Epic: Book 03 - Hero (48 page)

“
He sits on a
throne
?” June whispered to Blake. “This can’t possibly be serious. How can he look at himself and not laugh?”

Blake scanned the rest of the room. Standing on each side of the carpet, in uniform lines, were two rows of fulcrums. Each was perfectly still, almost as though they weren’t breathing. Their dark horns stabbed upward through the dank air of the Inner Sanctum like statuesque, demonic knights, assault rifles displayed at their sides.

“
He awaits,” said the sentry.

Nothing moved. The two judges looked at each other hesitantly, then stepped inside.

The wooden doors slammed hard behind them, causing both judges to jump. Then the two rows of fulcrums moved. They extended their rifles forward, snapping them to their opposite sides of their bodies. Then all was still again.

“
I take it you haven’t been here?” June whispered as silence recaptured the room.

“
They left this part out of the tour.”

All of a sudden, Thoor began speaking in Russian. His autocratic tone reverberated through the room, as Blake and June looked on in awe. When the general stopped talking, he was answered in loud unison by both rows of fulcrums. All went silent again.

“
Approach!”

The judges flinched. Thoor’s words boomed through the room as if his vocal cords were megaphones.

Blake took a step forward, but June grabbed his arm. “Wait.” She pushed him aside and addressed Thoor. “We’ve been here for nearly a week! Why do you summon us now?”

Thoor sat motionless atop his throne. He said nothing back.

“
You should approach,” the fulcrum nearest them said. The fulcrum’s face was hidden behind his featureless helmet. Thoor still hadn’t moved, nor had either row of Nightmen. After a shared moment of apprehension, both judges approached forward.

The room was shrouded in darkness. No torches illuminated the chamber; instead, fires hung from ancient chandeliers. Their flickering was the only sound in the Inner Sanctum.

They stopped meters in front of the throne. Thoor wore a black uniform devoid of almost any insignia, save the Nightman crest. On his head and hiding his eyes was a dark visor hat. A cloak flowed down past his chair.

Blake cleared his throat and addressed him. “General Thoor, why have you ignored our visitation?”

The Terror said nothing.

“
We have issued new regulations in regards to interception. As far as our records indicate, you have not complied with any of them. Are you
aware
of these new regulations?”

Still Thoor was silent.

As Blake opened his mouth to speak again, June cut him off and stepped forward. “General, why have we been brought to this place?”

This time, they got a response. Silently, Thoor pointed at the left-hand wall.

The judges turned. As soon as they both faced the wall, the room came alive as torches illuminated what had previously been black. Along the wall, arranged in a single-file line, stood a dozen bound men and women. Aside from the blindfolds that covered their eyes, they were stripped bare. Their hands were tied behind their backs as they nervously breathed.

EDEN’s spies.

June’s hand shot over her mouth. “Oh my God!”

Thoor barked out a lone Russian word. The fulcrums turned and raised their assault rifles to take aim. They fired before the judges could scream.

Blood exploded into the air as bullet holes burst across the chests of EDEN’s agents. Their bodies were thrown against the walls where projectile fire kept them on their feet. The agents’ shrieks lasted mere moments, replaced by gurgles of death.

Both judges stood paralyzed in shock.

The firing ceased as the corpses collapsed. Blake turned to the throne. But Thoor was already on the bottom step. Before Blake could cry out, the general’s iron-knuckled hand snatched his throat. June screamed as fulcrums grabbed her from behind.

Blake pounded Thoor with his fists, kicking as the general lifted him off the ground and stared into his panicked eyes. When Thoor spoke, the ground seemed to shake. “Our tolerance has come to an end.”

Blake writhed in the general’s stranglehold. His face slowly turned blue.

The Terror’s grip tightened. “You have no authority over The Machine. If you make any attempt to interfere with our operations, you will behold a massacre like none you have seen. We will slaughter your soldiers like sheep.”

Still held captive by the fulcrums, June cried out in terror as Blake’s eyes began to bulge.

“
Do not regulate this facility. Do not send us new personnel. We have personnel of our own.” Thoor’s voice was monotone. “You will continue to supply us with equipment and aircraft. We will continue to cooperate as we see fit. This is not a declaration of war. That is something you cannot afford.”

Blake’s eyes were popping out of his head, while his lungs struggled and failed to find air. Then Thoor set him free. The judge fell to the floor, sucking in great, gasping breaths.

The fulcrums released June. She ran to Blake’s side.

“
Leave my facility,” Thoor said. “Do not return.”

Blake scrambled to his feet, and he and June fled down the carpet toward the door.

Neither looked back.

PART III

29

Saturday, November 19
^th
, 0011 NE

0653 hours

The next morning

Scott sat up with a jolt; his hand shot up to cover his chest. A plethora of sensations swept over him. His hair was wringing with sweat. His body was sore. His heart was pounding like a drum.

Everything was black. Where was he? What was going on? He knew he must have been asleep because he remembered dreaming. He’d dreamt about screams—screams in his head. That might have been what caused him to wake. But where was he now?

The softness under him gave it away. He was in bed. And not an infirmary bed, but his own.

As the world leveled off, a new wave of sensations overwhelmed him, hitting him from all sides. His hands stung with crustiness, and an excruciating pain burned in his back. His right eye was swollen shut, and that side of his face was numb. His forehead was sticky.

How did I get here? What happened?

The mission—that was the last thing he remembered. He had charged the fourth Noboat in the forest. Then they’d been repelled by the Bakma. No, that wasn’t right—they hadn’t been repelled. They’d entered the ship. They’d cleared it.

