The Glorious Becoming (Epic)

by Lee Stephen

  IT HAD TAKEN Max and Svetlana several minutes to escape from the barracks. Despite its protection behind the superstructure that was Novosibirsk’s main building, it had still become an indirect target of the Superwolves’ attacks. Every piece of the main building that flew through the air, every guard tower that collapsed, and every stray missile strike or volley of gunfire that peppered the earth placed the infirmary in peril.

  Bursting from its easternmost exit, the pair finally found a path of safety back to the barracks. According to Tanneken, the Thirty-ninth’s Vulture was perched on the southern end of the base where the unit had been working some training exercises the previous day, just south of the officers’ wing. Avoiding the chaos of the outside grounds, Max and Svetlana once again dashed for a pair of double doors—this time on a course that would take them through the inside of the barracks. The lieutenant was gripping Svetlana’s hand firmly in an effort both to speed her along and help her maintain footing whenever the grounds of Novosibirsk shook.

  They were halfway through the second set of barracks when the hallway far ahead of them erupted in an explosion of fire and rubble. Sliding to a stop, the pair watched in horror as the hallway burst into flames.

  “Doggonit!” Turning Svetlana around, Max bolted for one of the side doors. He got back on the comm. “Ann, we just lost half of B-3—we’re gonna have to hit the outside!”

  Tanneken’s voice crackled through the comm. “Are you still in B-3?”

  “What’s left of it.”

  “We are almost ready to lift off. Stand-by, I am coming to you.”

  With Sveta at his side, Max sprinted for a pair of double-doors. Hands outstretched, he jostled the doors open. He didn’t even make it through. His body collided against someone else’s the moment he burst through the doorway. Against someone wearing solid black metal.

  Oleg.

  Before Max could react, Oleg’s palms were thrust square into his chest. The lieutenant’s feet left the ground as he flew flat on his back. Svetlana gasped as the fulcrum turned to her.

  Oleg grabbed her before she could run, slamming the medic headfirst into the wall with unforgiving force. Blood burst from her face as she careened off the concrete and onto the floor. Her head rolled limply.

  Max heaved to catch his breath even as he staggered to his feet. Reaching wildly for his belt, he yanked out his handgun.

  Oleg ducked just as Max’s shot zinged past him. In a single fluid motion, the fulcrum grabbed his own pistol, raised it up, and fired. Max never had a chance to re-aim. The technician’s eyes bulged as a bullet passed through his neck; he clutched the wound and tumbled to the floor. Within seconds, blood was pooling around his head.

  Hoisting Svetlana over his armored shoulder, Oleg turned and carried her down the hall. Max wasn’t even given a final glance. The technician was left to bleed out.

  IN THE THIRTY-NINTH’S lead Vulture, Tanneken Brunner was barking out commands to her squad. Gripping the hand railing, the petite, pigtailed brunette ordered her transports to get airborne. Slinging her comm to her lips, she turned and looked out the open bay door. “We’re on our way, Max. Where are you?”

  Silence.

  Turning to her pilot, Tanneken screamed, “Why are we not off the ground yet? Move!” Her focus returned to the comm. “Max, did you copy? We are on our way, we need your position.” The Vulture’s engines flared up; it ascended from the ground amid gunfire and explosions. The Dutch captain switched frequencies. “Voronova! Where are you?” Again, she got no reply. Very subtly, Tanneken’s eyes winced. She spun around again. “Get to B-3, you damn fool!” Snatching her E-35 from the bench, she slammed in a fresh magazine and looked at her lieutenant. “Sokolov, get ready to come with me. Commander Shavrin has control until my return.”

  “Your return, captain?” asked Shavrin.

  “Did I stutter?” Tanneken asked scathingly, white-knuckling the rail as the Vulture lowered again near barracks number three. Lieutenant Sokolov took to her side as the ship touched down. “If I am not back in five minutes, leave.” Affirmation came, and the captain dashed from the ship.

  Half of B-3 was in ruin, a long trail of black smoke pouring into the erupting night sky. Tips of her pigtails dangling behind her helmet, Tanneken jerked open the nearest traversable set of doors—the ones Max would have naturally taken to meet her outside. She needed only two steps in to find him.

  Max was laying on his back, a pool of blood soaking the back of his head, his body shivering as he clutched his neck unremittingly.

