Enemy One (Epic Book 5) (25 page)

His nurse? Casting the disinterested Marina a brief look, Scott focused back in on Gavriil. “If you don’t mind, I’d kind of like to get all this from you. No offense,” he said to Marina, who looked utterly disgusted with him.

Propping his elbow on the desk, Gavriil massaged his eyelids irritably. “Captain Remington, there is nothing I can tell you that Marina cannot. If you cannot see plainly, I am very busy. This,” he said, motioning to the Ceratopian, “is not what I deal with. Please excuse me for being curt, but I am doing what I must do. Marina is an excellent nurse and will explain everything. Thank you.”

And that was it. Scott wasn’t even given a chance to rebut. Gavriil’s eyes went back down to his desk, and he said nothing more.

From behind him, Marina spoke. “What would you like to know?” Her tone couldn’t have been more laced with indifference. When Scott looked at her, he saw that her expression matched it. Still, those dark blue eyes stood out. Where could he have seen this girl before?

“Look,” he said, “I didn’t mean to come across as patronizing. What I mean by that, is—”

“I know what
patronizing
means.”

Scott’s mouth hung for a moment. “Okay, great.” He didn’t intend for it to sound as sarcastic as it did. “Just give me the rundown, then. You know what
rundown
means, right?”

If looks could kill, he’d have already been a corpse. Turning away with revulsion, she said, “This way.”

Scott wasn’t
trying
to come across as rude—he knew that nurses knew their stuff. It was just that in this situation, with so much at stake and so much going on, if Scott had the option of talking to the man overseeing it all, then that’s what he wanted to do. Apparently, however, Valentin Lukin was not the only cold presence in
Northern Forge
. The doctor was serving up stiff competition.

As she approached the beds with Auric and Catalina, Marina spoke. “Patient one,” she said, indicating to Auric, “has a comminuted fracture of the right patella.” She eyed Scott. “You know what
patella
means, right?” He didn’t know that or
comminuted
. It didn’t stop Marina from continuing on. “A patellectomy was performed, which took place last night. He is on heavy pain medication. Patient two,” she motioned to Catalina, who was listening intently to the frosty conversation.

Scott held up a hand. “Wait, hold on. So he had a pallet-what?”

“A patellectomy. Kneecap surgery.” She moved right along. “Patient two has a closed tibia shaft fracture on her left leg.” She eyed Scott as if he was stupid. “She has a broken shin.”

While he didn’t appreciate her smartness, the laymen’s term translations did help him out. The nurse continued.

“A crude splint was put in place, which prevented more extensive damage than what is already present.”

From the bed, Catalina smiled weakly. “Svetlana did that.”

Scott would have guessed. It was no surprise that Svetlana had been a help to the Falcons. “Svetlana is part of the Fourteenth,” he explained to Marina. “She’s our unit medic.”

Raising a brief, yet critical brow, Marina said, “That would explain the
crude
part.”

At that, Scott reacted. “Hey, now, wait a minute.”

“Patient two will also require surgery, which we will attend to today,” said Marina, going on as if she’d said nothing obtuse. “As you can see, her pain medication is at a minimum.”

No—Marina wasn’t getting off that easily. “First of all,” said Scott, “this is not
patient two
. Her name is Catalina. And his name is Auric. And what’s up with the smart attitude?” She didn’t have to like the fact that he was there, but there was no reason to project her irritation with him onto other people. “There’s no reason to call what our medic did crude. She’s just as trained in this kind of thing as you or the doctor. “

“With all due respect—”

Scott didn’t believe for a second he was about to receive that.

“—a medic is not comparable to a doctor or a nurse.”

“You’re wrong. They treat us, they do check-ups, they prescribe medicine. They’re just like you, except assigned to a unit.”

Marina’s face turned a shade red. Her voice nonetheless stayed controlled. “Do you know what an EDEN medic does when they find a problem with an operative? They call a doctor, and the doctor responds with a solution
and
a prescription.”

That wasn’t true. Scott was sure of it. He was
pretty
sure of it. He…thought he was sure of it? Looking away, he tried to recall ever actually seeing Svetlana write out a prescription. He couldn’t.

