tauthin asked.
Pressing her lips together, she hesitated before answering. “There is a custom that humans have, where—” She paused in deep thought. “We have something called marriage. It is when a male and female who love each other become...joined, officially.” Making a face, she said, “Not everyone follows this custom.”
Bulbous eyes narrowing, Tauthin asked, “Is this joining physical?”
“No. It is supposed to be in the eyes of God. Not everyone sees it that way, but, that is the intent.”
“Who is your God?”
At that, Svetlana’s eyes widened. Exhaling deeply, she laughed a bit. “You are asking very difficult questions.” The Bakma’s face remained stoic; she leaned forward. “Our God is the Creator of the universe. He is a God of love, and mercy, and forgiveness. How do I even explain this? Are you familiar with this concept?”
He nodded. “We are taught the laws of Uladek—the being who ordained the Khuladi. He is a God of power and war.”
“Okay. That is not the real God.”
“How do you know?”
“Because—” She stopped at that word. Mouth closed, she stared at Tauthin in hesitant contemplation. A shade of anxiety crossed her brow, before she shook her head in conviction. “I cannot believe that the universe, a thing of beauty, would be the work of a God of war.”
His eyes narrowed pointedly. “Space is more violent than it is beautiful, Setana.”
“More violent than beautiful? I would rather believe they are equal.”
“Then perhaps we acknowledge the same God.”
Another deep silence hit Svetlana. Shying her eyes away, she fiddled with her fingers as she tried to right the discussion. Tauthin spoke before she could.
“There is much about the universe you cannot understand, as you have not beheld it. Your view is limited—a germ trying to understand the organism it thrives on. I am not a follower of Uladek. But if the universe personifies its Creator, then it would be foolish to believe Him any less than a God of death and power.” The Bakma stood up. “Space is unforgiving. How could its Creator be otherwise?”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” Svetlana said, her voice shaking.
Tauthin canted his head. “Does it challenge your faith? Reality is far deeper than you can perceive on your small blue planet.”
Eyes narrowing, Svetlana said, “Then what is your final destiny? What will happen to you when your life ends? What hope can you have in such a God as the one you described?”
“I have no hope. I have no destiny. When my life ends, I will cease.” The alien leaned forward. “I do not follow Uladek, Setana. I follow nothing.”
Svetlana continued to look away while Tauthin addressed her. Only after his words had settled into silence did she fix her ocean-blue gaze upon him. “Then my hope is that before you cease, you will see my God. Because to follow nothing is a miserable way to exist.”
“Easy words from a species that is free—for now.”
Svetlana rose from her chair and motioned to David and the sentry to indicate that she was finished. Picking up her yellow notepad and pen, she turned around to leave.
“Setana.”
Halting reservedly, she regarded Tauthin again.
The Bakma dipped his forehead toward her. “I have never been to my home planet, but I would like to believe it is much like your own.” The alien paused. “Earth is a beautiful sight to behold.”
Svetlana stared back at him from the cell door, watching as his eye contact lingered before he looked at Ed and nodded. Their connection disappeared. Resting her hand against the cell frame, she spoke to him a quiet thank you before turning to leave.
As soon as David and Svetlana were alone, the former NYPD officer placed his hand on her side. “You okay?”
“Yes,” she answered quietly, sparing Tauthin a final glance before stepping from Confinement back into the hall. “His species is lost in every way that it can be. And enemy or not, it is very, very sad.”
“Did you learn anything of use?”
She nodded. “Yes, I did. I know how the Khuladi control their slaves.” Eyeing him, she said, “They claim custody of a gender. There is no free reproduction. If a slave species disobeys, their procreation stops.”
“Get out.”
“Scott will want to hear this,” she said, determined eyes ahead. “I am glad that I came.” To that, David agreed.
They departed down the hall.
* * *
SILENCE. YURI DOSTOEVSKY’S room was a haven of solitude. Kicked back and shirtless atop his bed, the dark-haired acting captain sat perched in stillness, a worn Scripture propped against his knee, its tracing-paperthin pages opened and facing him.