  Tanneken’s feet locked up; the Dutch woman gasped. “Max!” She threw her helmet off and slid to Max’s side. Her breathing increased as panicked Dutch flew from her mouth. “Oh my God, Max, oh my God! What happened?” Max’s gaze found her, but only distantly. He was in shock. Her hands moving around him frantically, Tanneken looked lost. “I need a medic,” she said to Sokolov, whipping around to face him. “Comm Pedersen! Hurry!” Complying, Sokolov lifted his comm.

  Then they appeared, rounding the corner just as Sokolov pressed the queue button and prompting him to release his comm and reach for his weapon. They never gave him the chance. A single gunshot erupted, and Sokolov’s assault rifle was shot clean out of his hands. Tanneken looked up as Sokolov flinched back.

  Vector Squad.

  It was a small team—a strike team. As the Vector at point aimed his smoking X-111 chaos rifle, a single word spewed from his mouth in Russian, then German, then English. “Freeze!”

  Tanneken was on the verge of tears. All regard for Vector’s status or the fact that they were the assailant went out the window. She pled immediately. “Please. He needs medical attention—he will die.”

  Shouldering his chaos rifle, the Vector at point hesitated. Behind his clear visor, dubious gray eyes scrutinized her.

  The Vector behind him spoke. “We ain’t got time for ‘dis, chief. We gotta move.”

  The man at point said nothing—he simply stared at Tanneken.

  “Please,” Tanneken whispered, eyes glistening as her bloodied hands held Max.

  The forward Vector hesitated, glanced back, then nodded. Motioning for his troops to secure the hallway around him, he knelt beside Max and removed his helmet. Parted jet-black hair fell around his face—his nametag read Hill. He pushed Tanneken aside.

  Still trembling, the Dutch captain spoke fervently. “He needs a medic. Please, if you have one—”

  Hill looked at her pointedly, motioning toward his belt where an assortment of handguns, grenades, and knives was visible. And in the middle of it all was a medical kit.

  “Minh, it’s Vince,” Hill said into his comm as he removed his kit. He was deep-voiced, British. “Bring the Relentless to the barracks. I have a medical evac.” He looked at Tanneken. “You can go.”

  Turning to Sokolov, Tanneken said, “Go back to the ship. Tell Shavrin I said to leave. Do it now.” Acknowledging, Sokolov turned and left. Tanneken pointed to Max and said to Hill, “Where he goes, I go.” She eyed his insignia briefly. “And I outrank you.”

  A glint of surprise struck Hill’s face. Then, very faintly, the Vector medic smirked. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Tanneken nodded approvingly as Hill went to work.

  “TRAVIS, GET US airborne!” Dostoevsky shouted. The remnants of the Fourteenth grabbed onto the support rails of the Pariah. “Max, have you reached Brunner’s unit?”

  Tanneken answered. “This is Brunner. Max has been shot.”

  Silence struck the Pariah’s crew. “What do you mean?” Dostoevsky asked. “How was Max shot?”

  “I do not know. I found him in the hall—Vector Squad has a medic working on him.”

  “Vector Squad?” the fulcrum asked. The others listened anxiously. “Where is Svetlana?”

  Tanneken answered, “I don’t know. When I found him, she was gone.”

  Immediately, David and Becan rose up. “We’re not leavin’ her,” the Irishman said.

  Dostoevsky held out his hand. “No
.”

  “What do yeh mean no?”

  Readying his assault rifle, Dostoevsky said, “Goronok, come with me. We will find Sveta. The rest of you need to rescue Scott and the others.” Egor acknowledged and trotted down the ramp.

  The Pariah’s hull was bring rocked by gunfire. Travis shot a look back. “We don’t have a lot of time!”

  Dostoevsky and Egor were already off the ship. David and Becan remained in the open bay door. “Get to Scott,” Dostoevsky said. “Save the others. Go.”

  Behind David and Becan, another voice emerged. “Wait!” It was Varvara. The young blonde rushed to the bay door and stopped, settling her eyes on Dostoevsky.

  “We do not have time for this, Varya,” the fulcrum said.

  The medic touched her medical kit. “Sveta may be hurt.”

  Several moments passed without answer. Then Dostoevsky nodded. “Come.” It took no second command. Varvara abandoned the Pariah for Dostoevsky’s side. “Jurgen, I leave command to you. Now go.”

