Epic: Book 03 - Hero (5 page)

“
Tell her it is the most important pen in the world.”

“
Yes, I will do so. It will be good to see my wife again. I have not spoken to her since I was here.”

That was another part of EDEN Command’s secrecy. No calls were allowed in or out—not without approval from Kang. With calls, judges could compare time zones with home, whether accidentally or by husband-wife code.

Platis hesitated before turning away. “Before I go, I meant to ask you…have you spoken to Kenner recently? How is he?”

Torokin’s face turned sour. “He is as he has always been. I do not miss him.”

“
The hammer falls heavy on heroes. I, for one, did not blame him.”

Torokin bowed his head cordially, then extended his hand. “It is always a pleasure, general.”

Platis accepted it. “The pleasure is mine.”

With a final nod, the two men parted ways.

General Platis’s earlier words to Torokin were true. It was indeed no surprise that Thoor was against them. EDEN had been blind to it by choice. But now that was going to change, for better or worse.

The long-discussed plan had already been set into motion, as overseen by Judge Archer. Black ops personnel were already in place. They’d filtered into
Novosibirsk
through the guise of base transfers and Academy graduates. Torokin heard there were a dozen agents, but only Kang knew who they were.

That was the covert part of Command’s espionage efforts. The open part was about to begin. Soon Judges Malcolm Blake and Carol June would visit the renegade Russian facility. They would arrive unannounced; it was meant to catch Thoor unaware. That was for the census—the headcount of who in
Novosibirsk
was EDEN and who was Nightman.

The financial audit had begun long ago, courtesy of Judges Rath and Onwuka. In a matter of days, they’d know where Thoor got his goods. Everyone was getting involved.

Torokin had to hand it to Archer. He had indeed brought the judges together. It had taken recognizing the enemy among EDEN’s own to do it.

Little else happened that evening. Torokin found Grinkov chatting with Judge Richard Lena, and the three men retired shortly after. There was no vodka or card game of preferans for them that night—after a long week, rest was deserved. Annual conferences had a way of draining everyone, especially the most important men there. All three of the judges had shaken hands with presidents and prime ministers, and bowed their heads graciously each time. But they knew the truth:
they
were the celebrities to be met. No social camouflage could mask it. They were the judges—the figureheads of Earth. The heroes who defended the human species.

Heroes that desperately needed to sleep.

* * *

Later that night

Archer passed through the security checkpoint into Confinement, and the guards at post offered salutes. He returned the formalities. “Good evening, gentlemen. I trust you’re well?”

“
Yes sir,” answered one of the English-speaking guards. “Are you here to see a prisoner?”

Archer winked amiably. “Interrogations never cease.” Stepping past them, he ventured into Confinement, where a scientist met him.

“
Good evening, Judge Archer. Something I can help you with?”

“
No, thank you. I’ll be conducting my own interrogation tonight.”

“
Very well, sir. We’ve had moderate success with ic-17 lately, at least in getting him to finally warm up. ics 19 and 22 are still giving us problems. I assume you won’t talk to an ib?”

“
Actually, I’ll be speaking to one of our Bakma guests.”

The scientist looked surprised. For a moment, he didn’t answer. “As you wish, but I must warn you. They’ve been nothing but headaches. Outside of hearing things we already know, we haven’t progressed.”

Archer’s response was cordial. “Then there’s a first time for everything.”

“
Very well, sir. I’ll wake up our translator.”

“
There’s no need,” Archer said, resuming his walk. “I’ll handle translations myself, alone and off record.”

“
Yourself, sir?”

“
Gaas
,” he said without looking back. “That’s Bakmanese for yes.”

As the door to the Bakma’s cell slid open, the alien flinched from its sleep. The interior lights abruptly cut on.

The prisoner was frail for a Bakma, but not for a captive. The moment prisoners were placed in their cells, the luxury of physical activity was removed, causing a dramatic loss of muscle. Few prisoners fought to object—it served little purpose without hope of escape.

“
Hello, Nharassel,” Archer said in English, stepping inside. He read the documentation in his hand. “According to this, you are a ‘well-informed supervisor,’ captured seven months ago in South America.”

The scientist watched from outside the cell. Archer turned to him. “I’d like total privacy, please. Unguarded.”

“
Unguarded, Judge Archer? Are you sure?”

“
What’s he going to do, bump me to death? In seven months, he’s lost muscles he never even knew he had. I believe I can manage.”

The scientist stepped away from the entrance. Moments later, the cell door was closed.

Archer’s focus returned to the alien. “Seven months ago. That’s quite some time, isn’t it? You’ve probably forgotten what it’s like to breathe natural air.”

The Bakma stared in a lack of understanding.

“
But what’s truly amazing is that in seven months, you’ve given us nothing.
Nothing
.” Archer was more fascinated than upset. “I find that absolutely astounding. Don’t you?”

He continued. “According to this, we’ve tried taking away your dignity, only to learn that you had none to lose. We’ve tried depriving you of substance, only to discover that it’s what you’re accustomed to.” He leaned closer. “We’ve even tried torture. Sensory deprivation, mock executions, public humiliation. Incessant ringing in your ears. And you’ve given us nothing. Now, isn’t that absolutely mysterious?”

He placed his documentation down. “Everyone thinks you’re loyal to your cause. They have no idea who you are.”

Suddenly, Archer’s language changed. It was no longer English—or human. Archer spoke full Bakmanese. “They don’t understand that you’re waiting for the Khuladi.”

The Bakma’s pupils dilated with awareness.

“
I am your friend, Nharassel,” Archer went on. “I am your friend, but not because I speak your tongue. I am your friend, because I know the truth.”