“I went to school for four years to become a nurse—at Pennsylvania University, the best nursing school your country has to offer.” She raised a smugly informative finger. “Doctor Shubin, as I’m sure you can surmise, has gone much farther. Your medic received two years of ‘training,’ which is essentially learning how to plug a bullet wound and seal up a cut before she can reach a
real
medical staff, such as the one you have here.” The flushness of her face lightened a touch. “So once again, I say to you, with all due respect: your medic is not comparable to a doctor or nurse—and her splint was crude.”

Scott didn’t know what to say.

“Now,” the pixie-haired, dark brunette said as she stepped past him, “follow me, and we will discuss the Ceratopian.”

Clearing his throat as he looked up from his desk, Gavriil said, “I will take over from here. Thank you, Marina.”

The suddenness of Gavriil’s willingness to help was only somewhat surprising. The back-and-forth Scott had been having with Marina wasn’t exactly discreet. As much as the doctor didn’t want to have to give Scott a guided tour of his office, he probably wanted to deal with snippy attitudes even less. As Marina abandoned Scott without argument and returned to her tasks, Gavriil approached Scott and forced a smile. “You must forgive Marina. She is what you Americans call a ‘pepper.’”

Scott could think of a few other words to describe her.

“Now,” Gavriil said, “the Ceratopian. How much do you know about him, injuries aside?”

“Next to nothing. He was a bodyguard of some sort, we think. That’s about it.”

Walking to the far side of Centurion, Gavriil examined the slumbering beast’s neck wound up close. Leaning away again, he stepped behind one of the many machines attached to it. “He is a strong specimen. I doubt many could survive the extent of injury he received. But one can look at him and tell he is something unique.” He pointed. “There are muscle masses, such as here, and here, that few Ceratopians possess. They are intentional.” He tapped his finger against one of the machine’s displays, its contents unseen to Scott. “I would liken it to what you would expect to find in a professional athlete…or perhaps more appropriately, a gladiator.” Gavriil nodded toward the alien. “He was bred for combat, as his purported role of bodyguard suggests.”

“Aren’t all Ceratopians bred for combat?” Scott asked.

Walking behind another console, the doctor answered simply, “Not like this.”

Crossing his arms and staring at the sleeping giant, Scott said, “We call him
Centurion
. I guess that name’s pretty appropriate.”

Gavriil glanced Scott’s way and smiled. “It personifies him quite well.”

“You speak good English.” The words just blurted out.

Chuckling softly, the doctor nodded his head. “I got my medical degree from Harvard.”

Scott blinked. “Harvard? In Massachusetts?”

“That is the one. Ice-cold winters, blustery winds. Yet like the tropics when compared to this hellish place.”

“I have to ask,” Scott said. “You went to Harvard, she went to Pennsylvania. What in the world are you guys doing here?”

Stepping away from Centurion’s table, Gavriil strolled toward the quarantine glass where a silent Natalie and the Falcons were listening in. Sliding his hands into the pockets of his white coat, he leaned back against one of the room’s support beams. “Marina has her own reasons. I am here because I was needed,” he said, looking at Scott directly.

Scott didn’t understand that at all. “There must have been a million other places you could have gone, yet you came to the Nightmen?”

“I am not here for the Nightmen. I am here for the poor of Norilsk, many of whom work here in the forge. Norilsk is a forgotten city, captain,” he said, shifting to get more comfortable. “Its days of being a major industrial influence are long over. Times are very difficult, and the Nightmen pay very well—though we will see how that will change, with Ignatius van Thoor dead. But a place like this needs a doctor. In a forge, there are many injuries. This was an opportunity to help the impoverished, and I took it. I feel no shame over that.” His focus returned to Centurion, as he walked to the far side of the medical bay to retrieve a pair of disposable gloves. Sliding them over his fingers, he glanced Scott’s way. “If you will excuse me for a moment, captain.”

“Whatever you need to do.” Watching as Gavriil approached the Ceratopian, Scott found his curiosity piqued anew. Even having spent his final minutes of
Cairo
and all of the flights thereafter in Centurion’s presence, he still found the massive beast fascinating.

