Epic: Book 03 - Hero (16 page)

Lieutenant Brunner arranged for them to ride back in the Thirty-ninth’s other Vulture—the larger squad possessed two. The Fourteenth was one of the few units that could fit in a single troop transport. It was one of the smallest squads on the base, even despite its recent growth. Brunner directed them to one of the Thirty-ninth’s alternative muster points, where they were loaded aboard.

Little was said during the flight back to The Machine. William and Derrick exchanged occasional words, but at times even they appeared forced. Too many other things occupied their minds. There was Jayden, and to a lesser extent, Becan and William. Then there was Maksim’s demise. There was Ulrich’s refusal to help. There was so much.

The ride back to
Novosibirsk
ended up being one of the quietest Scott could recall. For a squad like the Fourteenth, that said a lot.

8

Sunday, November 6
^th
, 0011 NE

2347 hours

Back at Novosibirsk

Clarke was the first to step from the Thirty-fifth’s Vulture. Viktor was waiting to meet him.

“
What’s Timmons’ status?” the captain asked.

“
He is in surgery, captain. Varya is with him.”

“
I don’t bloody care where Varya is, I want a rundown on Timmons.”

David hurried over to hear the explanation as Viktor drew a preparatory breath. “Do you want the good news, or the bad news?”

David spoke up. “The bad news—”

“
The good news,” Clarke interrupted. “Let’s start with a smile.”

“
I cannot express how fortunate Timmons is,” Viktor answered. “We took every precaution, we treated him as if this was the worst.” He took a moment to formulate his words. “His spine is not even
fractured
. He has cuts and bruises and some broken bones, but nothing that will threaten his life.”

“
He fell twelve meters,” Clarke said. “How is that possible?”

“
He must have fallen down right with the structure, impacting it all the way down. That is the only explanation I have. The impacts must have slowed his fall.”

“
That
is
good news. Now let’s have the bad.”

“
He has deep lacerations on his face, apparently when his visor struck the tower. He will need major cosmetic surgery. Both eyes experienced severe corneal abrasions…”

“
Which means?”

“…
more than likely, he will be blind.”

David turned away in disgust. Clarke said nothing.

“
Captain,” Viktor said, “I wish there was more I could say. This is terrible, terrible tragedy. I wish I could have been able to prevent it.”

“
Is it absolute fact that he will be blind in
both
eyes?”

“
I do not want to say. It is not good to speculate on such things. We can hope for the best.”

Clarke stared at the slayer-medic for several moments, before he turned slowly away. “We shall see. Thank you, Viktor, for all you’ve done. You’re one of the good ones.”

Viktor was quiet for a moment. Then he bowed his head in reverence. “You are welcomed, my captain.”

Dostoevsky and the other slayers exited the Vulture. The fulcrum elite had said nothing during the flight home—not since Clarke had confronted him in Krasnoyarsk. Helmet in hand, he crossed the hangar floor behind the others. It wasn’t until Viktor approached him that he showed any emotion at all. “What in the hell were you trying to do?” he asked in Russian. “Why did you go with Clarke?”

Viktor said defensively, “Perhaps I want to end this bickering between us and EDEN.”

“
Shut up. You are not honorable enough for that. You had a plan.”

“
Perhaps it was
he
who shot the sniper,” said Nicolai smugly. “Were you not asking about Yudina two days ago? Perhaps someone wanted her to be single before Clarke transferred her away.”

Viktor suddenly glared Nicolai’s way. “Watch your words, you perverted cannibal. I would slit your throat for the joy.”

“
From this moment on,” Dostoevsky said, “you will bring your assignment requests
only
to me. Clarke is not interested in us.”

“
I disagree,” Viktor answered. “He told me that I was a good man.”

“
He does not know you well enough,” Auric said quietly.

“
I am still a fulcrum, and you are still a slayer,” said Dostoevsky. “Do I need to remind you what will happen if you break rank again?”

“
No, commander,” said Viktor. “I now understand.” After a moment of uneasy silence, he took a step back. “May I be dismissed, my commander?”

“
Go.”

“
Thank you, commander.” Without another word, Viktor left the hangar as the other slayers looked on.

Only after he disappeared did conversation resume. Nicolai turned to face Dostoevsky. “I do not think he likes you.”

Dostoevsky scoffed under his breath. “If I were hated by the entire world, would it matter?”

“
You are not hated by the world. I like you very much.”

Dostoevsky stared at Nicolai, who flashed him a dirty-toothed grin. He waved the slayer away. “Go be sick somewhere else.”

Clarke was inspecting his armor when a Vulture taxied into the hangar. The captain knew it belonged to the Eighth. His eyes flared. As soon as the transport stopped, the rear door whined open. Ulrich was the first to emerge.

“
Captain Ulrich!”
Clarke shouted angrily.

Ulrich turned to face Clarke’s wrath. His own expression twisted into a scowl.

“
What in bloody hell was that?” Clarke went on. He stood face to face with the rival captain. “You had
no right
to leave us abandoned!”

“
I am so sorry,” said Ulrich smoothly. “Did you try to contact us? I suppose we had a ‘comm malfunction’ too.”

“
Rubbish!”

David and Esther rushed to the confrontation.

“
Do not make a mockery of my intelligence,” Clarke said. “Two of your own operatives broke rank to save us. Would you care to explain that?”

“
Do
you
care to explain how you destroyed half my unit in Khatanga? Or was that not premeditated?”

“
That was not premeditated and you bloody well know it!”

Before Ulrich could respond, Esther stepped forward. “Captain Ulrich, I was the one who made the mistake in Khatanga. If you’re angry, take it out on
me
—”

Esther had no chance to complete her thought. In a motion too quick to prevent, Ulrich punched her square in her jaw. The scout toppled backward to the floor.