  “Yes sir,” David answered. Turning, he called out to Travis. “Get us off the ground!”

  Travis closed the door and put his hand on the stick. “Gladly.”

  The transport’s thrusters kicked in; the feral dog rose.

  DEEP IN THE underground hangar, the Nightman technicians were prepping the captured Noboat for flight. The word had come from General Thoor: the Nightman command staff was evacuating. The Terror was en route.

  MARCHING SIDE-BY-SIDE through the corridors of Novosibirsk, yet another group was making their way to the hangar. Hands clasped behind their backs subserviently, six Bakma, a blinder-clad canrassi, and an Ithini shuffled down the halls before the might of an armed Nightman sentry.

  Other Nightmen bustled past them down the hallway in what seemed to be a standard prisoner evacuation. The passing Nightmen never even gave them a second glance. But if they had, they might have noticed that none of the Bakma’s cuffs were actually latched—or that the sentry’s suit didn’t quite seem to fit. Beneath his black, armored guise, Tauthin led his comrades forward, his connection to Ed relaying directions to the Bakma at the front of the line. He had no reason to pay attention to any of the other Nightmen bustling past him in the hall. His focus was steadfast. Escape, in the form of a Noboat, would soon be theirs.

  Then he saw Svetlana.

  The fulcrum carrying her overtook Tauthin from behind, his pace quicker and more urgent than the disguised Bakma. Svetlana was slung over the fulcrum’s back, her face bloodied and eyes swollen—her hair a tussled mess. She’d been beaten. A moment of realization came over Tauthin, before the Bakma’s own pace quickened. He caught up with the fulcrum from behind, leaving his fellow aliens staring at him bewilderedly. Reaching his hand out, Tauthin touched the fulcrum on the shoulder. The fulcrum stopped, turning abruptly. “What—”

  Clang!

  Tauthin head-butted Oleg in the face. The fulcrum stumbled backward; the woman fell from his shoulders. Clasping his armored fists together, Tauthin slammed them straight down atop Oleg’s head, then straight up, then across. Oleg spun, hit the wall, then slid to the floor. Tauthin looked at the unconscious blonde. “Setana...”

  Nagogg, the lipless rider, rasped from the line of prisoners. “We have no use for a female!”

  Growling silently, his alien vocal chords mechanized by his sentry helmet, Tauthin looked down and away. After a moment of silence, he looked at Svetlana again. Bending down, he scooped her in his arms.

  “For what purpose are we taking her?” Nagogg asked. “Leave her here to die!”

  “I will not leave her in the arms of one who wishes her ill,” Tauthin answered. “The female comes.” Silently from the line, Wuteel indicated agreement. “Onward!” Tauthin barked. With Svetlana in his arms, he motioned the captives forward.

  31

  FRIDAY, MARCH 16TH, 0012 NE

  CAIRO

  WAR WAS ERUPTING in Heaven. With Esther clinging to his back, Centurion—clad from head to toe in Ceratopian heavy armor—burst through EDEN’s defensive like a battering ram. With every zap of neon red, another human was flung against the wall with tornadic velocity. And with every human that was lost, EDEN was pushed farther and farther back.

  Release me, human!

  Ju`bajai’s words battered Esther’s mind. She dropped from Centurion’s back briefly, just long enough to grab a fresh pistol from a dead guard on the ground. She leapt back to the Ceratopian’s cover.

  Release me!

  “I heard you the first time!” She jumped on the comm. “Scott, listen to me. Even if we get out of Confinement, once we hit the halls of Cairo, we’re not going to stand a chance. Security will be converging on us from every corner.”

  “I’m listening,” Scott answered.

  The scout gunned down a guard. “Desperate times call for desperate measures. You’d agree, right?”

  “I’m still listening.”

  “We need to give Cairo something else to deal with—something bigger than a few spies from Novosibirsk. Something that can’t be cleaned up with just a few well-placed bullets.” She hesitated. “I want Boris to release all the prisoners.”

  Scott’s reaction was telling. “Whoa.”

  “Release them all, and force Cairo to deal with something bigger than us. Make them muster here, not on the airstrip. Scott, it’s our only chance.”

  “Boris, can you do that?” Scott asked.

