Epic: Book 03 - Hero (69 page)

The infirmary was warm when Scott entered. It was bustling with more activity than outside or in the officers’ wing. He walked past the receptionist’s desk and down the hall.

Undoubtedly Jayden was capable of recovery. Would it be difficult? Yes. Would being restricted to one eye be a hindrance in the field? Yes. But Scott would take a hindered Jayden over any other fully functional sniper any day. Before he knew it, he was standing outside Jayden’s door. He poked his head into the room. The Texan was asleep.

How in the world am I supposed to do this?
There was no delicate way to deliver the news, no gentle way to wake up the Texan, stand next to his bed, and say, “Sorry, they don’t believe you can do it.” But who were they to say what he could or couldn’t do?

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right to rip away Jayden’s sole desire without giving him a chance to prove the odds wrong. None of them knew Jayden’s heart. None of them knew Jayden at all.

Scott turned away from the door and stormed up the hall. They didn’t know Jayden, but that no longer mattered. They were about to know someone else.

It took Scott all of one minute to find the right door. He knocked calmly, and a small-framed, balding man opened it from inside. He was wearing a doctor’s lab coat.

Scott spoke in Russian. “Are you the doctor responsible for Timmons?”

The man looked at Scott’s name badge and appeared to recognize his last name. He looked startled. “Commander Remington, good morning. Yes, I oversee Timmons. How can I help you?”

“
Is it all right if I come in?” Scott said as pleasantly as he could, offering a smile.

The cordiality was acknowledged in kind. “Of course. Please, come in.” Stepping aside, he let Scott inside and closed the door. “Have a seat.”

Scott didn’t want to have a seat. “A week ago, I put in a reinstatement request for him. I got the refusal back this morning. Was that your decision?”

The doctor hesitated. “Yes, I made that decision. There were too many potential risks to allow him to stay. I couldn’t grant the request in good conscience—I am sorry.”

“
I understand.” Scott strolled to the other side of the man’s office. He stared at family photographs on his desk. “Am I correct in assuming your approval is all he needs to remain?”

“
That is correct.”

Scott remained facing away. “I’d like you to reconsider your assessment.”

The doctor’s chuckle was well-intentioned. “I understand why you’re here. I know comrades become very close. You care for your friend, and he wants to stay. I wish it were that simple.”

“
What if it is?”

“
Life is never that simple, commander. Many difficult decisions must be made. I make them every day.”

Scott lifted his head. Still facing the desk, his back to the doctor, he stared at the wall. “So do I.” He turned his head just enough to allow the doctor to see part of his face. He meant it that way. “Before today, did you know who I was?”

“
Oh yes, I know of you well.” The doctor smiled. “I have treated many of your fellow Nightmen—the ones that you train. You are quite a dangerous man!”

“
Think about that.”

The tension didn’t hit right away. For several seconds the doctor just stared—Scott could see him in his peripherals. He could see the well-intentioned smile on the man’s face. He could see when realization slowly hit. Only then did Scott turn around, allowing the scope of his displeasure to come into view—revealing an edge that wasn’t quite gone.

“
You said you understood why I was here,” Scott said, stalking toward the doctor. “I don’t think you do.”

The doctor froze with new fear.

“
I think Timmons will recover just fine. I think he’s shown enough improvement and commitment to persevere through his initial diagnosis. I think you’ll agree.”

The man gaped, then his entire body flinched as Scott struck for his chest. But not to deliver an attack. Instead, Scott grabbed the pen from the doctor’s coat pocket. He held it in front of the man’s face. “Now…do I need to grab the letterhead, or will you?”

Ten minutes later, Scott was standing in front of Jayden’s door. In his hand was a signed sheet of paper—an official response to his reinstatement request. He stepped inside and tapped on the wood.

The Texan had been sleeping. He stared confusedly at Scott.

“
Sorry for waking you up, man,” Scott said. “I know you were sleeping.”

Jayden stared oddly until his cognition kicked in. “Hey, man.” His voice was groggily deep. “It’s okay. What’s goin’ on?”

Scott stepped inside, holding the letter in hand. Then he smiled. “Have I got some great news for you.”

* * *

Every step Dostoevsky took made him cringe with pain. He was in Nightman uniform, despite his three fractured ribs. Unseen by anyone else, his chest was a patchwork of bandages and body straps. He had been summoned to the Inner Sanctum while in the infirmary. Injured or not, he had to comply.

As he approached the wooden doors, the sentries at guard parted ways. “Captain Dostoevsky, the general awaits.”

The fulcrum nodded and the wooden doors opened. Far ahead, in the darkness of the Terror’s domain, the stairway to the throne appeared. Dostoevsky drew a pained breath and stepped in.

Even though shadows surrounded General Thoor, his cold features came into detail. His jaw protruded. His narrow eyes watched Dostoevsky’s every step. As soon as the fulcrum was before him, he wasted no time in speaking.

“
Your uselessness reeks from the walls.”

Dostoevsky lowered his head.

“
You have failed as Baranov’s successor. You were given an opportunity to grab the Fourteenth by the throat and control it. This was our gift to you, and you have done nothing.”

Dostoevsky barely breathed. He simply stood, eyes downcast as the diatribe continued.

“
Were you any other fulcrum, you would have already been terminated. That you will walk out of my sight alive is a testament to your dedication in the past.” The general’s voice maintained its dark resonance. “You are stripped of your captaincy. The Fourteenth is Remington’s to lead. You will serve him as commander, as you served Baranov. You will behold the fruits of your own insignificance under his reign. You will witness what it truly means to command. And when—”

Dostoevsky restrained a soft chuckle.

Thoor froze the moment he heard it. From atop his throne, his rancorous eyes bulged.