The scuffle was on. Clarke surged forward, tackling Ulrich where he stood. David dove to Esther’s side, as several operatives from the Eighth jumped on Clarke’s back. He was surrounded in seconds.

The fight was emotional, but short-lived. Before too much blood could be drawn, the mechanized shout of a Nightman sentry halted the brawl.

“
Do not move!”

The operatives turned to the lumbering Nightman. Behind him, a second sentry approached. They ploughed forward like tanks, their metal boots hitting the cement floor sharply as they prepared their assault rifles.

“
You will cease all unwarranted activity,” the sentry said, his Russian accent thick. “Speak no more words.”

On the floor behind Clarke, David helped Esther to her feet. The scout’s lower lip was split open. She wiped it on her sleeve.

Ulrich straightened his uniform and exhaled. “I request an audience with General Thoor at once—”

The sentry aimed at Ulrich and opened fire. Every operative jumped as the barrel discharged. Bullets rippled across Ulrich’s stomach and chest and blood sprayed from his mouth. It took seconds for the barrage to fell him; then the sentry ceased.

Everyone froze. As the suddenly lifeless body of Captain Ulrich lay sprawled across the floor, their eyes were wide with shock. Silently, they turned to the metal enforcer.

“
Dispose of this corpse,” the sentry said to an operative from the Eighth.

Terrified, the operative stared back, opened his mouth to affirm, then stopped himself short. He simply nodded and grabbed the dead man.

* * *

The flight felt as if it were the longest of Scott’s life. He knew they weren’t far from The Machine; he’d heard the pilot exchanging words with NovCom—
Novosibirsk
Command. But every second still felt like a long minute.

When she wasn’t tending to the wounded, Svetlana was sitting right next to him. He couldn’t blame her for sticking to his side—not after what they’d been through.

He had listened to the radio long enough to hear the latest status of the federal building. To his satisfaction, he discovered that the rest of the Thirty-fifth had finished the job. All Bakma in the building were dead. He was frustrated that he couldn’t complete the task himself, but at least it had been done. Better by someone else than by no one at all. If any Bakma stragglers remained in the city, they wouldn’t last long. While local authorities skimped out when it came to battles, they did an excellent job of cleaning up. They would be assisted by the city’s local EDEN stations once they’d wrapped up their job with the Carrier. Krasnoyarsk would be safe, if not half burned to the ground.

“
I forgot what this was like,” Svetlana said softly.

Scott looked her way.

“
I got used to being a civilian. It was nice.” She laughed pathetically. “This is not so nice.”

That’s why you should have stayed home.
He couldn’t stop the thoughts from forming, but he held them back. Instead of speaking, he looked at the floor.

“
Scott, you there?”

The voice came from Scott’s handheld comm. He immediately recognized it as Max.

“
Scott?”

Rising from his seat, Scott took the comm to the back of the Vulture. Lowering the volume for privacy, he brought it up to his lips. “I’m here.”

“
Ulrich’s dead, man.”

Scott’s face must have registered his surprise, for his comrades were all staring at him. He resumed his covert exchange. “What happened? Did he get shot?” The obvious answer had to be yes. Unless he fell out of a Vulture. Nonetheless, he was surprised he hadn’t heard it over the open channel. News like that tended to spread.

“
A sentry killed him.”

“
A sentry? I don’t understand.”

“
I don’t know all the details. Clarke just commed me. Something happened back at the hangar.”

Ulrich dying in the hangar? What could possibly have happened that would induce a sentry to kill him? He had a feeling Krasnoyarsk was part of it.

“
How’s Becan?” asked Max.

Scott turned to the Irishman, who was in less pain now thanks to morphine and burn gel on the wound. Svetlana had done well. “I think he’ll be fine,” he said. He could hear Max sigh with relief.

“
At least only
one
of us died,” Max said.

Max’s words struck Scott as heartless until he had a moment to think them through. Maksim was dead. That was indeed terrible; the young demolitionist had been cursed from the start. But that
only
Maksim was dead—that was a minor miracle. He tried not to think about God, but only halfway succeeded.

“
All right,” Max said. “I’ll see you back home.”

The comm channel closed.

Scott lowered his head. Maksim Frolov. Though the demolitionist had had several good missions after Khatanga, he’d been more in the background than anywhere else. What a wasted career.
I should have taken more time to know him. Now it’s too late.
He forced himself to think about something else. Maksim wasn’t the mission’s only loss.

Ulrich was dead. The Eighth was leaderless. He wondered how William and Derrick would take it. He wondered how he would tell them. Returning to his seat, Scott lowered himself next to Svetlana. She looked at him with curiosity.

“
Scott, what is the matter?”

How would he even begin to explain it? It wouldn’t even matter to her. To her, Ulrich meant nothing. He was a Russian name, nothing more. She hadn’t been there in Khatanga. But to William and Derrick, he meant their careers. He glanced at them. Both men were watching him with apprehensive stares, and as soon as it became apparent that the news concerned them, they approached.

“
What is it?” Derrick asked.

Your commanding officer was just murdered.
How else was he supposed to say it?

“
Scott?”

Just say it. Just get it out
. “Ulrich was killed by a sentry.”

Neither William nor Derrick said a word; they simply stared. Then William reacted, his gaze falling to the floor for a moment as he lost himself in deep thought. Then his eyes settled on Derrick. When William spoke, his voice was thick with new purpose.

“
Dude. I bet we can get our barbeque back.”

* * *

Back in the hangar, Max was carrying Maksim’s body bag out of the Vulture and prepping it for departure. It was a tedious task usually carried out by several people, but Max was the only member of his team there. There was no captain, no commander, no one else from the Fourteenth. It all fell on him.