Epic: Book 03 - Hero (38 page)

The Hall of the Fulcrums was deathly quiet. No other Nightmen were about, which didn’t surprise Scott at all. The Machine was known for keeping strict curfews. When they reached the doorway that led to the Walls of Mourning, the two sentries who guarded it were the first signs of life Scott had seen. They opened up the doors without question.

As Scott stepped through the doors, the putrid and overpowering smell was the first thing to hit him. It was the smell of illness, disease, death, and of exposed, rotting flesh. When the fullness of the room came into light, he actually had to stifle the urge to vomit.

There was blood everywhere. Battered and beaten aliens of all species were segregated in cages like animals. Untreated sores, missing limbs—it was like walking through a grotesque biological junkyard. Or a slaughterhouse.

Petrov seemed completely unaffected. In fact, he appeared almost invigorated by the place. In a way, Scott wasn’t surprised. It was a lesson he’d learned several times: a friendly face and charming smile meant nothing here.

There were three other men in the Walls of Mourning, all of whom appeared to be workers. None wore armor, but their uniforms were stained with long-dried blood. When Scott entered with Petrov, the three men turned.

“
This is Lieutenant Remington of the Fourteenth,” Petrov explained, “soon to be their commander. He has decided to observe our execution.”

The workers offered Nightman salutes, which Scott perfunctorily returned.

“
Would you like to participate, lieutenant?”

“
Not in the least.” He felt guilty for even being there. He clutched the manila folder tighter.

“
Very well.” Petrov turned to the cages and began to walk. “Then allow me to introduce to you our beloved guest of honor.”

Beloved guest of honor?
Was that how Petrov referred to a death-row prisoner? He was beginning to see the man in a new, twisted light.

“
This is Tauthinilaas.”

The name meant nothing to Scott. He was only curious as to what it was. Alongside Petrov, he approached the targeted cage. Inside was a Bakma warrior. Its body, frail to the point of near uselessness, lay crumpled on the floor. It was laying face down, limbs splayed awkwardly. It looked to be already dead.

Petrov shouted something in what had to be Bakmanese. He kicked the cage hard and the emaciated alien jumped on the floor. It lifted its head to regard them, looking Scott straight in the eyes.

It was completely unexpected, and it happened the moment Scott locked eyes with the alien. He started back, as his mind surged back in time.

Scott held suppression fire as the last of the Eighth dove into the tower. He watched and attempted to count them as they bolted up the stairwell. Was that everyone? Yes. It was. He whacked his hand over the inner print sensor and it acknowledged him. Security lockout activated. He heaved the door shut.

It stopped within an inch of the frame.

Scott stared at the alien in disbelief. By the look of it, the Bakma was having the same revelation. Scott’s memories whirled on.

Scott staggered to his feet. The handgun stayed out. “Do you understand me?”

The Bakma looked puzzled.

“
Do you understand me?” Scott repeated.

The Bakma hesitated. “Duthek horu `Uman lkaana?”

What was that word? Scott’s mind raced as the gun-checked Bakma stared back at him in confusion. Grrashna! That was it. The Bakma word for self-surrender.

“
Grrashna!” Scott said emphatically. He motioned his handgun to the ground.

The Bakma’s eyes grew wide with understanding. “Grrashna,” it nodded. It lifted its hands above its head and sunk to a knee.

Scott knew exactly who this alien was. “You…”

Petrov shot him a puzzled look. “What?”

Inside the cage, the fragile Bakma attempted to stand. His efforts failed as he crumpled back down.

“
Where did he come from?” Scott demanded.

“
He was captured during the
Assault on Novosibirsk
. Do you mean to tell me you
recognize
him?”

“
Yes, I recognize him.” It was unfathomable—surreal. But there it was, collapsed in a heap before his eyes. “I was the one who took him prisoner.” It was the Bakma from the assault—the one who’d stormed into the turret tower that Scott and the Eighth were trying to capture. The Bakma whose body had been rippled with muscles. Scott scrutinized its now-frail form. It had dwindled to almost nothing.