Though Dostoevsky’s eyes were open, they were fixated on nothing, boring straight through the paper before him into a realm he’d only recently been invited to visit. The Siberian had never been taught how to pray, so there were no predetermined molds for him to conform to. Time had not made his meditations easier. On the contrary, distraction was a constant foe. This day was no exception.
He’d been a captain only once before, and it was an experience he’d tried to forget. His role as unit leader had ended with occupational failure and spiritual victory, the latter of which was—quite literally—the only saving grace of the whole experience. And now, rearmed with faith, he was playing that role again. Where the road of readiness deviated, said faith was designed to take over. To say the road had deviated was putting it mildly. As of that morning, it had gone off a cliff.
Eyes snapping back to the pages, he grunted agitatedly. “Get away from me.” His words were low, but purposed, despite the absence of anyone else in his room. Following the lines of Scripture before him, he found the place he’d left off.
Do not believe every whisper of the soul, for not every spirit comes from the Holy place. Pray for discernment to test those spirits who implore you, that you might have strength against the forces of deception.
His study was interrupted by the sound of a single chirp, a single prompt, from his comm. Looking at the device on his nightstand, he waited for a voice to follow the sound. None did.
Dostoevsky grabbed his comm and read the display. It was clear, an indication that no one was actively trying to reach him. Brow furrowing, he checked the comm’s history, where he saw a single call, barely a fraction of a second long, from Varvara Yudina.
Placing the Scripture down, he sat upright and watched the comm in stillness. No more communication prompts. No more beeps of any kind. Bringing Varvara up in his queue, Dostoevsky rested his hand over the transmit button. But he hesitated. Staring at the far wall, his gaze grew distant.
The past several months had been brutal to Varvara, at every fault of her own. There was no operative more beloved than Jayden Timmons. Betraying him in his hour of need had had dire consequences. Varvara was despised and consequently despondent—and in the eyes of the Fourteenth, undeserving of any amount of sympathy. Kind of like someone else Dostoevsky once knew.
The fulcrum set down his comm and rose from his bed. Varvara’s prompt had originated from Room 14. Slipping on his uniform and boots, he checked himself in the mirror before stepping out the door.
The officers’ wing of the barracks was right beside the building B-2, where Room 14 was located. While there were several other barracks on Novosibirsk’s grounds, none were as close to the officers’ wing as B-2 was. This was the primary reason that commanding officers such as Scott, Dostoevsky, and at a time Captain Clarke could trek from their private quarters to Room 14 so quickly when mission calls went out.
It also aided in situations like this.
Opening the door to Room 14, Dostoevsky stepped inside. The room was vacant—something not all surprising for that time of day. Padding toward the lounge, Dostoevsky peered around the corner. Sure enough, as his comm had indicated, Varvara was there, alone, washing dishes. The blonde’s hair was tied back into a wavy ponytail
, a rare look for her, and her concentration was solely on the plate in her hand. After watching her for a moment, Dostoevsky cleared his throat.
Varvara gasped, dropping a dish into the water as she whipped her head his way. He immediately raised his hands. “I am sorry!” he said in Russian. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Placing her hand over her heart, she exhaled, closing her eyes. Very quietly, she laughed. “You are so quiet.”
“Did you try to comm me?” Dostoevsky asked. “It showed a prompt from you a few minutes ago.”
Staring at him quizzically, she shook her head in apology. “No, I am sorry. I went to put my comm on the counter a little while ago, and I dropped it. Maybe it prompted you when it fell.”
Hesitating for a moment, he angled his head. “So everything is okay?” he asked.
“Yes. Yes, everything is fine. I’m sorry.”
Smiling briefly in response, Dostoevsky hovered by the door.
She stared at him uncomfortably. “Is everything okay...with you?” It was an awkward sounding question, as if she’d had no idea what to say next.
Hesitating, he walked into the room. “I am worried about you.”
