Epic: Book 03 - Hero (56 page)

This was not right.

Before long, the
Pariah
reached the crash site. The transport decelerated as its descent began. Once again, Travis’s emotionless voice came over the speakers. “Coming down.” The Nightmen collected near the rear door.

Snow crunched softly as the
Pariah
landed. The rear bay door lowered.

Customarily, this was when ground leaders offered a final word. But no such word came from Saretok. He stood in silence by the door, his E-35 in his hands.

“
Pilot, engage.”

The
Pariah
‘s nose-mounted cannon erupted. Bullets clanged and sparked against the Noboat’s antechamber door.

Saretok burst from the ship with Scott and the other Nightmen fast in his wake, taking an angled route toward the vessel to avoid Travis’s shots. The cannon fire was deafening. The heat it produced was in shocking contrast to the frigid air. Bullets peppered the Noboat, tearing a gaping new hole in its closed outer door.

“
Hold fire!” Saretok ordered through the comm. He looked at Egor. “Fire your hand cannon.”

Egor aimed the weapon forward, sending a projectile explosive toward the alien ship. It detonated, and the antechamber burst into flames.

There was little resistance en route to the door. Within moments, all six armored men were ready to enter. The assault began. Saretok, Dostoevsky, Auric, and Egor moved through the antechamber to the aft hallway. Viktor remained behind, as Scott and Nicolai dashed to the bridge.

Even in battle, Scott was critiquing Saretok’s command.
Esther could have come in through the Noboat’s top entrance, as she did in the forest. She could have supplemented Saretok’s team. Svetlana and Varvara could be here preparing to treat wounded Bakma.
Without even realizing it, Scott had gunned down several Bakma. Nicolai had killed some as well. They were knee-deep in a firefight around the corner of the bridge doorway.

Noboat bridges were not large—roughly the size of a Vulture’s troop bay but octagonal. There were six workstations: one for the captain, pilot, navigator, chief engineer, weapons specialist, and a communications officer. At least those were the human equivalents. The ceiling was lower in the bridge, and almost every station was built into the wall.

The crash had been mild, but the room was still damaged extensively. There were four Bakma in the bridge, holding their own against Scott and Nicolai. Scott could hear the battle on Saretok’s end.

Darting around the corner, Scott fired a round. One of the Bakma was shot in the shoulder. It dropped its weapon and crashed to the floor.

Nicolai executed a similar attack and a second alien was incapacitated.

Make them surrender.
Take them alive and save our medics the trouble.
“Grrashna!”
Scott yelled from the corner. He knew his Bakmanese was incorrect—technically, he was telling the Bakma
he
was surrendering. But he knew they’d know what he meant. Popping around the corner again, Scott unleashed another burst of gunfire. Intended to be a warning, his bullets tattered violently against the bridge walls.

There was a brief volley of return fire and then the defense effort lulled. An alien shouted from the bridge.
“Grrashna!”

Scott didn’t hesitate. He rushed the bridge, his assault rifle forward.

Two unscathed Bakma threw down their weapons and held their hands in the air. Six more in total were sprawled across the room—two injured and four dead.

The Bakma survivors stared at Scott. It struck him just how different he must have looked with his golden spiked collar. The Bakma probably thought it was some kind of a rank.

This collar…is this why Sveta and Max crafted it, so I could charge into battle and leave them behind? Was this what they envisioned would happen?

Gunfire subsided far behind him; an eerie quiet arose. Saretok’s voice crackled over the comm. “Aft section secured.”

“
Bridge secured,” Scott answered. He looked at the Bakma. “Come on. Out.” Gathering their wounded comrades, the aliens complied.

Back in the
Pariah
, the other half of the Fourteenth was sitting in wait. Little had been spoken since the assault began.

Travis had his feet propped on the control panel dashboard as his hand pressed idly against his cheek. He had the Fourteenth’s comm chatter routed through the
Pariah
‘s speakers so that everyone in the unit could hear.

Saretok’s voice came over the comm. “Ryvkin, we have three wounded.” His words were in Russian. “Hurry and stabilize them.”

Viktor complied.

“
Sveta, Varya, come help with the wounded,” Scott said through the channel.

Svetlana lit up when she heard his voice. Both medics rose to their feet.

“
Negative, Remington,” Saretok said. “Ryvkin does not need assistance. Prepare the hostages for transfer to the Vulture.”

Frustrated, Svetlana and Varya returned to their seats.

The speakers were cut off. “That’s all I can take,” Travis said from the cockpit. The frequency squeaked and twisted, settling on something altogether different—on Russian voices none of them recognized.

“
Fall back, Teterin. We’re stuck at the corner.”

“
One down—where is the technician?”

“
Falling back, captain.”

Travis looked back from the cockpit. “That’s from the Fifty-first at the Ceratopian site. Might as well listen in—it’s not like we’re doing anything else.” He adjusted the volume to background level.

Max tossed down his helmet.

“
Do not get upset. This will pass,” Svetlana said.

“
Hope is a carrot,” answered Max. “We’re the horse.”

William looked at him strangely. “What?”

“
It’s a metaphor.”

“
What’s a metaphor?”

“
What I just said.”

“
A carrot is a
metaphor
? Is that like a
petit four
?”

Max stared at the demolitionist. “If you’re serious, I’m killing myself.”

“
Noboats! Noboats!”
The comm chatter erupted.

Every operative jumped.

“
Fall back! Noboats engaging! Pavel, lift off!”
There was a burst of static, followed by screaming.

“
Is tha’ from the Fifty-first?” Becan asked, hurriedly sitting upright.

Travis turned up the volume, as unintelligible statements blared over the speakers.