What in the world is going on?

His memory was foggy. He knew he and the other Nightmen had stormed the enemy Noboat and that the Bakma had been defeated. But the details were hazy and few.

He reached up to his face, causing yet another pain to register in his forearm. When he touched his right cheek, he felt his entire eye socket was puffed up. He recalled getting hit by the butt of a plasma rifle.

His brain felt more sore than his body. There was a pain similar to lightheadedness that came with awareness. It was like the echo of deep mental strain.

Groping blindly at his nightstand, he felt for the photograph of Nicole. The movement caused his body to shriek with pain. Instead of the picture, his fingers found a folded piece of paper—one he didn’t remember putting down.

Despite the burning sensation on his back, he forced himself upright. He tugged the cord of his lamp and dim light filled the room. Squinting at the paper, he saw that it was a note, placed right by his comm.

Still groggy-eyed, he gingerly unfolded the note. It took a moment for his vision to clear; when it did, he read the note to himself.

Dear Scott,

Please comm me when you’re awake. Medic’s orders!

—
Sveta

He closed his good eye and lay down. Svetlana. He had a fleeting memory of her presence at the end of the mission. She was rubbing his forehead. Why? Reaching up to his hairline, he felt something hard; his hair there was prickly and his skin was tight. It was dried gel.

What happened to me?

She must have brought him back to his room—there was no other way he could have gotten there. Turning to his nightstand again, he looked at Nicole’s picture. It was still facing the wall—Svetlana hadn’t turned it around. Taking the picture in hand, Scott held it in front of his face. Nicole’s smile sent him into a vortex of anguish, just as it always did. He continued to stare at the photo for some time, then placed it back on the table.

He allowed himself several minutes to gather his clarity before he commed Svetlana to let her know he was up. As he waited, the origins of his wounds slowly came back to him. The scorch mark on his back was from the near-miss of the plasma rifle, and the cuts and burns on his hands from the missile explosion. The damage to his face was a combination of burn and battery. Svetlana would have an array of injuries to check on.

As the minutes passed, the other events of the mission returned to his mind. He’d negotiated with extraterrestrials—an Ithini and a Bakma. Captain Gabriel had been held hostage at gunpoint. Then Scott and the aliens had talked. They had connected telepathically somehow through one of the Ithini that he’d gunned down afterward.

He remembered becoming dizzy and throwing up. He remembered bits and pieces of the Bakma’s words. The Bakma had wanted to know about him—about the Nightmen. The alien had specifically noted that Scott and his comrades were not from EDEN. They knew who the Nightmen were. Of course they did. They must have. The Nightmen had destroyed their outpost in Siberia.

“
We are to bring you to Khuldaris.”

Those were the words the Bakma had spoken. The Bakma wanted to take the Nightmen with them. They were willing to release EDEN captives to do it. They wanted to evaluate them, but for what purpose?

Four words orbited Scott’s brain.
Interference. Indication. Allegiance. Judgment.
All of them had been said by the Bakma. But what did they mean? He’d only understood bits and pieces.

Finally, a knock came to the door. Without waiting for an invitation, Svetlana opened the door and stepped inside.

Scott smelled food. When Svetlana approached, he saw a plate in her hands. Cradled against her chest was a jug of ice water. He stared at her strangely.

Even through the dimness, he could see she was smiling. “Good morning, Scott.”

“
What are you doing?” His face hurt when he spoke.

“
I am making good of my word.”

Making good of her word? What word?

She padded across the room to his bed, placing the plate on his nightstand. She pulled up a chair. “Some time ago, I told a young soldier I would cook for him—in payment for the bad thoughts I had.”

It took him a moment to recall, but recall he did. She had promised him in the first conversation they’d had, that night in the lounge months ago, that she’d make him breakfast. It seemed like so long ago.

“
I apologize for not bringing you porridge,” she said with a self-
depreciative grin. “I’ve had quite enough of it for a while.”

Scott had forgotten all about the breakfast. In the midst of his recollections, he actually laughed, but regretted it instantly as the pain seared his face. “You really cooked something?”

She showed him the plate. It was a sandwich—two slices of bread with something in between.

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

“
What do you mean, ‘that is it?’ Do you know what this is?”

He could smell it—an odd mixture of breakfasty things.

“
This is a Russian ham sandwich,” she said.

Before he knew what he was saying, the words were out. “I could make that when I was six.”

She lifted one end of the bread. There was no visible ham; rather, it looked like yellow, chunky paste.

“
What in God’s name is
that
?”

“
It is eggs, ham, butter, and mustard. With pepper and salt. It is blended together.”

“
Ugh.”

She pouted. “Do not just say ‘ugh.’ This is how it is made here. Try it. You will like it. It is something different.”

“
That I can see.”

“
The eggs and ham are very fresh. And you will like Russian mustard.”

“
Do I need the jug of water to wash it down?”

She allowed herself a wry grin. “Very funny. That is
for
the mustard. Russian mustard is very hot—the hottest in the world. Try it, you will see.”

He wasn’t intentionally trying to be rude. It just wasn’t something he’d seen—or smelled—before. “Thanks.” He tried not to sound disgusted.

“
Just trust me, doubter. It will be good.” She set the plate to the side. “Now let me see your face.” Scott turned her way, and she placed her fingers under his chin. “How do you feel?”

“
Tired and sore. It’s hard to explain.”

“
What is hard to explain about being tired and sore?” She wiped her hand on a discarded paper towel. “And sweaty.” Rising, she walked to his sink.