Enemy One (Epic Book 5) (36 page)

“Whoa,” said William Harbinger, David’s sole companion in the trek downstairs. The massive Southerner looked equally stunned, staring wide-eyed at the crowded room before them.

David laughed. “I think ‘whoa’ about says it all.” Stepping forward with the demolitionist in tow, David ventured forth in search of the forge master.

That it was William who was accompanying David was by David’s own design. William needed this. It had been all of two days since the death of Derrick Cole, William’s best friend and former comrade. Throughout the chaos that David had experienced, from their escape from
Novosibirsk
, to the rescue of Scott and company on the banks of the Suez, to their firefight on the city streets of Krasnoyarsk, William’s emotional state had been ever-present in his mind.

The demolitionist had now lost two of his closest friends: Joe Janson to the Silent Fever and Derrick to EDEN. The three of them had possessed a bond long before David and his comrades had ever set foot in The Machine. It was a bond that, though the Fourteenth could understand, they could never fully appreciate as William could. Now that bond was gone.

David was worried about William, who had scarcely spoken since they’d left
Novosibirsk
. There was more than simple grief there—David could see that plainly. William was dealing with something utterly devastating. He was concerned about how the demolitionist would respond. He felt that the Southerner needed to be monitored.

He also just wanted to be there for William. To be a fatherly shoulder to cry on, if the desire was expressed for such a thing. David
wanted
William to open up and talk about what he was feeling. He just couldn’t outright ask William to. He was hopeful that side quests like these would be enough to spark conversations that would ultimately spark something deeper. Something to begin the healing process. A ray of light to crack through William’s dark clouds.

The forge was as good a starting point as any.

As the pair walked deeper into the forge, the smoldering smell of smoke and cinders clung to their nostrils amid the almost melodic sound of metal striking metal. There was no joy to be found, no work songs sung in unison by the metal workers. There was only a robotic dedication appropriate for an employer nicknamed
The Machine
.

“They gotta know what happened, right?” asked William quietly.

David had been wondering the same thing.
Novosibirsk
was defeated, and the Nightmen were scattered. If anything, work should have been at a standstill, or at the very least diminished for the sake of uncertainty. It didn’t make sense.

From across the room, the brawny shouts of authority emerged. David and William turned to see a large man pointing and barking orders in Russian. He was robust—a man of the earth, not of weight rooms and glamour workouts. He had a brown bowl cut that looked nothing short of Medieval and a full beard that covered the entire bottom half of his face. He lorded over the forge like a brutal tyrant; every time his voice boomed out, the workers around him leapt into some sort of action. There was no question in either of their minds: this was their guy. “That’s a forge master if I ever saw one,” said David. Stepping through the workers as they marched back and forth, the two men made their approach.

Within seconds, the large man spied them. Shouting a last-second order to a plodding worker, he then set his sights on David and William, lumbering toward them with his bushy eyebrows narrowed in a grizzled glare. Stopping, arms crossed above his belly, he said, “Valentin told me you would be coming by.”

At least they had that going for them. Extending his hand, David said, “David Jurgen, part of the Fourteenth. Right by my side here is William Harbinger.”

“Artur Pashkov,” the man answered, enveloping David’s hand in his massive paw. “Welcome to the forge.”

Freeing his hand from suffocation, David surveyed the nearby furnaces and workers. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything quite like this. It’s kind of…” Biting his tongue, David let the statement hang.

“Kind of what?” asked Artur bluntly.

The older operative sighed. “It’s kind of Old Era.”

Artur grunted then pivoted to face the room in full. “If you want the pinnacle of technology, go somewhere else. If you want hard work and efficiency, come here.”

“I guess I just never imagined it to be so hands-on.” That was the most polite way David could put it.

“EDEN uses machines,” answered Artur. “My workers craft with their hands. A machine cannot replicate the touch of hammer against anvil.”

Rubbing his forehead, William said, “Anvils, man. That’s crazy.”