Outside the Inner Sanctum, beyond the still-wide-open wooden doors, the two sentries swapped a sudden look. They turned their heads inside the room.

“
Dostoevsky,” asked Thoor, “are you
laughing
?”

Dostoevsky couldn’t hold it back. His soft laughter escaped. “I hear you, general. I hear every word that you say. I will forfeit my captaincy. I will serve as commander for Remington. I will do all of these things.” There was no trace of spite in his voice. “But I will not tremble at the sound of your voice. You are still my general, as you always have been. But you are no longer my God.”

Thoor’s mouth fell blatantly open.

The fulcrum offered a courteous bow to the Terror. Then he stepped back, turned, and walked away. The only sounds in the Inner Sanctum were the fulcrum’s footsteps as he left. Thoor was left shocked and speechless on his throne. The sentries at the door didn’t utter a sound.

Dostoevsky had barely gone ten steps when someone else crossed him in the hall—the next of the general’s morning appointments. It was a man Dostoevsky knew well—the new fulcrum captain of the First. As Oleg walked past, both men locked eyes, the fallen eidolon’s stare narrowing in displeasure. He passed Dostoevsky without saying a word.

Dostoevsky didn’t say a word, either. But unlike Oleg, his eyes only stayed locked for a moment, before his steps carried him past and away. As he turned his head forward, the corners of his lips turned upright.

It didn’t matter that his ribs were fractured or that every step brought excruciating agony. It didn’t matter that he’d infuriated Thoor or that Oleg despised his very being. Only one thing mattered to Dostoevsky at all. And it let him smile through every pained step he took.

* * *

The fourteenth was waiting outside for Scott. It was already past seven o’clock—late for a morning session. The sky was dark; sunrise wouldn’t come for another hour and a half.

Word had already come to the unit: the next time they would see Scott again, he would be their new captain. The revelation wasn’t a surprise, but nonetheless brought warmth in the cold.

In the week leading up to the mission, there had been tension between EDEN and the Nightmen. But today there was none. In fact, there’d only been one awkward moment at all, between Max and Esther, regarding a rumor Max had heard. Apparently, a certain slayer from the Battleship had been discovered with a bullet hole in his head. Max asked her if she knew anything about it. She answered without saying a word.

Max didn’t complain.

It was a quarter to eight when Scott appeared, wearing his Nightman uniform as he had every day since murdering Sergei Steklov. That part of him would never change.

No one greeted him when he approached. He received no welcoming handshakes, nor congratulatory words about his promotion. They simply watched him, their postures erect, their hands at their sides, as he stopped in front of them.

His face was still bruised, his hands still covered in scars. Standing before them, he gave each and every one of them a direct look. From Max to David, from Svetlana to Esther, from Becan to Boris—no one was immune. Placing his hands on his hips, he finally spoke. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

The team remained disciplined. Only Svetlana showed any reaction at all. Beneath the fall of her blond hair, her lips curved.

Flopper barked and wagged his tail in the snow. Scott looked at the small dog and actually smiled—the animal was the only one to receive the gesture from him. Facing his unit again, Scott nodded his head.

“
Let’s get to it.”

It was the twenty-sixth day of the eleventh month, in the eleventh year of the New Era. It was a day the Fourteenth had been waiting on for some time—the day their hero had finally returned.

Eventually, the sun would rise, thawing the earth with its warm orange hues. Morning session would take place then come to a close, but, as proclaimed by their new leader, there was still much to be done. In the wake of their first truly unified mission, the Fourteenth would prepare for the next. And the next.

There was an unspoken understanding among them—one that permeated the weeks and months that followed. It didn’t matter that they had overcome their animosities—that they’d persevered over fear. It didn’t matter that they’d become proof that light could shine in the shadow of The Machine.

What mattered was that they were not finished. In the aftermath of their victory over strife, they knew that one victory was not good enough. There was more left to accomplish—more they’d been called on to do. They had set a new mark upon themselves. No longer would they be viewed as a decimated squad; no longer could they be. They were the Fourteenth of
Novosibirsk
.

There was more to become.

FOUR MONTHS LATER

Wednesday, March 7
^th
, 0012 NE

1906 hours

York County, Pennsylvania

The night air was frigid. Curling her fingers rigidly around her E-35 assault rifle, Catalina Shivers stalked cautiously out of the Cruiser. It was the tail end of her platoon’s mission; the Ceratopian vessel had been shot down over a stretch of Pennsylvania farmland. Almost every extraterrestrial had been killed.

Almost.

She’d seen it moments before, flitting behind her in her peripherals. Even in the dark, its form was unmistakable: a necrilid. It had scampered out of the Cruiser from a hallway she’d sworn moments before had been clear. Her error was her new obligation—she had to hunt it down. As for why she was completely alone—that error was someone else’s.

“
I’m gonna kill you, Peters.” The words escaped from her trembling lips. “I’m gonna
kill
you.” The Canadian beta private’s armor was stained with blood. Strands of sweat-soaked black hair dangled from her helmet—her brown eyes were focused. As she left the safety of the Cruiser’s interior, she panned her assault rifle to the ship’s outer hull. She spoke into her comm. “This is Private Shivers. I’m tracking one necrilid outside the vessel.”

The response she got was not a pleased one. “I thought you said your section was
clear
.”

“…
I thought it was, sir.”

“
Stand by. I’m on my way.”

Something skittered across the top of the hull. Swinging her rifle after the sound, Catalina saw the necrilid bound out of view. It disappeared toward the rear thrusters. “I have visual, in pursuit…”

A female voice crackled through. “Cat, like, didn’t the major just tell you to wait?”

“
Not now, Tiff.”

“
But you, like—”

“
Not now!”
Picking up her pace to track the creature from the ground, Catalina trotted toward the rear of the ship.