Epic: Book 03 - Hero (68 page)

Judge Blake rose and ordered, “Everyone else is dismissed.”

Torokin stood and pushed his chair in. Grinkov also prepared to leave—he placed an encouraging hand on Torokin’s shoulder in a way only a comrade would understand.

Torokin had no idea how Pauling and Blake would decide to proceed, now that the world knew that the Bakma and Ceratopians weren’t friends. He hoped their solution would be agreeable to everyone. Only tomorrow would tell.

He sought out Archer, frowning when he saw the judge making his way out of the conference room alone. The chastisement Archer had received from the president had been scathing. In Pauling’s own words, Archer “couldn’t have handled it worse.” Archer’s defense had been that he didn’t want Thoor handling such a sensitive situation—a defense that several judges seemed to share, though no one spoke up on Archer’s behalf.

Torokin understood the British judge’s rationale. Would he have approached it differently himself? Perhaps—he wasn’t sure. But regardless of his own feelings, he knew Archer had gone into it with the best intentions. Torokin actually felt sorry for him. Hurrying his pace, he caught up before Archer could leave.

“
Benjamin.”

Archer waited outside the conference room until Torokin caught up, then the two resumed walking.

“
Do not let what happened discourage you,” Torokin said. “You did what you thought was right at the time.”

“
I made a mistake. I handled it awfully. There’s nothing more I can say.”

“
I know why you did what you did. I have done things like that, too.”

Archer tried to smile but failed. “You live and you learn. It’s a lesson learned the hard way—that’s how I see it.”

The British judge had a good attitude—better than Torokin’s would have been.

Archer changed the subject. “I’ll be talking to Ceratopian No. 12 later this evening, if you’d care to come along.”

Torokin had been meaning to talk to him about that. After careful deliberation, he’d come to the conclusion that as excited as he had been to assist Archer in interrogations, it wasn’t for him. He didn’t have the patience for it. “I think I am more of a hindrance than a help. Answers do not come quickly, and…it frustrates me. I trust you to do it alone.”

At those words, Archer smiled. “You trust me?”

It took Torokin a second to realize what his fellow judge was saying. That had been his issue with the Briton since the beginning—trusting the man who’d replaced the dead Judge Darryl Kentwood. He’d just told Archer he trusted him without even realizing it.

“
I suppose that I do,” Torokin confessed. Why it took Archer being corrected in public to warm Torokin up to him was beyond his reasoning. Perhaps it made them seem like kindred spirits.

“
I appreciate it, Leonid. Very much.”

“
You need not mention it.”

It had been one of the more tumultuous months that Torokin could recall—from
Novosibirsk
to the invasion of Europe, and now this. The last thing he’d expected was that Archer would turn out to be a bright spot.

Archer offered Torokin his hand. “I hate to cut you off short, but I’ve got some work to do. I apologize if I’m coming across rudely.”

“
You do not need to mention that, either.” Torokin could give lessons on rudeness. “I do not take it personally.”

“
I’ll see you in the meeting tomorrow.”

“
Good enough.”

There was nothing else on Torokin’s agenda for the rest of the day. He was sure something would come across his desk eventually—something always did. But at least he could pretend he was a free man.

Ever since his spat with Pauling, he’d felt the itch to unretire from Vector Squad and return to active duty. That tended to happen any time there was tension in the Council. In the end, the itch would subside—it always did. He’d call Klaus, they’d reminisce on glories past, and he’d come to the conclusion that his hanging up his assault rifle was for the best. Of course, Klaus would have taken him back in a second—he’d told Torokin that many times. But what was done was done. He was a judge for the right motives. One day, he’d make the difference he wanted.

With no other issues to steal his attention, Torokin went his own way.

* * *

Shortly after

Archer leaned back in the leather chair in his room. On his cherry-stained desk, his audio recorder sat in place. He thought patiently before speaking aloud.

“
H`laar has been killed.”

He fell silent after just those four words, his eyes distancing into the conch shells on his wall. Twenty seconds passed before he resumed.

“
We will have difficulties if you do not get here soon. The Bakma are getting more bold by the week…as I’m sure you now know. The Khuladi will soon have what they wish.

“
We are still several months from control. Everything will be in place…but do not underestimate what ‘we’ in EDEN can do. We may be just strong enough to seal our own fate.”

He stopped and pressed his lips together, as if they were on the verge of saying something profound. But nothing came out. He rubbed his chin with his hand while his other hand hovered over the
stop
button. He succumbed to a sigh.

“
Benjamin Archer, ending transmission.”

He stopped the recorder and removed the disk from its drive. Reaching for his comm, he said, “Archer to Intelligence. I have a priority message to be delivered to Kang. Send a courier to my room at once—five minutes, no less.”

“
As you wish, judge.”

Pivoting around slowly in his chair, Archer looked at the clock. Five minutes. That was always the time he gave; he was always upset when it took longer. But today, if it took a minute or so more, maybe he wouldn’t complain. Maybe he’d simply smile. The day had already gone well.

He didn’t want to spoil his good mood.

41

Saturday, November 26
^th
, 0011 NE

0454 hours

Novosibirsk, Russia

Early next morning

Scott’s eyes opened before his alarm clock went off. As the ethereal realm of dreams melted into the colors of reality, he drew a deep breath. He could sense every rib expand then contract. He could feel the air in his lungs. His body hurt. Pain pulsed in his arms and legs; his battered face still throbbed. But something else overwhelmed all the pains of soldiery. He didn’t notice it right away—not until after a full minute had passed. When it finally occurred to him, he sat upright.

He hadn’t woken up tired.

Pressing his hands gently against the bed, he surveyed his room. It was dark. There were no sounds coming from the hall.
Novosibirsk
was asleep. Reaching to his nightstand, he deactivated his alarm before it could sound.