Her expression seemed genuinely surprised. “Ahh—” The utterance lingered before she laughed timidly. “Why are you worried?” Turning her head deliberately, she looked down at the dishes, feeling under the water for the one she’d dropped.
“Give me a reason not to be, and I will stop.”
With every step closer he took, she angled her body more and more away. “Because you have enough things to worry about. I would waste your time.”
“That’s not a good reason.”
“Well I’m sorry,” she said, tone shifting snappishly. “I don’t want you worrying about me.”
“I understand what you’re going through.”
Dropping the dish purposely, she placed her hands against the side of the sink.
“You can talk to me, Varya. Anytime. And I will listen.”
“You don’t understand what I’m going through,” she said under her breath. When he failed to respond, she went on. “And I don’t want to talk about it, not with you or anyone, and—”
“—Varya—”
“—I don’t care what anyone thinks, because I already know what they are all thinking, and I don’t need you or anyone else to pretend to care about me—”
“Varya, stop it,” he said. He reached out to ease her chin toward him. The moment his fingers applied any sort of pressure, the medic winced sharply and flinched back. Her hand darted to the place where he’d touched her.
The lounge was slammed into silence.
As Varvara’s hand fell from her cheek, she stared at Dostoevsky. The defensive expression that had been on her face moments before was now gone. She looked nothing short of panicked.
Slowly, Dostoevsky’s countenance changed. “What is wrong with your cheek?”
“Nothing,” she answered quickly. “You surprised me, that is it. I didn’t expect you to touch me.”
“Wash your face.”
The blonde’s mouth fell open. “Commander—I mean captain...Yuri, please...”
“Varvara.” His tone made itself clear: he was serious. “Wash your face.”
Her eyes shimmered as she silently pled for Dostoevsky to change his mind. No such change was offered. Turning slowly, her whole body shaking, she opened the tap water.
It took almost five minutes for the medic to wipe away her cake layers of makeup. The whole while, her face stayed angled away. Dostoevsky was only able to watch her hands as they moved dreadfully from her face to the faucet. When she finished, the washrag in her grasp was completely stained.
“Face me.”
By that point, her shakes had turned into near heaves. Teardrops fell to the floor, dotting the linoleum by her feet. Slowly, the blonde turned her head. The dark yellow and brown blotches were revealed.
Dostoevsky’s entire countenance changed.
“Please,” she said, grabbing his hand desperately. “Please, just let this go! Don’t do anything, I am begging you. I deserve this, Yuri.”
The fulcrum said nothing. He simply turned around.
“Yuri, please!”
Snapping up his hand, Dostoevsky silenced her with a single firm gesture. The fulcrum drew in a deep breath. Without a word, he left Room 14.
VIKTOR RYVKIN WAS in the middle of a comm call when the knock came. Closing the conversation abruptly, he abandoned the device and walked to his door. Pulling it open, the slick-haired Russian blinked as he saw Dostoevsky before him. The fulcrum elite’s glare was angled to the floor. Slowly, he lifted his head.
They locked eyes.
Dostoevsky surged forward, palms crashing against Viktor’s solar plexus. Viktor buckled over; a fist slammed into his chin, then into his forehead, then across his chin again. He was lifted, then thrown. His body hit the wall; he fell to the floor. Panicked, Viktor grabbed his knife off his dresser, swinging it wildly at Dostoevsky. The fulcrum wrenched the knife away and threw it aside. He grabbed Viktor by the throat.
The slayer-medic’s eyes widened as Dostoevsky lifted him off the ground with one hand. With his other, the fulcrum slowly pushed Viktor’s head sideways into the wall. The joints in Viktor’s neck popped and cracked.
Outside the door, a throng of Nightmen gathered around and stared.
Pitiless eyes narrowing, Dostoevsky stared at the frantically breathing slayer. He leaned close as Viktor rolled his eyes to see him. “You are no longer a part of the Fourteenth,” Dostoevsky said. “You are no longer a part of her life. If you touch her again, I will kill you.”
