Epic: Book 03 - Hero (52 page)

The room fell deathly quiet. It was as if a hammer of judgment had been hurled tactlessly down.

His focus turned to Nicolai—one of his own. “Nicolai, hear this and hear it well. You will not make perverse comments about your teammates. You will not threaten innocent citizens. The next time either happens, it will be the last.”

“
Da, commander.”

Scott took in their expressions—their surprise and their hurt. Their uncomfortable stares of apprehension. His next words were damning and low.

“
Scott Remington,” he said aloud. The operatives who’d lowered their heads lifted them again. “You need to stop acting like a child. You need to stop feeding your sense of self-pity. You need to stop your grudging anger and resentment. You need to be the officer you should have been for the past three months.” He paused for a moment. “And if you don’t, whatever mutiny you receive will be well-deserved.”

Scott knew how effective that last part would be. He would have never been able to lay down such criticism of the others had he not chosen to add in his own. At least, that was the gamble he took.

“
None of us are above improvement. Especially not me. Let’s improve together. Let’s be what we should have been all along.”

That was it. That was the whole of his speech. He had to show them that he was sincere while showing them that he was still capable of being a respectable leader. Now it was their turn. Without another word, he relinquished his command of the floor—to give them a chance to speak.

Outside the lounge, Dostoevsky’s expression remained stoic. Until he overheard the next question.

“
Are you and I the only officers left?” Max asked.

For a moment, Scott didn’t answer. He knew the issue was unavoidable. Where did Dostoevsky stand? Was he still a part of the unit at all? Scott didn’t know. “Until we hear otherwise, Dostoevsky’s still the captain of this squad. I know a lot of people here are holding a grudge, maybe none more so than me. But if I can look past what he’s done, and give him that respect, so can anyone else here. For the sake of us all, I’m letting it go.” The words stung him at first, as if he was giving up an addictive habit. Perhaps he was.

Max’s response was less gracious. “I sent him a message about the meeting. I know he knew about it. As far as I’m concerned, this room is it.”

Auric, the German Nightman, said firmly, “You are the one we will follow, commander. I believe I speak for us all.” The other Nightmen quietly affirmed.

Several seconds later, Scott heard a click come from the bunk room—the sound of the bunk room door opening and shutting in a way not meant to be heard. Glancing into the room, he saw that no one was there. But someone evidently had been moments before. He frowned when he realized who it must have been.

Yuri…did you just hear that?
It had to have been the captain. Oleg wouldn’t have dared to show his face. He turned his attention back to the room, forcing thoughts of Dostoevsky out of his mind.

His operatives sat expectantly, but Scott simply concluded, “So let’s get to work.”

Though he stepped away from the front of the room, the unit remained silent. Finally, the first glints of subdued conversation emerged.

Max approached Scott immediately. Though the technician spoke louder than most in the room, his voice was nonetheless low. “That was good, man.”

Scott regarded him with genuine concern. The affirmation made him feel good, as if the short speech had been worth it. “I think Dostoevsky was in the other room.”

“
I hope he heard every word.” The chatter around them began to reach normal levels. “How you feelin’?”

“
All right. Looks worse than it hurts. I’ll be ready again in a few days, so says Svetlana.”

“
She cares about you, man.”

Coming from Max, it startled him. “She cares about you, too,” he said, knowing it sounded hollow. Svetlana had never told him one way or the other how she felt about Max. He just didn’t know any other way to respond.

“
Just between you and me…it’d do you good to get over Nicole.”

Scott stared bluntly at the technician.

“
Don’t take that the wrong way.”

He didn’t take it the wrong way. He knew Max wasn’t being deliberately offensive, he just wasn’t sure he was ready to hear it.

“
I’m headin’ back to the hangar. Givin’ the ship a tune-up. Again.”

Scott was still stuck on Max’s previous statement, but he forced himself to move on. “That dog still in the ship?”

“
You mean Flopper? Yeah.”

Flopper. Scott couldn’t think of a less-intimidating name for a dog. “Toss him a few pillows in the corner of the bunk room. Let him stay here.”

“
You kiddin’ me? I thought we were takin’ him to the pound.”

“
Could you
really
take that dog to the pound?”

For several seconds, Max said nothing. Finally, he sighed, putting his hands on his hips. “No, hell. You know how it is.”

Scott knew the sentiment all too well. He’d had dogs, too. “Just housebreak it good. Don’t feed it scraps—that’ll make it worse.”

“
As if any living creature could enjoy the junk they serve here, scraps or not,” Max said, laughing and stepping back. “Thanks, man. I’ll get it set up.”

“
Do it right.” Scott watched as Max left the room, then he surveyed the other operatives. They were all going about their own business, which was probably the best thing that could have happened. For the first time in months, there was no tension in the room. His awkward speech appeared to have struck a chord with the other members of the unit. He’d made it right as best as he could, just as Jayden had suggested.

Suddenly he recalled the message Jayden had wanted him to pass on. “Varya,” he said, calling her over quietly. The medic turned to face him.

“
Jayden said he loves you.”

The look she gave Scott was not the one he’d expected. She didn’t smile, nor did she look happy. Her face turned pale. She must have realized how she looked, for in the next second, she faked a grin. It came out looking horrible. “I love him, too.” She took a step back and walked away.

It was impossible for the question not to surface in Scott’s head.
What was that about?

Scott didn’t stay in Room 14 long, nor did many of the others. Ultimately, only Becan, Esther, William, and Derrick remained behind. “Together” wouldn’t happen overnight, but that was something Scott was prepared for. He was now confident that it would come in due time.

As for him, though, he had other business to tend to. He had a reinstatement request to write for a friend. He knew the reality of his chances; they didn’t look good. But he didn’t care.