Petrov’s eyes lit up. “That is amazing! In that case, it must be you. You must have the honor of execution.”

Execution? Not on his life. “Open the cage.”

Petrov arched an eyebrow.

“
Open the cage!”

Flinching, the scientist did as told. The rusty bars of the boxed prison swung open.

Scott wasted no time stepping inside. Bending down, he slid his arms under the Bakma’s arms. He propped the alien up against his chest. “Bring me some
calunod
.”

“
I’m sorry?”

“
Calunod
! Bakma food! Calunod!”

Petrov and the workers stared at Scott from behind, repulsed yet fascinated. Finally, the scientist spoke again. “Is this some kind of last meal?”

Last meal? The Bakma looked like it averaged one meal a week. “There won’t be an execution tonight.” His next words were for the Bakma. “Or any night. I didn’t keep you alive for this.” As Scott and the alien moved out, the Bakma appeared to make some kind of noise. It was too weak to speak coherently.

“
Lieutenant Remington, this prisoner is scheduled for execution. It would not be wise to go against what is ordered.”

Scott glared at Petrov.

“
Okay. Okay. Whatever you wish.” Petrov turned to the workers. “Bring calunod from the store room.”

Scott could feel the alien’s bones. Inside, his fury was quickly building. It wasn’t the kind of anger that had gotten him into trouble in the past; rather, it was the anger of injustice. What once had been a strong, proud creature was now reduced to something as breakable as glass. Enemy or not, this was egregiously wrong. “We’re taking him back to
civilized
Confinement.”

“
Lieutenant, that is not such a good idea—”

Scott snapped back before Petrov could finish. “Do you have any idea how fast I could kill you? Ask yourself if you should do what I say.”

Petrov conceded. “It is better to be your friend than your enemy. We will bring him upstairs.”

The journey back to Confinement was difficult. Although there were almost no Nightmen about, avoiding everyone was simply impossible. As Scott and Petrov assisted the Bakma—Tauthinilaas—out of the Citadel and back to Confinement, they were met on several occasions by random passers-by. Word about this would get out quickly. Scott would deal with that when it came.

The transportation was made more difficult for another reason: Tauthinilaas became unconscious halfway through the trip. His malnourished body, though not heavy, was still cumbersome dead weight. Petrov commented that it was doubtful the alien would survive more than a few days. Scott ignored him.

When they arrived in Confinement, the Bakma began to phase in and out of awareness. Its body would spasm and jump. Saliva dribbled from its mouth.

Opening one of the vacant cells—there were only two to choose from—they moved the Bakma inside. The workers had brought calunod, but it was soon obvious that the captive was in no shape to eat. It was simply too weak.

“
It is as I told you,” Petrov said. “He will not survive. He cannot even consume food.”

As Scott removed his hand from beneath the Bakma’s head, it rolled limply to the side. For a moment he wondered if it was already dead. But the faint movement of its chest was still visible. “Get me a medic.”

For the first time during the entire ordeal, Petrov didn’t argue; instead, he obediently stepped out of the cell.

The Bakma’s opaque eyes flickered and rolled back. It was the first time Scott had seen the white of any alien’s eyes. He hadn’t known there was white at all. Bakma were almost bug-eyed—their huge, dark eyeballs unsettled even the staunchest of human warriors.

Scott slapped the alien on the side of the head. “Stay with me, Tauthin.” He knew he’d never pronounce
Tauthinilaas
correctly.
Tauthin
would have to do.

Petrov reentered the cell. “There is a medic coming—he is bringing equipment. They are prepared for this sort of thing.”

Scott tapped Tauthin again. “Don’t go to sleep.” If the alien went to sleep, it might not wake up.

“
Lieutenant Remington…”

Ignoring Petrov, Scott continued to try and awaken the alien. Finally, he stopped and turned around. “What is it?”