The operatives swapped frantic looks. “What the hell are they saying?” Max asked Svetlana.

She translated the words. “They’re saying, ‘Vindicators down!’ And now, ‘Forty-two down!’—they keep repeating, ‘Forty-two down!’”

Max and David said it simultaneously. “The Forty-second’s Vultures.” Max leapt on the comm. “Scott, get in here now.”

Travis furiously worked the communication lines. “
Pariah
to Fifty-one!
Pariah
to Fifty-one!” He looked at Boris, who was already contacting
Novosibirsk
. “There were four Vultures between those two units, Boris. I’ve lost all four signatures.”

“
Novosibirsk
, this is the
Pariah
,” Boris said. “We are hearing chatter from the Fifty-first and Forty-second.”

“
Pariah
to the Fifty-first,
Pariah
to the Fifty-first, is anyone receiving this?”

A disjointed reply crackled through. “
Pariah
…from the air, by Couriers…Battleship! We’re…”

“
What the hell does that mean?” Max rushed to the cockpit door. The operatives behind him prepped their weapons.

Travis shook his head. “Fifty-first, I did
not
receive your full transmission. Please transmit again.”

This time, the answer was clear. “This is Captain Tkachenok! Bakma Noboats are engaging us
and
the Ceratopian vessels! Our Vultures have been destroyed. We are trapped inside the Battleship!”

“
What about the Forty-second?”

“
Forty-second is destroyed!”

Max stormed into the troop bay just as Scott appeared from outside. “Get ready to lift!”

Scott ran up the ramp and tore off his helmet. “What’s going on?”

“
Noboats are attacking the other units. They took out the Fifty-first and Forty-second’s Vultures—they’ve got operatives trapped on the ground.”

That was all Scott needed to hear. “Gear up and get ready!” he ordered, clamping his helmet back on. “William, go armor-piercing.”

“
Aye aye!”

The next voice they heard was neither frantic or eager, but as collected as anyone could have been. “We are returning to The Machine with the Bakma prisoners.” Saretok calmly walked up the ramp. “Pilot, set in a course for
Novosibirsk
.”

Travis stared blankly.

Scott lowered his rifle. “Colonel, the Fifty-first and Forty-second are under—”

“
I know of the Fifty-first and Forty-second. I have already been advised by
Novosibirsk
. There will be no rescue attempt by us or anyone else. Those units are not our concern.”

“
Not our concern?”
Max gaped.

Dostoevsky and the slayers appeared at the bottom of the ramp. Bound Bakma captives were clustered behind them.

“
We have captured extremely important prisoners,” Saretok said. “We must return them to
Novosibirsk
at once.”

Max stared past Saretok to Dostoevsky. “Yuri, we’ve gotta go after ‘em!”

Dostoevsky removed his helmet, revealing a look of total helplessness. “Colonel, perhaps we can leave someone to stay with the Bakma while we—”

“
Shut up, Dostoevsky. We are returning to The Machine.”

Scott couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Over the loudspeaker, the battle continued.

“
Ozerov down!”

“
Come back to the corner!”

“
Captain, we cannot!”

The next words, though Russian, were universally understood. Captain Tkachenok was calling for help.

“
Novosibirsk
!
Novosibirsk
! If you are receiving this, please answer!”

No answer came.

“
NovCom’s ignoring them,” Esther said quietly.

Scott lowered his head in mounting frustration.

“
Yuri, take back your unit!” Max shouted. “This isn’t right!”

Dostoevsky’s mouth hung down in stupor.

“
How can you let this happen? You’re the captain of this unit, not Saretok! How can you stand there like a coward and do
nothing
?”

Saretok glared at Max. “You have spoken enough.”

“
You ain’t
half
the man Clarke was,” Max spat at Dostoevsky. “Clarke wouldn’t care
what
this guy said!”

Behind Dostoevsky, the slayers exchanged anxious glances. Dostoevsky tried desperately to speak. “Max, there is nothing I can do—”

“
You can do
something
!”

“
Enough!”
Saretok bellowed, his voice shaking the walls. He looked at Dostoevsky at the bottom of the ramp. “You are pathetic. You command
nothing
here. You are a disgrace.”

For the briefest of moments Dostoevsky’s eyes shimmered.

They’re all going to die
, thought Scott. He had no idea who was in the Fifty-first or the Forty-second. He didn’t know any of their names. All he knew was that they were in the middle of a battle between two alien species, with no way to escape. Regardless of who won, they would lose.

From the corner of his eyes, he could see his golden collar—his horns. It had been so long since he’d done anything close to heroic that he almost couldn’t recall how it felt. He looked at the expressions of his teammates—Max’s anger, Travis’s terror, David’s disbelief. He saw the pain in them all.
Enough is enough.
He turned to Travis. “Set a course for the Ceratopian crash site.”

At Scott’s defiance, Saretok took off his helmet. “Remington, this unit is
yours
.” He pointed at Dostoevsky. “His time is finished. Do not make this mistake and sacrifice it all. They are not worth it.”

Scott faced him dead on. “
Who
is not worth it? What exactly do you mean?”

“
Do you think you are saving anything by going to their rescue? Give those units another mission and they will still die. You are delaying the inevitable at the risk of your future.”

“
I saw Nightmen with those units before we left,” Scott answered. “I saw them with the Fifty-first and Forty-second. Not many, but they were there.”

“
Some Nightmen are not worth saving.”

Dostoevsky stared at the debate. Not once did he move.

“
You have favor with us,” Saretok said. “I speak to you as one fulcrum to another. You have a chance to be relevant.” The colonel sighed. “I am urging you to make the smart choice. I do not wish to force you. You are young to have accomplished so much—do not lose it all here.”