Epic: Book 03 - Hero (55 page)

The exodus was completed in under a minute. The judges rose from their seats and left the room without saying a word.

34

Friday, November 25
^th
, 0011 NE

1002 hours

Six days later

They heard the comm sound at the same time: Scott and Dostoevsky from their private quarters, and Max from the hangar. The tone-out spanned the Fourteenth from one end to the other. Only the incapacitated Jayden was spared.

Scott was just stepping out of the shower after a morning session. He had led the sessions every day since his speech to the unit; they’d gone as smooth as was possible given the unit’s circumstances. Cohesion would come with time. Only Dostoevsky had been absent from the sessions—he hadn’t been seen once all week.

Scott’s hands had healed to the point where they no longer hurt. They’d be scarred, but he could live with that. The swelling in his face had gone down, though the bruise had become darker with healing. Shirtless, he grabbed the comm and acknowledged. Dostoevsky did the same from his end.

A voice Scott had never heard before emerged from the channel. It was as monotone as Thoor’s, but unmistakably Russian. “All operatives of the Fourteenth, report to the hangar at once.” That was all. No explanations, no formal end of transmission. The channel closed.

Turning to his closet, Scott stared at the vacant space where his fulcrum armor had once hung. It had been taken away for repairs after their last mission and had not been returned.

Scott reached for an undershirt and slipped it on. A minute later, he was dressed. Before he walked to the door, he allowed himself a look in the mirror. Despite his battered appearance, the man he saw was quietly assured.

He took to the halls.

Max, already in the hangar, was the first to notice that the Fourteenth wasn’t alone in the callout. Several other squads—squads made up almost entirely of EDEN personnel—were rushing to their own transports to gear up. Max did the same. By the time other operatives of the Fourteenth began to arrive, he was in his armor outside the
Pariah
.

Svetlana was the first to approach him. “Max, what do you know?”

“
Nothin’ yet. I just got the callout.”

Behind Svetlana, the rest of the Fourteenth trotted in—Captain Dostoevsky among them. The only one absent was Scott.

Max intercepted Dostoevsky immediately. “So that’s it, huh? You just show up again like everything’s normal?”

Dostoevsky removed his helmet. “Have you heard anything from Command?”

“
You’re the captain, shouldn’t you know?”

“
They have not told me anything. I do not know what to think.”

“
It’s not the first time,” Max quipped.

It was at that point when a new set of footsteps emerged in the hangar. Dostoevsky and Max turned around. Soon everyone else did, too.

It wasn’t a member of the Fourteenth who approached. It was someone—a fulcrum—none of them had seen before. With the exception of one. Behind his faceless helmet, Dostoevsky’s mouth fell.

The stranger was as large as Egor and William. His helmet was in his hands, his face exposed. He was older with a face etched with cracks and wrinkles. His graying hair was pushed up like a tousled mohawk. The EDEN operatives stared in bewilderment.

He marched past Dostoevsky, scrutinizing the fulcrum captain harshly. Then he faced the rest of the unit.

“
I am Colonel Saretok,” he said, his voice at once peculiar and grating. “You have been placed under my jurisdiction.”

After receiving the initial callout, Scott had gone to Room 14 in search of his armor, thinking it had been delivered there by mistake. He’d found nothing. The delay in its return had tried his patience in the past several days, but now it had become a legitimate emergency. Now he needed it and it wasn’t there.

He walked into the hangar wearing only his uniform. It wasn’t the best way to make an entrance, but what other choice did he have? He couldn’t fail to show up at all.

As soon as he neared the
Pariah
, Scott spotted Saretok at the same time as Saretok saw him.

“
Where is your armor, Remington?”

Scott had no idea who the man was. Before he could ask questions, Dostoevsky said, “This is Colonel Saretok, Remington. He is one of Thoor’s personal guards and overseer of
Novosibirsk
‘s security.”

Saretok addressed Scott again. “I will ask you again. Where is your armor?”

“
It was damaged during our last mission,” Scott answered. “It hasn’t been returned yet.” Why would such a powerful fulcrum as Saretok be addressing the Fourteenth?

“
Scott,” Max interrupted, “your armor’s in the ship.”

Scott blinked. Why would his armor be delivered to the ship? It made little sense, but at least it was somewhere. As his mind posed new questions, he entered the
Pariah
.

It was the first time Scott had encountered a colonel at
Novosibirsk
. Colonels ran platoons, which
Novosibirsk
didn’t have. The Machine marched to its own squad-based drum. Perhaps that rank was reserved for fulcrums of unique stature.

The young dog Flopper was lying by the door. His ears lay flat as he rested his chin on the floor of the ship. He stared at Scott with observant eyes.

Stepping to his locker, Scott grabbed the latch and pulled the door open. His mind was still churning, even as he registered the fact that his armor was indeed there.
How will the unit react to a third fulcrum? How will Saretok react to them?

Suddenly, his thoughts slammed to a halt. His awareness was thrust straight ahead, into the locker he’d so carelessly flung open moments before—at the armor he’d only barely perceived until then.

…
oh my God…

Outside the
Pariah
, hands clasped behind his back, Saretok began his mission brief. “I will tell you about our operation, then I will tell you why I am here.” Everyone paid him attention—except Max and Svetlana. Their attention was solely on the
Pariah
‘s troop bay.

Nothing prepared Scott for what faced him inside his locker. His fulcrum armor was as black as it had always been. It still had its menacing horns. But there was something else about it that captivated his eyes. Something impossible to miss. It caused the hairs on his arms to stand on end. Reaching out, he ran his hand along its glossy surface.

How did this happen?
That question was the first to hit his mind, though others immediately followed. Who was responsible? And why?

He registered Saretok speaking, but he didn’t hear the man’s words. His focus was fixed straight ahead.