David observed the workers as they worked on, manning huge devices that looked like metal presses. The presses rose and fell against the Nightman armor being forged. In the midst of them were actual workers with actual hammers and anvils, pounding away. With every strike of their implements, the dark curves of slayer and fulcrum armor took shape. It was surreal. “I guess I just figured advanced armor took advanced technology.”

“The technology is advanced,” Artur said. “The sweat is not.” He walked past the rows of furnaces, David and William in tow. “It is called high-pressure torsion. The presses,” he pointed, “apply force to the metal, which strengthens it. The presses give the armor strength, while the hammers give it shape.”

“What kind of metal is that?”

Stopping a nearby worker, Artur addressed the man in Russian, seeming to be offering instruction regarding whatever the worker was doing. The worker nodded and hurried away. Artur addressed David again. “Aluminum 7075. Lightweight, stronger than titanium. Perfect for Nightman armor.”

William leaned over a bin filled with discarded helmets. “So that’s not what EDEN uses?”

The large man laughed disdainfully. “No. What EDEN uses would not be pass muster here.” Motioning to a cart that a worker pushed past them, he said, “When we are finished with the armor in the forge, it is taken to
Finishing
, where the interior is fitted with para-aramid synthetic fiber, for both added protection and comfort.”

“I don’t know what’s more surprising,” said David, “that you run a Medieval forge or that you can explain it so well in English.”

At that, Artur laughed with sincerity. “We do not only supply armor to the Nightmen. We also deal with mercenary and pirate factions. As you know, English is the business language of the world. If you want customers, you must be able to communicate with them.”

So that explained why the forge was so active even with
Novosibirsk
being captured.
Northern Forge
had a clientele list. “So are you a Nightman?”

“No,” Artur answered. “None of the people that you see here are Nightmen. Lukin and his guards make up the only Nightman presence. The rest of these people are all civilian workers. Norilsk is a proud and hard-working city, despite what you may have seen when you flew in. These are ‘blue-collar’ people, as you call them.”

“Do these people know that
Novosibirsk
got taken back by EDEN?”

The massive man nodded. “They are aware, but work will continue. We have several batches of armor to finish, then they will move on to some of our other customers. Even if the Nightmen cease, this place will remain operational.” He harrumphed. “Lukin might even long for that—he has as big an eye for business and profit as he does for serving General Thoor. The late General Thoor,” he corrected.

William rubbed his chin. “And none of you guys have a problem with working for the Nightmen? Y’all know they murder people, right?”

“Say what you will about the Nightmen, but they have been good for our city. Times have been difficult in Norilsk since the energy shift. The Nightmen employ hundreds of people, and they supply our police with armor and weapons at no cost.” Wiping his nose on his sleeve, he said, “This city is better off with the Nightmen than without. It requires us to overlook certain things, but considering what they provide to us…” Artur allowed the statement to trail off, his sentiment understood. After a momentary pause, he faced the pair fully. “But you are not here to talk about Norilsk and its politics. What do you need from me?”

David slid his hands into his pockets. “We could use some armor, Artur. Times have been a little tough.”

“How much do you need?”

“Not as much as you have here,” answered David, surveying the cache of armor being taken off the presses. “I would say about, what?” He looked at William. “Fifteen sets?”

The demolitionist shrugged. “Got no idea, man.”

Nodding his head, Artur said, “Get me some numbers, and I will get you your armor. It is of no consequence to the forge itself. We produce more in a few hours than what you probably need.”

David believed it. He had always wondered how the Nightmen managed to pay for all the toys they owned, and this went a long way in explaining it. No one had considered that as much as they were a military cult, they were also a business. Turning Artur’s way again, he asked, “I don’t suppose you have a
women’s
line of apparel, eh? We got one or two of those who could use a little armor.”

“Not as a part of our standard stock,” Artur answered. “All of the Nightman armor off our assembly is made for men, and we are contractually forbidden to provide you with any of the wares we sell to our other customers.” The massive man rubbed his chin. “Though I am sure there are some rules that can be bent. This is a unique situation, after all.”

Indeed it was.