Dostoevsky’s grip relented. Viktor toppled to the floor. Turning away, Dostoevsky walked back to the hall and through the crowd of spectators.
It took Viktor several minutes to rise from the floor, fresh bruises swelling across his face. His slick hair tossed about, he wiped the blood from his lips and nose. The crowd outside lingered for several moments, before they too turned their backs and dispersed. No one offered the fallen slayer a hand.
In the span of less than a day, everything about the Fourteenth had changed. Five team members were gone, shipped a half a world away. A new captain was in charge. One of his lieutenants had been removed.
Controlled chaos.
In a brief emergency meeting, Dostoevsky relayed news of Viktor’s removal to the rest of the unit. Nary an operative disapproved—not even Varvara, though the circumstances of Viktor’s removal and Varvara’s battered and bruised secret were never disclosed. Of all the changes that had taken place that day, the loss of their slayer-lieutenant was the only one that was welcomed. But more change was to come. That much was certain.
Amid a somber atmosphere and heavy tension, the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk sought refuge in the comfort of their rickety, but well-worn bunks. Home. The only home most of them had come to know. Nothing spoke louder about that than the empty bunks among them, vacancies that none of them had expected to be there, holes that felt every part of wrong despite the admirable motives that’d caused them. Missing pieces. As the lights to Room 14 were flicked off, the operatives who remained closed their eyes. One-by-one, slowly but surely, sleep found them all.
20
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 14TH, 0012 NE
1657 HOURS
CAIRO, EGYPT
IT HAD TAKEN SCOTT every minute prior to 1700 to prepare for his outing with Natalie, spiking his hair up haphazardly and breaking out his razor just enough to outline his five o’clock shadow. With a black button-up shirt tucked into blue jeans, Scott looked more rogue than EDEN officer. It was all part of a purpose. He wanted to be easy on Natalie’s eyes. Any amount of winning over he could do would help achieve his primary goal that night, which was to separate Esther’s schedule from the Caracals’. Captain or not, Natalie was a woman. She’d be more willing to give in to a good-looking man.
It was impossible to deny the emotional roller-coaster that the da
y had been, but for the sake of the mission, he tried his hardest to erase everything but what was ahead. Tonight was about the Caracals and Captain Rockwell—Venus, as his rag-tag group of quasi-eidolons dubbed her. Right on the dot of 1700 hours, her knock came to his door.
Closing his eyes, Scott allowed himself a moment of focus. Just win her over. That’s all you have to do. Now open the door. Gripping the knob, he pulled it open. There she was.
...there she was indeed.
The moment Scott saw Natalie, he realized how unprepared he was. Not for the outing—he’d prepared for that meticulously. He was unprepared for her.
She was breathtaking. Her smile glistened like wet pearls on a seashore. Her chestnut hair fell in waves around her face and over her shoulders, balanced by golden hoop earrings that dangled elegantly from her earlobes. But what Scott homed in on was her eyes. They were sparkling and entrancing, completing the look of eagerness on her face. Her pupils zeroed in on his.
And they were dilating.
Smile stretching, she offered out a bottle of champagne. “A little something, from me to you. Welcome to Cairo, commander.”
Laughing quietly, Scott accepted the gift. “Thank you so much.” It was dawning on him now why Boris had been so captivated by this woman. She was gorgeous—out of most men’s leagues. He’d either been too caught up in the mission or too distracted by Esther to fully notice and appreciate it until now.
Like Scott, Natalie was dressed for a good time. Gone was any indication that she was part of a military unit. She wore a plum-colored cowl neck sweater that hung just below the beltline of a black pencil skirt. She looked like a date.
Stepping into his room, she scanned it from end to end. “Been getting a feel for the place?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of hard not to,” Scott answered. “Everything here is amazing.” Opening his fridge, he set the bottle of champagne inside, right next to Svetlana’s jar of mustard. The temptation was too much. Smirking, he grabbed the jar and tossed it her way. She flinched and snatched it from mid-air. “A gift for a gift—that’s the best I can do.”