“
Ten minutes ago,” Saretok continued, “two Ceratopian vessels—a Cruiser and a Battleship—entered Earth’s atmosphere over Verkhoyanskiy. They were traveling at a very high speed. Vindicators from
Novosibirsk
were sent to intercept them. Something happened before the Vindicators reached them—something we have never seen before.

“
Six Bakma Noboats materialized behind the Ceratopian ships. The Ceratopians were then shot down. The Vindicators arrived in time to assault the Noboats. They shot one Noboat down before the others disappeared.”

Scott’s jaw clenched as he assembled his armor piece by piece, clamping his leg guards around his thighs and ankles, sliding his arm guards over his forearm and biceps, moving his fingers in their metal-laced gloves. Then came his shoulder harness, then his chest plate. Everything engaged with solid metal clanks.

“
The Fifty-first and the Forty-second are being dispatched to the Ceratopian vessels,” Saretok explained. “We are to engage and capture the fallen Bakma Noboat they left behind. Never before have we witnessed an air-to-air confrontation between the two alien species. Taking prisoners is our primary objective.”

The last part to come down was Scott’s helmet. As he slid it down over his head, his face disappeared behind a featureless plate. The fulcrum was complete.

Standing alone in the troop bay, his back to the open bay door, Scott angled his head to take in Saretok’s words.

Saretok wrinkled his nose. “It has come to our attention that the Fourteenth’s leadership is unstable. That is why I am here.”

Dostoevsky looked at the floor.

“
I am here to eliminate all doubt. Today, you will see what a leader is supposed to be. There will be no question as to who you should follow—” Saretok stopped abruptly, his focus suddenly shifting to the
Pariah
. The operatives stared at the colonel strangely, before their own heads followed his gaze.

Scott was standing on the ramp of the Vulture. His black fulcrum armor gleamed with dangerous luster as he firmly gripped his E-35 assault rifle. His m-19 handgun was attached to his belt. So were two grenades.

The horns of his fulcrum armor were as sinister as ever, spiking back around his featureless faceplate. But something about that spiked half-collar was different. It was the first thing everyone noticed—it made them gasp in astonishment.

The horns were made of gold.

Scott approached Max and Svetlana. His words—amplified by the mechanizations in his helmet—were as much a question as a statement. “You did this.”

“
Talk to the blonde,” Max said, smiling. “It was her idea.”

Svetlana’s eyes settled on Scott. “You told me you could not wash your hands of this sin,” she said. “That it would devalue the life that you took. You told me this was who you were.” A faint smile curved up from her lips. “Perhaps you can be something else, too.”

Scott glanced at the rest of the unit. Across the board from EDEN to the Nightmen, the operatives looked on with awe. A black and gold fulcrum. It had never been seen.

“
Be who you are, Scott Remington,” Svetlana said. “Fallen or not.”

The meaningful moment was cut short. “Cute, but irrelevant,” said Saretok. His attention returned to the others. “Board your transport, Fourteenth. We have a mission to accomplish.” No one looked at him; their eyes were on Scott alone.

Turning away, Scott walked back into the ship.

As soon as everyone was inside, Max explained the assignment to Scott. The very nature of the mission demanded Scott’s focus—two Ceratopian vessels shot down by the Bakma. Were the Ceratopians and Bakma actually enemies?

Dostoevsky sat alone across from Scott. Even as the
Pariah
rolled onto the airstrip in preparation to lift, he only stared at the floor.

Saretok stood in the middle of the cabin. “We are expecting low casualties from the fallen Noboat. It has not endured heavy damage in the crash.” When he looked at the cabin floor, he frowned. “What is
this
?”

The dog stared up at the colonel, paws outstretched as its head lay on the floor.

Dostoevsky cleared his throat. “We took the dog from Chernobyl, colonel. It is ours.”

Saretok glared at the animal and then at Dostoevsky. “This is very disappointing, Yuri.”

Dostoevsky didn’t reply.

Turning to the other Nightmen, Saretok said, “The general wishes to take prisoners alive. Use lethal force for the initial defense. Incapacitate the rest when given the chance.”

Restraint. Scott found that concept ironic when presented to Nightmen. Lethal force was what they knew best.

“
The crash site is in the middle of frozen plains. Pilot, you will drop off my team thirty meters south of the Noboat’s location. You will then hold suppression fire while my team converges.” He puffed up his chest. “There is no place for the Bakma to hide. We will attack them outright.”

Esther had been listening intently to Saretok, and Scott knew why. “Colonel, Private Brooking is a scout. She could be dropped off in advance to—”

“
She is of no use in this terrain,” Saretok said, clamping on his helmet. His mohawk was replaced by black metal. “The Bakma will be suppressed by the Vulture until we reach the Noboat. Full participation will
not
be required.”

Scott realized it right then: Saretok had no intention of using anyone from EDEN.

“
Goronok,” Saretok said, turning to Egor, “you will use explosive shells to clear the antechamber. You will then accompany me, Dostoevsky, and the German into the aft hallway. We will sweep the storage rooms, living quarters, dining hall, and engine room.” He turned to Scott. “You and Romanov will clear the bridge of the vessel. Ryvkin will remain in the antechamber as backup for both teams.”

Scott felt the cabin deflate. This had all been planned from the outset. Why even bother bringing the others along?

“
Pilot, what is our ETA?”

“
Not long.”

Never before had Scott heard Travis so dejected—so uncaring—not even when he’d been criticized in Room 14.

Surprisingly, Saretok accepted Travis’s answer. The fulcrum colonel readied his gun.

Scott pondered. This wasn’t the way to keep a unit stable. If that’s what Saretok had intended, he was failing miserably. As he surveyed his teammates, Scott saw that every head was down except David’s. The older man was staring straight at him, the expression on his face revealing his thoughts.