Nicole’s picture was next to his clock; she was still facing the wall. He’d turned her there the day before and hadn’t turned her back. He’d slept the whole night without her smile on him. Rising from his bed, he turned the photo until it faced him again.

He ran a hand over his face. His cheekbone felt numb where cold gel had dried overnight. The gel was doing its job well, despite the swollenness that remained; he’d have a black eye for a couple more weeks. As for the burns—they already looked better.

The aftermath of the mission had been one of the most surreal experiences of Scott’s life. He’d spent the entire flight home sitting next to Dostoevsky. The Russian fulcrum didn’t stop crying once; they were the happiest sobs Scott ever heard. He couldn’t even remember ever being that jovial about anything himself.

Everything about the rescue went beyond words. The fact that it’d even happened was hard enough to believe. He gave his teammates more credit than himself for its ultimate success. Even through odds and injuries, they’d persevered. His mind ran through the long list of wounded.

Travis was being treated for second-degree burns, among other scars. He’d miss a week or two. As for William, after several visits to the infirmary, he had been cleared of any internal injuries. He’d escaped only with a significant bruise. Though Auric’s wounds looked the worst by far, they were mostly cosmetic in nature. His helmet had saved his life—and his career. His right ear, while half missing, still functioned. Between Dostoevsky’s fractured ribs and Derrick’s reinjured leg, almost everyone had some kind of impairment.

But the worst wounds belonged to the
Pariah
, in spite of the fact that it’d returned. Its engines were torched beyond reliability. Its hull was dented and ripped. The feral dog on its tail wing was nothing but char.

Nonetheless, numerous components still worked. The skeleton of the troop bay was intact. The communication system still functioned. Even the controls and navigational circuits could be salvaged. It had fought its most perilous fight, and despite its battle-torn body, it had survived. It was scheduled to be flown to
Atlanta
—for a complete overhaul.

That was a miraculous sign by itself.

The same positive words could not be said for the two rescued squads. The Fifty-first and Forty-second were in ruin. Before Captain Tkachenok had taken ten steps out of his transport, he’d been informed by sentries that he was stripped of command. His unit would be split apart and dispersed. The Fifty-first would be Nightman alone.

No such bad news awaited the captain of the Forty-second, but for a totally different reason: he was dead. Only seven operatives from that unit had survived. Like Tkachenok’s squad, the Forty-second’s survivors would be dispersed with other units.

Tanneken Brunner received no ill-treatment upon her return to
Novosibirsk
, much to Scott’s pleasant surprise. Gabriel received a lecture and no more. Custer was allowed to seek medical attention in the infirmary for his shoulder wound, after which he and everyone from Pelican Squad—recovering or not—would be forced to leave. They would return to
Sydney
again.

The only person whose fate Scott didn’t know was Colonel Saretok’s. But that suited Scott just fine.

The battle had presented him with many things, from gold-horned armor to strange Ceratopian words. But those things paled in comparison to what mattered most. It had given him his soul back—at least, what little of it remained. A little was better than nothing at all.

Scott was in the middle of brushing his teeth when he heard a sound from outside his door. He turned to see a single white envelope sliding in at the base.

When do I ever get mail?

No one would have written him. His brother Mark would never have sent him a letter. Nor would anyone else outside The Machine. He spit out his toothpaste and rinsed, then walked toward his door to retrieve it.

It was from NovCom, and he immediately realized what it was: his request for Jayden to remain at the base. A knot formed deep in his stomach. Taking the envelope to his desk, he sat down and ripped the top open. He unfolded the letter and read.

The beginning was a stock paragraph dedicated to stating the real contents of the letter. He skipped to the very last paragraph, stopping only at the three words that actually mattered.

…
should not return…

The knot in his stomach unraveled, leaving an ache that lingered. He didn’t want to read any more of the letter—he wanted to throw it straight in the trash. But he looked at the paper again, forcing himself to read the whole sentence.

Due to the extent of the injury sustained, at the recommendation of Novosibirsk’s medical staff, it has been decided that Jayden P. Timmons should not return to active duty.

Scott didn’t read any further. Crumpling the paper into a ball, he hurled it against the door. It stopped rolling next to the wall.

Why Jayden?
He posed the question to God.
Of all the people to punish, why is it him?

He hated even the thought of breaking the news—of walking into Jayden’s room, looking him in the one eye he had left, and telling him his journey was through. Scott didn’t care if there was legitimacy behind the decision. He knew that Jayden wanted to stay to prove himself; the Texan had no further motive or wish.

Scott looked at the paper again. He wanted to pick it up and hurl it down a second time for good measure, but that wouldn’t change what it said.

He had planned to wake up and run a morning session, with the intention of starting the day off with something good, but the bad news about Jayden made that impossible. He looked at his fulcrum armor in his closet, cleaned from the battle. Even in low light, the golden horns shone. The new feature was the Fourteenth’s reward to him for turning himself around—for giving redemption a try. Where was Jayden’s reward for always being the dedicated sniper that he was?

Crumpled in a ball on the floor.

The walk to the infirmary was one of the worst Scott had endured. With every step, he was closer to crushing Jayden’s heart. He hadn’t bothered to take the letter with him. He didn’t want the Texan to see it; he just wanted to get things over with. He’d never be able to concentrate on morning session with the dread of breaking bad news on his mind.

Of all the Fourteenth’s operatives, none had earned Scott’s trust like Jayden—not even Svetlana. The Texan was the most reliable person he’d ever worked with. So far as Scott could remember, Krasnoyarsk was the sniper’s only error. He’d never failed to locate an enemy before. That that one time had cost him his career was cruel.