The Glorious Becoming (Epic)

by Lee Stephen

  “There is nothing more to gain,” Thoor said again. “We have one witness—that is enough.”

  Clearing his throat, Dostoevsky said, “The survivors are comrades of Remington.” Eyebrows rose across the counsel—Thoor’s included. “The unit that was shot down—it is the unit that Remington and his comrades were transferred from.”

  As Dostoevsky kept speaking, Thoor’s expression drifted in contem plation.

  “That could be of value. The girl, Tiffany, says that the captain of the unit is one of the survivors. Would it not be beneficial to have a captain as a witness? Tiffany is a young, inexperienced woman. Will the media believe her words, or will they think that she has been deceived by us into believing we are innocent?” This time, it was Dostoevsky’s voice that grew calculated. “But to have a captain as a witness...that is altogether different. His testimony brings legitimacy. And when the world is ready to turn on you, legitimacy is a very powerful tool.”

  Silence came over the counsel. For several long seconds, the only sounds in the Throne Room were the flickers of the wall torches and the drips of things unseen. It was Oleg who finally broke the quiet.

  “Let us do this, general. The Noboat will not be traced back to Novosibirsk. We are Nightmen. We do not fail.”

  The Terror’s eyes distanced, before they shifted back to Dostoevsky. He lifted his chin. “Very well, Strakhov. You will lead the First on the recovery mission.” Oleg nodded; Thoor returned to Dostoevsky. “Inform Voronova that she will accompany them on the Noboat.”

  Blinking, Dostoevsky said, “General?”

  “If the survivors are injured, they will require a competent medic. Who better to risk on your plan than your own?”

  “General, please! I will go myself. I will find another medic as competent as—”

  “It has been decided, captain of the Fourteenth,” Thoor said. “Voronova alone will accompany the First.” He turned to Oleg. “Take whatever Bakma you need from Confinement to operate the Noboat. Take Marusich, Krylov, and whatever other operatives from the First you will require. Begin now. Time has just become critical.”

  “Yes, general.”

  Looking at Dostoevsky, Thoor observed the horrified expression on his face. He slowly leaned forward. “How do you like your plan now?”

  24

  THURSDAY, MARCH 15TH, 0012 NE

  1735 HOURS

  OLEG, MARUSICH, AND Krylov marched into Confinement, their brazen paces and expressions more than enough to alert everyone in the room—scientist and specimen alike—that something beyond the norm was amiss. From behind his glass-partitioned cell, Tauthin observed the three Nightmen as they engaged in a heated discussion with Petrov, the chief scientist. Then they turned to Wuteel’s cell.

  “He is the engineer,” said Petrov, motioning to Wuteel, “but you will have to take the Ithini as well.”

  “No,” said Oleg. “That will allow them to conspire telepathically. You will come. You speak their language. You will intermediate. What other captives will we require?”

  “I do not know. Ask Wuteel.”

  “Open his cell.”

  Petrov complied, and Wuteel was grabbed by the collar and jerked into the open room.

  “Tai-kash`na vi-krola, nish-gassa Voruu?” Petrov asked the Bakma.

  Wuteel looked at the human strangely, then spouted off a lengthy answer. Petrov looked at Oleg. “He says two—him to monitor the engine room and one to sit in the bridge.” The scientist turned to Tauthin’s cell. “He says that one, Tauthinilaas. He is a supervisor. But he is smart; you cannot trust him. If you put them in a Noboat, they will try to escape.”

  Oleg shouldered his rifle. “If he is smart as you claim, he will know what kind of mistake that would be. Bring him!”

  Meanwhile, in Room 14, Dostoevsky broke the news to the rest of the crew: Svetlana had been ordered on the rescue mission. As could have been expected, a verbal fight ensued.

  “This is not what I wanted!” said Dostoevsky. “I told him to take me instead, that I would find another medic, but he would not listen. He wanted it to be Sveta.”

  David was at the forefront of the opposing side. “There’s no way she’s going on that ship with Oleg! Yuri, were you out of your mind?”

  Dostoevsky was almost snarling. “I did not have a choice. Oleg will not harm her—that I know. With Scott in Cairo, she is too valuable an asset for Thoor to risk losing.”