Petrov fought to hold back his frown, but it escaped nonetheless. “What do I tell them when they ask why this has happened?”

Scott thought for a moment. He was asking for trouble doing this—he knew that well. He was asking to be noticed, and that was the last thing he wanted. “Don’t tell them anything. Just send them to me.” Petrov was putting a lot on the line in satisfying Scott’s request. Even his life. “Tell them I threatened to kill you.”

Petrov said nothing.

It took six minutes for the medic to arrive from the infirmary. Two nurses were with him, each transporting various instruments and equipment. A rolling bed. Feeding tubes. Things Scott didn’t recognize. He wasn’t sure how much training in Bakma anatomy the medic had, but he must have had some knowledge. Sometimes aliens needed to be kept alive.

Scott stepped out of the cell as the medical crew went to work. Tauthin was moved to the rolling bed as the tubes were set into place. Several needles were injected into the alien’s body. One of the nurses was holding its wrist.

Scott couldn’t help but inquire. “What are you doing?”

The nurse was silent for a moment, then answered in Russian. “I am checking his pulse.”

“
His pulse?” Scott was surprised. That seemed so human.

The chief medic spoke to Scott without looking. “Underneath their skin, they are not so different from us. Of all the other species, they are the most similar to humans, even more so than the Ithini. A medic almost doesn’t need special training.”

The Bakma were the most humanlike—he’d never considered that. “Is he going to live?”

The medic didn’t answer immediately. When he did, he sounded doubtful. “I don’t know.”

Scott looked back at the alien. It seemed so exposed, so defenseless. He almost couldn’t believe it had once been a threat.
Why do I care so much?
I have comrades in the infirmary. I have discord in the Fourteenth. Why do I care about this creature?
Scott studied the Bakma as it lay still. Then he looked at the folder in his hand.

Because Steklov might have cared.

He looked at Tauthin again. There were still no signs of conscious activity. But that didn’t matter—what mattered was that the alien was still alive. If not for Scott, the execution might have already taken place. It was the second time he had saved the alien’s life.

“
We have him sedated,” the medic said. “We will stay here for the night to monitor him. It is best if we are left alone.”

Scott felt a tinge of remorse. He didn’t want to leave. Perhaps there was another reason for his compassion that went beyond Sergei Steklov. Perhaps he simply cared.

Tauthin hadn’t asked to be born a Bakma. Maybe he hadn’t asked for this war. Maybe he’s just a soldier—like we all are.

The thoughts were out of character for him, but they felt pure. The realization hit him that Nicole would have been proud.

“
Come,” Petrov said, escorting Scott out. “I will stay for a while to make sure everything is good, and to explain if anyone arrives to ask questions. We just passed through the halls with a captive. General Thoor will eventually know.” They walked out into the hall. “You should go rest. You have had long enough day as it is. We will talk about necrilids some other time.”

As Scott left Confinement, he stared at the other captives in the cells. It was the first time he could ever remember seeing genuine curiosity on their faces. None of them were shouting or bore threatening expressions. They all just stared at the scene.

“
I will see you again soon?” Petrov asked.

Scott had no choice but to visit again. “Soon enough.”

“
I look forward to it,” the scientist said, waving. The two men parted ways.

Scott returned to his quarters alone as the full day’s events settled in his mind. The day felt like several combined. He could scarcely believe he’d been in Chernobyl earlier that afternoon. Or that that morning, Clarke had still been alive.

When he finally shut the door to his quarters and turned the lights off for good, it took no effort at all to fall asleep. Rest came like a welcomed friend.

22

Tuesday, November 15
^th
, 0011 NE

Midnight

Novosibirsk, Russia

A knock at her door caused Judge Carol June to stir beneath her bedcovers. Inside her private
Novosibirsk
suite, awakened from the darkness of solitary slumber, she squinted through tired eyes.