Turning David’s way, Artur asked, “Is there anything else that you need?”

“No, I think that pretty much wraps it up. Many thanks to you.”

“It is my pleasure. Come and see me anytime.”

A handshake was exchanged, and the parties went their separate ways.

Halfway back to the elevator, William glanced at David and said, “That felt a little too easy.”

David chuckled and slapped the Southerner on his back. “Well, big guy…I think at this point, life owes us an ‘easy’ or two.”

William agreed, as together, the two men ventured back up.

Sunday, March 18
^th
, 0012 NE

0917 hours

In Flight, Russia

“I UNDERSTAND THAT, but that’s a
you
issue, not an
ours
.” Comm held against his ear, Judge Jason Rath paced about the transport back to EDEN Command.

Sitting across the cabin and listening in silence was Oleg. The two had nary spoken a word to each other during the flight from
Novosibirsk
—though plenty of words had been spoken by the judge to his counterparts. Oleg was not privy to the conversations Rath was having, but that didn’t stop him from trying to be. Head angled just enough for his ears to focus on Rath’s words, he listened on.

“Again, that’s not our problem, Jaya. That’s something you needed to take care of before you even left. Benjamin would tell you the same thing.”

As hard as he tried, there was no way for Oleg to hear what was coming out of the comm’s speaker with the device in privacy mode. Drawing a bored breath, he leaned his head back against the wall of the cabin. He stared squarely at Rath, who was oblivious to the eidolon’s spying.

The Canadian ran a hand through his gray hair. “I’m bringing Strakhov in now.” There was a pause. “I did. I just got off the line with them. They’re moving the other one to a secure location. Axen.”

His attention recaptured, Oleg’s eyes narrowed.

“No, Benjamin did. Apparently he called them shortly after I left
Novosibirsk
and requested he be moved.” Another pause. “
No
, I wasn’t happy about it. He was my guy as much as Strakhov was. It should have been run through me first, but what can we do? This is Ben’s show.” The transport hit a spot of turbulence; Rath’s hand gripped one of the travel rails. He sighed exhaustedly into the comm. “They flew him out a couple hours ago. I don’t know where. The hospital doesn’t, either—Ben had some of his guys from Command pick him up, so who knows where he is.” The judge sat down. “You’re damn right I’m going to talk to Benjamin. He can’t be pulling these kinds of things out of nowhere. We need to be in the loop.”

After another pause and presumed response from Jaya, the judge shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Look—this is just how he operates.” He pressed his lips together, then said, “Nah, don’t let it get to you. Just do what you’re going there to do. We’ll get back on track.” Several seconds passed, then he laughed. “Right. Yeah, that sounds about right.” The transport rocked again briefly, prompting Rath to glance up in irritation. “Let me go ahead and let you go, then.” Another second. “That sounds good.” Then a smile. “Bye-bye.”

Deactivating the comm, Rath lowered it to the seat next to him and looked forward. Sensing Oleg’s eyes on him, the Canadian judge glanced Oleg’s way. Their gazes remained locked for almost five seconds before Rath asked, “Something you want to say to me?”

The eidolon remained deadpanned. “You seem to be having a bit of a control problem.”

Scoffing, the Canadian closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “I’m not sure that
anyone
affiliated with the Nightmen should be talking about control problems.”

“I am not affiliated with the Nightmen. I am affiliated with you.”

Rath smirked. “You changed your spots quickly.”

Oleg’s tone remained unfazed. “I know Axen, you know.”

“You were in the Fourteenth,” said Rath matter-of-factly. “I’m sure you know Axen.”

“I know him well.”

Opening an eye, Rath arched an eyebrow. He asked, amused, “And how well do you know Axen?”

“I was the one who put him in the hospital.”

Slowly, the dismissive expression on Rath’s face changed. He opened both eyes and looked at Oleg directly.

The former eidolon went on. “Max—as the Fourteenth calls him—was with a woman at the time that I shot him. Svetlana Voronova. This is the woman that you need to find.”

“Who is she?”