Some risks were worth the gain.

* * *

Dostoevsky’s room was like a tomb; only a dim light illuminated the corner. The faint amber glow was just enough to allow the fulcrum captain to see.

He sat still on the edge of his bed in just shorts and an undershirt. Taut, deadly muscles covered his body, yet there was nothing threatening about him at all. He was leaning forward, his elbows bent on his knees and his head lowered. He stared obsessively at his open palms.

He turned his left hand over and stared at one finger in particular. The ring was there—so beautifully innocent, yet so silently terrible. Were it not for the hair-thin sliver that stuck up from its frame, it would have looked like a wedding ring.

No one had knocked on his door or hailed him through his comm since he’d left Room 14. No one had cared, as no one should’ve. He was alone.

He lifted his head to look across the room. His eyes closed with a determining wince. Then he moved his hand. It drifted to the side of his neck. The ring and its needle—the tool of the Silent Fever—hovered over his skin.

His breathing grew deeper as he held his hand in place, mere millimeters from inflicting the ring’s wrath. His mouth hung open as he inhaled and exhaled, his palm wavering but never pressing forward. For a full minute he was unable to move.

Finally he collapsed, his palm falling as he lowered his head. Pulling the ring off with his free hand, he threw the small object across the room. It rattled as it bounced on the floor. He covered his face.

No one had knocked on his door or hailed him through his comm since he’d left Room 14. No one had cared, as no one should’ve. But contrary to what he’d previously believed, he wasn’t alone.

Something else was in the room with him. Something was keeping him alive. It had stopped his hand from moving, as it had told him to go to Room 14 shortly before. It tore him apart, but wouldn’t let him die.

It gripped him like fear.

32

Saturday, November 19
^th
, 0011 NE

1915 hours

Novosibirsk, Russia

That evening

The day passed for Scott with an optimistic sense of renewal. As evening approached the world of
Novosibirsk
, he felt anything but ready to turn in. He felt refreshed—as if he’d just awakened from a well-deserved sleep.

After speaking to the unit in Room 14, Scott had looked through the Fourteenth’s roster as if he was in command, poring over each operative’s history, trying to find new ways to use them. Though he opted not to eat with the unit’s members, he did pass them several times in the halls. For the first time in months, he was met with looks of approval and respect. He offered both courtesies back. It was the first good day he could recall in a very long time. But it wasn’t over yet.

For the past several days, he’d put off visiting Petrov in Confinement. He knew what the scientist wanted—to drill Scott on his telepathic connection with the aliens. In spite of Petrov’s curiosity, Scott had decided not to tell the scientist anything—his trust in the man had greatly diminished. And Petrov wasn’t the real reason Scott needed to make the trip, anyway. It had been five days since Tauthin had been saved from execution. That was as long as Scott could go without news.

As soon as Scott entered, Petrov hurried across the room to meet him. “It is good to see you, friend! I was wondering when you would come.”

Scott noticed the addition of two new captives right away—the two Bakma he’d captured during the rescue of Pelican Squad, the ones Esther had stopped him from killing in the engine room. He spared them a brief look before looking at Tauthin’s cell. “How is he?” The moment he saw the alien, he had his answer.

Tauthin was sitting on the edge of his cot, his wire-thin arms dangling over his knees. His head was down, but he was not unconscious. On the contrary, he looked well—and bored. The moment he saw Scott, the alien looked up, its bulging eyes widening. It was no longer attached to feeding tubes or medical instruments. The alien was garbed in what looked like peasant’s rags—plain, brown cloth that hung loosely. It didn’t look Bakmanese, but rather like a sack
Novosibirsk
had provided.

From behind Scott, Petrov said, “He had his first taste of calunod yesterday. His recovery has gone very well.”

That the scientist sounded pleased disgusted Scott.
He’d be dead now if you’d had your way, you hypocrite.
“Let me in the cell.”

“
Wonderful! We can attempt to communicate with him again. Perhaps this new turn of events will make him more susceptible to interrogation.”

“
I want to go in alone. Open the door and let me in.”

After a moment of hesitation, the scientist agreed. “As you wish.” There was disdain and disappointment in his voice, but Scott didn’t care. “Would you like an Ithini to connect you?”

“
No. I don’t want to connect.” If he never connected again, that would be fine. “I’ll teach him to talk.” He wondered if Tauthin had ever been taught English or Russian while he was in the Walls of Mourning. Somehow he doubted it.

As soon as the cell door slid open, Tauthin rose to his feet. Despite the frailty of his body, he seemed able to move without hindrance.

Scott stepped inside and looked back. “Close the cell.”

Petrov reluctantly complied.

It felt odd not to be afraid. As Scott stared at the Bakma, he was struck with how drastically different the alien looked now—how far removed it was from its once powerful stature. Tauthin had almost killed him in the turret tower during the
Assault on Novosibirsk
. It could be argued that Scott had survived by pure luck.

Scott was unfamiliar with Bakmanese emotions. He had no idea how to recognize a smile, a scowl, or even confusion. For all he knew, their expressions meant the opposite of human’s. But something looked familiar. The Bakma’s eyes were fixated on Scott’s face, seeming to take it in from every angle. Then Scott remembered: his face was swollen. He had a black eye.

It looked like Tauthin was actually smirking.

Scott did the only thing he knew how to do—the only way he knew how to greet someone. He extended his hand.

The alien stared at Scott’s outstretched palm. His opaque eyes watched the human’s fingers intently, then looked up to catch Scott’s expression.

Scott felt the urge to explain. “Your hand, in my hand.” He motioned with a nod to Tauthin’s arm. The alien did nothing.