  “But what if the freakin’ ship gets shot down?” Max fired in return. “What if EDEN blows our little asset out of the sky?”

  Fanning her face furiously, Svetlana listened as the group went backand-forth. She was too flustered for words.

  “Tell him I wanna go instead!” said Tiffany. “They’re gonna need me, anyway. How else is my squad supposed to know to go with them?”

  “None of us expected Sveta to be chosen, but she has been,” Dostoevsky said. “Thoor will not allow the mission to go any other way.”

  “Did you even stand up to him?” asked Max. “Did you even fight for her at all?”

  Displeasure struck the fulcrum. “What would you have done, Max?”

  “I’d’ve punched that dregg in the face!”

  “At which point you would have been shot dead, and Svetlana would have been taken anyway. Am I wrong?”

  The technician said nothing.

  “One must pick his battles, Max,” Dostoevsky said. “There is being a hero, then there is being foolish. Who here knew that Sveta would be ordered on this mission? No one. But we asked for this. Now we must deal with it.” He knelt next to Svetlana. “You have experience in things like this. You have been with us on many missions. The First is strong—they are the best of all units in Novosibirsk. Perhaps better than us.”

  “If something happens to her, it’s on your head, Yuri,” said David.

  Svetlana spoke to David before Dostoevsky could defend himself. “It is not, David. Everything Yuri says is true. He could not have done anything to stop this. This is how Thoor is. This is how he controls. If he wants something, he gets it, or everyone hurts. For this mission, he wants me.” She exhaled gravely. “I must go.”

  “Becan’s gonna go ballistic when he finds this out.”

  “Then explain to him the truth,” she said, “and assure him that I will be okay.”

  Rising to the forefront, Dostoevsky spoke again. “We need to get you to the Citadel. From there, they will take you to the hangar with the Noboat.”

  She nodded quietly.

  “Everyone else, pray,” said Dostoevsky. “If you want to help, that is how.”

  As Svetlana rose, Tiffany leapt up and rushed to her. Travis yelped as his wrist was jerked along. “Please be okay,” said the blond pilot. “I didn’t mean for anyone else to be dragged into this.”

  “I will be okay,” Svetlana said, smiling. “Trust me, this unit has been through much worse.”

  Tiffany nodded solemnly. “Look for a girl named Cat. That’s my friend. They were heading toward the eastern side of the lake—that’s where I was supposed to pick them up. I don’t know where they would have gone after. The coastline’s far away, but they may have still started heading in that direction. Cat has a broken leg, so they can’t move fast.”

  Svetlana nodded.

  Urging her toward the door, Dostoevsky said, “We need to go, Sveta.”

  As the rest of the group looked on, Dostoevsky and Svetlana left from the lounge. David, Max, Tiffany, and Travis were left alone.

  * * *

  SVETLANA’S JOURNEY to Novosibirsk’s hidden hangar was as unconventional a trek as she had ever experienced. After armoring up, she was led to the Citadel of The Machine by Dostoevsky—a place she’d never been before. A brown sack was unceremoniously placed over her head, where she was informed it would remain for the duration of their journey.

  East, west, north, south—at some point, they walked in each direction. Dostoevsky explained that the confusion was meant to discourage visitors from memo
rizing the route to the hangar. Only a select few Nightmen knew the hangar’s location. Prior to that particular journey, not even Dostoevsky had been among them. Twenty minutes later, the walking subsided, and the brown sack was removed. Before Svetlana sat the Bakma Noboat.

  The Noboat’s dark, ray-like wings hovered over the ground, giving the ship a lifelike quality that made it seem as if at any moment, it would come to life and glide across the ground like it was on the ocean floor. The massive engine grill sat idle on the rear of the ship, its metal gratings as cold as the surface temperatures outside. Beneath its forward hull, sticking out beyond the nose as if designed to announce their intent, were dual plasma cannons.

  This was the chariot of the enemy, a vessel that had been to other stars, possibly other galaxies. Sometime long ago, Bakma had boarded this ship for the first time, preparing to travel to that small blue dot lost in an arm of the Milky Way. They’d passed whole other worlds, sailed through cosmic dust like pirates on an intergalactic brigantine. And that brigantine—that extraterrestrial lifeboat of destruction—was sitting in their hangar.