  BORIS HAD JUST reached the surface when Scott’s question crackled through. The sopping technician was inputting commands on the run. “Yes, captain.” His fingers were tapping furiously as he ran to the hangar. “This will be stuff of legend!”

  “Do it,” Scott said without hesitation. “Esther, that jailbreak’s about to be yours. Use it.”

  BULLETS RICOCHETED off Centurion’s armor. The massive warrior roared and returned fire. Then, it happened. All around them, in every hall in every corner of Confinement, the doors to the prisoners’ cells slid open. Above the pulses of projectile and neutron came a sound unlike anything else in Heaven. It was a sound that resonated from the halls—a murmur that quickly grew into loud chatter, then into blatant shouting. The prisoners were realizing they were freed. The next thing Esther, Centurion, and the EDEN guards saw were extraterrestrials of every make and model bolting from their cells.

  As the guards’ focus shifted, Esther pointed over Centurion’s shoulder toward the tram. “That way!” She returned to her comm. “All right, Boris, now get the tram ready. It’s about to have some customers.”

  SCOTT WAS PREPPING the ship when Boris made his entry. Scooting past Scott, Boris dashed for the pilot’s seat. “What’s the plan, Boris?” Scott asked.

  Boris’s hands flew around the cockpit as systems came on. “Orders, orders, everywhere. I need a clone of myself!”

  “What’s the vecking plan?”

  “Autopilot!” answered Boris desperately. “I am programming the autopilot to fly us away.”

  As long as it worked. “Where the hell’s Jayden?”

  At that moment, the wail of Cairo’s base-wide sirens reverberated across the airstrip. Staring at Boris from behind, Scott readied a weapon and aimed out the rear door.

  WITH EDEN’S GUARDS distracted by the sudden release of Heaven’s captives, Esther and Centurion made their break for the tram station, the massive Ceratopian incapacitating the few guards who tried to flee with them. Readying her pistol, Esther waited for the tram to arrive. She turned back to the central laboratory. “Boris, ETA.” He didn’t answer. “Veck!”

  In the midst of the chaos of the lab, Ju`bajai emerged. The gaunt female alien was running straight for Esther and Centurion. “Glad you could make it,” said Esther dryly. As tram lights appeared from the long tunnel behind her, Esther motioned for her cohorts to move away. The tram hissed to a stop. As soon as they boarded, she was on the comm again. “Auric, where are you?”

  “I AM COMING!” the German answered. Assault rifle at the ready, the slayer
in EDEN clothing ran full speed for Esther’s comm signal. “How do I get to you?”

  “Head to Junction Hall B!”

  Sliding to a stop on the wet floor, Auric dashed down a side hallway. “On my way.”

  BORIS WAS WORKING furiously on the controls of the transport, programming its autopilot as Scott held defensive position at the rear bay door, despite the fact that no one was moving in on them yet.

  The transport’s thrusters rumbled to life. Its main systems began their warm-up procedures as the familiar whine of V1 engines grew in intensity.

  “All right,” the Russian technician said, searching the control panel for something to press. “Stop their takeoffs. I must stop their takeoffs.”

  Right then, a voice cut in through the transport’s comm system. “Vulture 21-79 Alpha, we have detected a system power-up. What is your reason for this, over?”

  Boris went rigid. He stared in horror at the ship’s comm. Hands trembling, he clicked the channel open. “Hello.”

  “Vulture 21-79 Alpha, I repeat, we have detected a system power-up. What is your reason for this, over?”

  Fumbling awkwardly, he clicked the transmit button again. “Doing routine engine maintenance. Please ignore.”

  “Routine maintenance? We have a tech staff for that.”

  “Okay, good bye,” said Boris into the ship’s comm. Closing the comm channel, he propped his technician’s kit up on the co-pilot’s chair and hacked back into Cairo. His kit’s display was a constant assault of system screens and override functions. With each tap of his finger, new command windows opened and closed from one end of the screen to the next. “Hey,” he said surprisingly, “I found the sprinklers again!” He pressed the command. “And, off.”

  From inside the rear bay door, Scott looked up as the hangar’s massive soaker system kicked on. A cascade of fat water drops bombarded the concrete. He looked back at Boris.

  “Okay,” Boris said frustratingly, “I do not like these sprinklers.”