Epic: Book 03 - Hero Page 4

  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, 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.

  Why send me to meet her? Then again, meeting Svetlana was partially Scott’s own doing. The captain had reached for his comm to call Max, and Scott stopped him. What was I thinking? Max should have been the one to fetch her. Scott should have let Clarke make the call. He couldn’t blame anyone but himself.

  It took only ten minutes to eat. The rest of his time was spent waiting and watching the clock. He was out by 0555.

  When the morning rush came and the operatives filed into the cafeteria, the hallways were left clear in their wake. The thought crossed Scott
’s mind several times that he could have simply waited in his own quarters. But he wanted to see Room 14. He wanted to partake in its silence. He wanted the decent memories it would evoke.

  Arriving at the room, he pushed the door open and entered. The familiar smell hit his nose—the odor of habitation. Food left out in the lounge, and laundry piled beneath bunks. It smelled like a dorm. He missed it more than anything.

  Walking through the room, he was surrounded by miscellaneous symbols of the Fourteenth. The chess board. Travis’s comic books. Jayden’s cowboy hat. Only two mattresses were made, both on the same bunk. Varvara’s and Esther’s.

  As he sat on the mattress that used to be his, he ran his hand along its plastic coating. It had been one of the most uncomfortable mattresses he’d ever slept on. This particular morning it didn’t feel quite so bad.

  The bunks belonging to the Nightmen were in the corner. They slept as far apart from the rest of the unit as they could. Mingling was not a part of their lives.

  Scott sat on his bunk for half an hour, just listening to the silence, looking around, and remembering how camaraderie used to feel. He was unaccustomed to the room being silent.

  Six-fifty came. It was time to meet her.

  He fought the urge to remain sitting. She could find the room by herself; she didn’t need a map. He could stay right there, and it wouldn’t matter at all. He could let her come to him.

  He rose from his old bed. He’d told Clarke he would meet her. What other choice did he have? Giving Room 14 a final look, he set out into the halls.

  It was still dark outside, as he knew it would be. It was 0659. She was probably in sight, at least in the sky. He looked upward. Even if her transport was approaching, it was too overcast to make anything out.

  When he arrived at the hangar, it was 0702. He was technically two minutes late, but he knew it wouldn’t matter. It would take the transport that long to settle down.

  Technicians bustled about the hangar as Scott walked past. He cast his eyes to the strip. There were numerous transports arriving, some civilian, others not. Some were already perched on the ground. There was a chance she had already emerged and was waiting amid the throng of people. He might have to actively search.

  I should have asked Clarke which transport she was in. I should have been here ten minutes ago, too.

  She was somewhere, mixed in with the unexpected frenetic activity of the morning. He sighed, causing vapors to drift from his mouth. He looked at his watch. 0706. Where could she be? He pushed past a pair of technicians and hurried across the hangar.

  The heightened activity level didn’t make sense. Why were so many people about? Was it always this packed before sunrise? As a mechanic made his way past him, Scott grabbed him by the arm. “Comrade,” Scott said in Russian. “I’m looking for a woman. Blond hair, blue eyes. She came in from a transport at 0700.”

  At first the mechanic laughed, and then he saw the fulcrum’s uniform and the crimson triangle attached to it. The mechanic’s expression quickly changed. “Yes, comrade. I will help you, right away.”

  It was 0709. As Scott followed the worker across the hangar, his heart began to beat faster.

  “We will get a flight log,” the mechanic said. “I am sure it will have her name.”

  “Why is it so busy here?”

  “There is much to do today. We are working with inspectors from Moscow.”

  “For what?”

  “They are doing an inventory check on everything here. The order came from EDEN Command.”

  It figured. Of all the days for an inventory inspection, it had to be today. He looked at his watch again. 0710. She was lost in the crowd.

  The mechanic grabbed a flight log from the wall. “What is her name?”

  “Svetlana Voronova.”

  “Where is she coming from?”

  His mind went blank. He had no idea. “I don’t know. Not from Moscow.” At least, he didn’t think so. He didn’t remember her being from there. Precious seconds passed.

  “Here,” the mechanic said, pointing. “Svetlana Voronova. Yes, she should have already arrived.”

  “I know. I know that. On which transport?”

  The mechanic pointed to the other side of the hangar. “That one, on the very far end. It was a civilian flight from Vilnius.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “You are welcomed!” the mechanic called out as Scott raced away. “I will help anytime!”

  Scott shoved his way back through the crowd, chastising himself under his breath. This should have been such an easy thing to do. How could I possibly screw it up? Had he left Room 14 ten minutes earlier, he’d have been there on time. He was furious with himself.