  “Hello, Svetlana,” said Oleg as he approached her. The neatly-bearded Russian stared smugly. “Don’t worry. It’s not time to kill you yet.” Pushing past her, he proceeded to make his way toward the vessel.

  Beneath the sky-blue tint of her EDEN visor, Svetlana’s eyes narrowed.

  “Are you okay?” asked Dostoevsky.

  She nodded. “There are many things that frighten me. He is not among them.”

  Concern was etched across Dostoevsky’s face. He hesitated before speaking. “I did not mean for it to come to this, Sveta.”

  She silenced him with a hard shh. “You are a good man, Yuri. I am proud of who you have become. This is not your fault.” When his somber expression remained, she leaned forward and placed a kiss against his cheek. She smiled sincerely. “It was not so long ago I slapped you there. What a difference faith makes.”

  Very faintly, a smile escaped from Dostoevsky’s lips. “If I recall, you slapped me more times than I was kissed.”

  “Ha!” The blonde winked well-intently. “When I come back, I’ll finish the job.”

  “Save those for Remington,” said the fulcrum. “He will be eager for them when he returns.”

  At the mention of Scott’s name, her countenance deepened. “Yuri, if something happens—”

  “Nothing will happen,” he cut her off gently, pointing upward. “Faith.” Her smile returned, and she turned for the ship.

  Oleg was waiting when Svetlana approached the ramp. Marusich and Krylov were standing beside him. “Welcome to the First, Svetlana,” Oleg said. “Board, and we will depart.”

  Without a word, Svetlana—the lone person in an EDEN uniform—walked up the ramp.

  Though far from the largest of alien vessels, Noboats were nonetheless quite larger than Vultures. They had to be. Not only were they troop transports, they were habitats.

  There was a smell to Noboats that was impossible to remove. It was part Bakma, part something else—an acidic, almost silicone odor that all Noboats shared—a pungent tang that struck as soon as one entered the antechamber. It was as prominent as it was sour.

  Every span of ceiling space was aligned with pipes and conduits ranging in color from dark gray to deep violet. White contour lighting followed every angle and corner, ensuring that every pathway in the vessel was, while not well lit, lit just the same. Despite the Noboat’s curved exterior, the interior was hard and rigid. It was industrially extraterrestrial.

  Upon entering a Noboat, one was immediately offered a choice of left or ahead and right. Ahead and right led to the ship’s only true hallway—a short corridor lined with several rooms: an armory, supply room, kitchen, stable, brig, crew quarters, and engineering section. If one chose the left, they were taken straight through a pair of security doors into the bridge, a large, octagonal room with several “essential” stations: one for a pilot, a navigator, an engineer, and a captain. Or at least, those titles were the closest human equivalents.

  The Noboat was bustling with activity, almost all of it Nightman. Almost. As soon as Svetlana entered the bridge, she caught sight of the all-too-familiar Bakma sitting in the pilot’s chair. The Bakma caught sight of her, too.

  “Setana?” His bulbous eyes widening, Tauthin rose from the chair. The action was met by immediate hostility, as a guarding Nightman slammed his hand on Tauthin’s shoulder and shoved him back down.

  Svetlana came to the alien’s defense, all acrimony from their conversation in Confinement cast aside. “Leave him alone.” The words were more order than request. “He was calling for me, idiot.” Her gaze returned to Tauthin. “Are you okay?”

  “He cannot understand you,” the slayer said. Svetlana ignored him.

  Tauthin spoke to Svetlana simply. “Remata haar?”

  She frowned and answered, “No, he is not here.” She pointed to herself, then to him. “Only me and you.”

  “Noh,” said the alien. “Meah, yuu, Wuteel.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  The slayer interrupted again. “Stop speaking to him, woman.”

  Glaring at the Nightman, Tauthin enunciated in near-perfect Russian, “Zaat-knis.” A smirk stretched across Svetlana’s face. Tauthin went on. “En-gin room. Wuteel is. Con-traala.”

  “Someone else is in the engine room,” she said, nodding. “I understand.”

  Oleg’s voice captured the bridge. “Everyone, pay attention! We go, we rescue the survivors, then we return! This operation is quick and direct.” He sat in the captain’s chair. “It is time,” he said to the slayer by Tauthin.