Centurion was the first black Ceratopian Scott had ever seen. Just like humanity had its races, so apparently did the horned warriors. A vast majority of Ceratopians were some shade of tan, enough so that many EDEN operatives never encountered a Ceratopian of a different color during their careers. Supposedly, though, the black ones were more formidable. They were hardy. The black-skins came in two variations: violet markings and green ones. Centurion was the latter. The green streaks and patterns that contoured his body were strikingly bright, almost neon. They looked as if they’d glow beneath ultraviolet lights. In a way, the alien looked majestic.

Positioning himself behind Centurion, Gavriil began to unscrew a series of tanks that were attached to the end of the table where the alien’s head was resting. From these tanks ran a pair of large tubes, which in turn ran to what looked like a massive oxygen mask of sorts. It was a clumsy fit.

Once the tanks were unscrewed, Gavriil carried them to the far side of the medical bay, where a pair of new tanks were retrieved out of a large metal cabinet. The doctor screwed them in place where the previous tanks had been removed. Throughout all of it, Centurion never moved. A minute later, after giving the alien another look over, the doctor removed the disposable gloves and tossed them in a waste bin. “And that is that,” he said, offering Scott a small smile.

“What’s the mask for?” he asked.

Gavriil set his hands on his hips. “For him to breathe properly. Many people do not realize that Earth is not an ideal atmosphere for their species. Ceratopian anatomy indicates that they come from an oxygen-rich world, much more so than Earth. Whereas the other species are able to function well within our atmospheres, Ceratopians tend to have slightly more trouble.” Turning around, he pointed toward Centurion’s helmet, which was sitting on a table in the corner along with the rest of the alien’s armor. “Ceratopians have an oxygen amplifier built into their battle armor. This allows them to function normally so long as they are inside it. But once removed—once their lungs are breathing in Earth air—Ceratopians tire quickly. They can survive, but they are sluggish.”

“What are his prospects for survival?”

“Oh, he will survive,” the doctor answered confidently. “Of that, I am certain. Even to have survived this long in his current state, he has shown remarkable resilience.”

That was the very thing Scott hoped to hear. Their mission—as dire as the consequences might have been for them, personally—had been a success. “Have you had a lot of experience with extraterrestrials, doctor?”

Very faintly, Gavriil frowned. “I would describe my experience as minimal. I know enough to keep him alive and make a judgment on him based on my knowledge of the
human
body. Certain generalities about the way living creatures are made allow for a degree of comparison.” Walking to his desk, he retrieved a stapled packet. The doctor handed it to Scott. “I am referencing this quite often. It is a collection of Nightman data related to Ceratopians. I am sure EDEN has somewhat of the same, though perhaps not to such…detail.”

Flipping through the packet, Scott realized what Gavriil meant. This wasn’t a biology lesson. It was a photo journal of torture sessions. At several images of skinned Ceratopians, Scott cringed. He had no desire to read any of this in detail. As the doctor approached Centurion again, Scott walked behind the desk to return the packet. “Doc, I’ll be honest. I’m glad I’m not the one who has to read this.”

Gavriil chuckled. “As you should be.”

Placing the packet down where the doctor had retrieved it, Scott was about to turn away from the desk when another paper caught his eye—not because of what it was, but because of a name that was clearly signed at the bottom: Antipov. Doubling back to it, Scott examined the document out of curiosity. What document at
Northern Forge
would be signed by Antipov? A moment later, he realized that the paper was nothing more than a medical report. Auric’s, in fact. That was strange.
How in the world did Antipov sign this if he’s on his way to Chernobyl? And why would he sign it in the first place?
His eyes returned to Antipov’s name. There, Scott realized his mistake. It wasn’t “Antipov” that was signed at the bottom of the report. It was “Antipova,” the surname’s feminine form. He finished reading the signature.

Antipova, Marina.

Marina? She had the same last name as Antipov? That was…weird…

Wait a minute…

Still behind Gavriil’s desk, Scott looked up from the document, zeroing in on the nurse. Those eyes of hers. Those striking, uncaring eyes that seemed so familiar. He
had
seen them before, and he was just now recognizing them. They were the same eyes of Antipov himself.

Marina was the eidola chief’s daughter.

No stinking way.

There was no doubt about it. He could see Iosif Antipov in her face—bits and pieces, here and there. Her eyes just echoed him the most. As the revelation sunk in, Marina glanced nonchalantly in his direction, pausing when she saw him staring at her. Narrowing her eyes with scrutiny, she tilted her head and asked, “What?”