  The civilian transport from Vilnius was waiting as described, but there was no blond-haired woman to be found. It was almost a quarter past seven. She was gone.

  Scott hurriedly sought out the pilot. “Excuse me!” The man turned his way. “I’m looking for a blond-haired woman, Svetlana Voronova. Is she here?”

  The pilot shook his head. “I do not know. I only fly back and forth. Who I fly back and forth is not my business.”

  “Do you know where she could be?”

  “No.”

  Scott turned back around, muttering. “Veck.” She’s headed to Room 14. She must be. He strode away from the transport to the hangar’s side door. If she wasn’t in Room 14 by now, she was probably on her way. Maybe he could catch her. He quickened his pace and left the hangar behind.

  If it wasn’t so dark, I’d have found her by now. He knew it wasn’t true, but his pride was desperate for an excuse. He hadn’t found her because he hadn’t been there on time.

  His footsteps quickened into almost a run. She probably had two full duffle bags. She was probably lugging them by herself.

  He tore open the door to the barracks and hastened in. He scanned ahead to Room 14. She was inside unpacking, he knew it. As he neared the room, he saw the door was closed. It didn’t surprise him—she would want privacy. But he had to touch base. He swung the door open and hurried in.

  No one was there.

  Stepping into the center of the room, Scott’s shoulders finally sagged. He had no idea where she was. He’d blown a simple assignment for no good reason at all. Squatting down to his knees, he covered his face with his hands. He felt like a fool.

  “You Americans have strange customs.”

  The voice came from the still-open doorway. Scott jumped and turned back around.

  She stood alone in the hallway. Her golden-blond hair fell to her chin line, with thick strands caressing the sides of her face. But his focus went straight to her eyes. Straight to those unforgettable, ocean-blue eyes.

  “You run into the hangar, you run in circles, then you run away. Now here are you, sitting on the floor.” She smiled. “Strange customs, indeed.”

  “Sveta…” he said ashamedly. She must have been watching him the entire while. “I couldn’t find you.”

  She laughed and stepped into the room, pulling her duffle bag behind her. She only had one. “I know. I watched you as you walked out of the hangar. I was going to shout for you, but you were already gone. You looked very serious.”

  He laughed out loud—a real guffaw—for the first time in months. It almost felt clumsy. “I thought I lost you.”

  “You did not,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

  She looked just as she had in the lounge on the first night they’d met; she smiled in just the same way. Her teeth gleamed beneath her dainty nose. She walked to him, and he met her halfway and opened his arms. She accepted his embrace.

  “Hello again, Scott Remington,” she whispered.

  “Hello, Svetlana Voronova.” He remembered the last time he’d hugged her—because she was leaving. Because he’d never see her again.

  At that moment, with a start he realized she hadn’t met him with a negative stare. Not one word about the black uniform he wore or the emblem over his heart. Not even an
utterance of surprise.

  She had to have known everything beforehand. Had she not, his new uniform would have shocked her. But she showed no surprise—she wasn’t even somber. She was warm. “Sveta…” His tone paved the way for his guilt.

  She shook her head and placed it on his shoulder. “No. You don’t have to say it. It’s okay,” she said, squeezing him tightly.

  He closed his eyes. It’s okay. Those were words he hadn’t heard in so long.

  Her hands slid from his shoulders, and she leaned back to stare at his face. “What is this?” she asked, grinning and feeling his stubble. “Is this new look for you? You are trying to look rebellious?”

  He laughed with embarrassment and looked away. “It’s comfortable. I guess.” It wasn’t comfortable at all—it itched—but he had no explanation outside of sheer apathy. He turned again to face her. “What about you?” He brushed a fringe of her hair that hung over one of her eyes. “This is new.”

  She tried not to blush. “I cut it shorter. But not too short.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I thought it looked okay.”

  It looked more than okay. It looked gorgeous. “You look fabulous.”

  Her blush won out. “Only so much…”

  Scott wasn’t sure what else to say. There were questions all over his mind. But for the moment, they surrendered to the comfort of having a friend.

  She sighed and took a step back. She scrutinized the room. “Have they ever picked up in here? This looks like same mess when I left.” She pointed at the piles on the floor. “It is time to make rules about clean.” She bent down to start picking up clothes.

  Scott chuckled. Her English wasn’t quite up to par, undoubtedly from her time spent away. “Maybe so.” He wouldn’t correct her vocabulary. She was smart, she’d catch up again. He thought about switching his own words to Russian, but decided against it. “You don’t have to pick up everyone’s clothes.”