  Nodding, the slayer set his comm to speaker mode. “It is time, Petrov,” he spoke into it. The scientist’s voice emerged from the other end.

  “Understood.”

  On the other end of the ship, Wuteel stood behind the guard rail that surrounded the quartz crystal—the heart of the Noboat’s chameleon technology. The scrawny alien engineer was surrounded by slayers, their assault rifles pointing at him from every direction. Petrov, present as well, looked at Wuteel. “Now,” he said in Bakmanese. Without a word, Wuteel placed his gnarled hands on a control panel by the railing.

  In the bridge, Petrov’s voice came over the slayer’s comm. “Wuteel is ready, captain.”

  Oleg acknowledged the update from his chair. “Thank you, Petrov.”

  Without warning, Tauthin rose from the pilot’s seat. A flurry of weapons were aimed at him. The alien froze.

  “You fools,” said Svetlana, standing between the alien and the Nightmen. “Do you really think he is trying to escape? Where would he go? Find out what he is trying to do before you point your guns at him!”

  “What is going on?” asked Petrov over the comm.

  A flurry of words flew from Tauthin’s mouth as his irritated eyes darted from Oleg, to the slayer, to the comm. Petrov’s voice was heard, as a lengthy exchange in Bakmanese ensued. Finally, the scientist spoke in Russian. “He says he must go to another station, that it takes more than one person to operate the bridge. He is not a pilot by nature—he is a captain. He says he must now play multiple roles.”

  Svetlana leaned toward the alien, speaking softly. “Where do you need to go?” Extending his arm, the alien pointed to a console on the port side of the bridge. Svetlana turned to Oleg. “See? That is all you need to do. He is not a fool, he will not try to fight you all.”

  After giving Svetlana a hard stare, Oleg motioned toward the indicated console.

  Tauthin didn’t move. Instead, he spoke sidelong into the comm. His words were passionate—guttural. He seemed angry. Once again, Petrov emerged to translate. “He says he cannot be questioned every time he moves. If you want to fly this ship with only two crew members, you must let them work together without interference.” The scientist paused. “You should let them work, captain. I will be here to monitor their discussions.”

  Across the bridge, Marusich folded his arms disappro
vingly.

  “As you say,” said Oleg to Petrov. The fulcrum stared at Tauthin, slowly leaning forward. “I challenge you to try and deceive my crew, alien. Go to your controls.”

  Wrinkling his knobby brow, Tauthin’s cheekbones lifted as his wirethin lips pulled back. His jagged teeth were revealed.

  “It is okay,” said Svetlana, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Just do what you need to do.”

  Rising from the pilot’s chair, Tauthin walked to the port console. The slayer with the comm followed him.

  “Lekasha`tasshki. Kuris ta-vech,” said Tauthin loudly.

  Petrov translated, “Preparing for zone generation.”

  “Zone generation?” Oleg asked.

  Tauthin’s fingers moved over the control panel. The bridge’s white contour lights faded, a dark red hue taking their place. Everyone in the bridge tensed. Tauthin spoke on.

  “Energy level, clear,” translated Petrov. “Hull integrity, clear. Atmospheric analysis, complete.”

  In the engine room, Wuteel’s focus remained on the control panel by the quartz crystal. “Ni-digash, tuun-si, daga.”

  Petrov shook his head disapprovingly. “I do not know all of his words,” he confessed into the comm. “He said something is beginning.”

  Wuteel’s hands worked the engine room controls furiously, shifting his focus between the panel and the crystal. “Tukissa-jun di, valasha tenkaa.”

  All of a sudden, a pair of massive metallic arms unfolded up from the floor. Every Nightman in the engine room flinched as the arms extended upward and outward to surround the crystal on two sides.

  “Nish-ta,” Wuteel said.

  “Engaging!” said Petrov in translation. The scientist’s voice was quivering.

  “What is engaging?” asked Oleg from the bridge.

  Petrov shouted back, “I do not know. I cannot understand!”

  “You are here because you know their language!”

  “They are not using simple words,” said Petrov exasperatingly. “This is technical speak, scientific terminology. I do not know this.”