The alien rose.

“
You want to be rescued. You think that means freedom, but you’re wrong. I can make you truly free. I can give you freedom you’ve never known. I can give you
life
. You will be taken away by the Golathoch. They will hail you as a hero of the galaxy. All you need to do is tell me one thing.”

For the first time, Nharassel spoke. His alien language was distinct and clear. “Who are the Golathoch to you?”

“
They are our means to survive—you and me both,” Archer answered. “But like myself, there are things even they do not know.”

“
What covenant does your species have with them?”

“
My species has no covenant.” He took a step closer. “But I do.”

For several seconds, Nharassel was silent. Then his eyes shrunk to slits. “You corrupt your own blood.”

“
I preserve it.”

The Bakma fell quiet. The arches on its forehead furrowed and it drew in a long, rasping breath. “How do I know you can be trusted?”

“
I gain no advantage from deception,” Archer answered. “The truth is, you have two choices. You find freedom as a hero of the galaxy, or you die as a prisoner of war, loyal to a cause that you hate. The choice to assist is yours alone. If you decline, I will walk into the cell next to yours and offer the next Bakma the very same thing. And when
he
accepts, he will taste a freedom you cannot comprehend.”

The Bakma looked tempted. He studied Archer with a contemplative gaze. When temptation won, the deal was in place. “What information do you require?”

There was no hesitation. There was no moment of triumph, nor offer of a genuine smile. Judge Archer asked the question immediately.

“
How much time do we have?”

The scientist met Archer as soon as the judge left the cell. “Did you have any success?”

Archer shook his head. “No, unfortunately. He was fully uncooperative, as indicated beforehand. I should have listened to you.”

“
My apologies, judge.”

“
It’s not your fault,” Archer said. “You warned me. We’ll keep him around for a bit longer, to satisfy my own bullheadedness. I’d like him transferred to a low-end holding cell. He’s taking up space here we can use.”

“
Yes sir.”

“
Keep up the good work.” Without another word, Archer strode past the guards, straight out of the security checkpoints. There was no need to linger. He’d heard what he’d gone there to hear.

4

Sunday, November 6
^th
, 0011 NE

0455 hours

Novosibirsk, Russia

Scott scarcely slept through the night. He couldn’t remember what time he’d gone to bed, but he remembered every hour since. It was 0102 when he’d rolled over and first stared at his clock. It was 0128 when he rose to wash his face. He got a drink at 0244, and rolled over on his stomach at a quarter past three. When the clock read 0450, he completely gave up.

As he left his bed, he searched for some kind of distraction. He fiddled through his desk drawers. He rewashed his coffee mug. He looked for any type of diversion at all—for any excuse
not
to think about why he couldn’t sleep. But every task ended with a name. Svetlana Voronova.

Even after deciding she didn’t matter, her image forced itself into his mind. What was she thinking? Why was she coming back?

He grabbed his toothbrush and turned on the tap. After rinsing the bristles, he applied toothpaste and furiously brushed. All the while, he stared into the mirror.

She wouldn’t even recognize him. Not because of the grizzled stubble he bore, nor because he’d become more toned since becoming a fulcrum. She wouldn’t recognize the look in his eyes. The last time she saw him, he’d been a decent man.

Did she even know what he was? Did she know what he’d become? How was he supposed to greet her? He recalled the last words she’d spoken.
Don’t let them change you.
He knew he’d failed. He’d become what she’d warned him against: another soul lost to The Machine.

It was 0506 when he finished brushing and washing. It felt as if two hours had passed. It was barely ten minutes. “This is crazy.”

He knew how he had to act. Like a professional. Like a commanding officer. Like the man assigned to bring her inside. That was the only option he had.

By 0515, he had already donned his black jumpsuit; the crimson triangle shone over his heart. He fought with his hair to little avail. Moments later, he stepped out the door.

The hallways were always cold, regardless of the heating vents in the walls. They never seemed to warm well enough. For the first time in a while, the chill bothered him.

Why would anyone come back to this place?

For the life of him, he couldn’t find an answer. He knew why
he
couldn’t leave. This place had created him. As cold and as miserable as it was, it was his own. Where else could he go? Back home? He rarely spoke to his brother anymore. Who would he see? Who would want to see him?

That was the difference between Svetlana and him. She had escaped. She had a home to return to. She had people who loved her. For her to return to
Novosibirsk
made no sense.

Outside it was dark and the ground was covered in the night’s snowfall. Even on the sidewalks, a crunch followed each of his steps.

He wasn’t sure what to do with his time until 0615, when the Fourteenth would abandon their room for their morning workout. It was still an hour away. He wouldn’t go to Room 14 until they were gone. He didn’t want to see them, and he was sure they didn’t want to see him either.

The frigidity bit at his teeth. He’d grown used to chapped lips and dry skin; it didn’t bother him as much as it used to. But the initial bite was always hard.

His early departure from his room afforded him time to grab breakfast. At least it was something to do. The cafeteria was still empty when he walked in. The morning crowd usually came at six o’clock. That was about when the Fourteenth would arrive, too. He would stay in the cafeteria until 0600, then he’d work his way around the back of the barracks. He could avoid passing them in the hallways that way. He could slip into Room 14 from behind. Once he was there, he could wait until 0650. He’d be at the hangar for seven o’clock.

He sat down at an empty table and began to eat. He wondered if Clarke had set him up. He wondered how long the captain had known Svetlana was coming back. He wondered if the unit knew, too. Dostoevsky had known. The Nightmen knew. Or at least, they knew a medic was coming. He wasn’t sure if they knew it was her. But that didn’t matter—Dostoevsky was the only Nightman who knew who she was anyway.