Epic: Book 03 - Hero Read online

  “Please believe me, Scott, please. I would never try to do this!”

  Scott had to look away. He knew what she was saying was true. But that didn’t make it easier to understand. “I know.”

  She didn’t look relieved.

  Helmet in his hands, he pushed his hair back. This was as much a shock to her as it was to the Nightmen. Viktor, what in the world are you thinking? Steeling his jaw in surrender, Scott touched her arm. “Okay. You’re going to be fine.”

  While Scott waited by the bay door to be dropped off, he looked at the operatives around him—the four Nightmen and the woman from EDEN. Svetlana clung to him like glue. He couldn’t blame her. For the first time since her arrival, he pitied her. She had gone there for him. The consequences of that were too large to escape, and he wondered if she realized it now.

  Beside them, Nicolai kissed his blood-encrusted dog tag—the one belonging to the man he’d presumably murdered. Scott would have been disgusted if he hadn’t grown used to it long ago. That he was used to it at all made him sick. He looked sidelong at Svetlana. She would never have experienced anything like this before. This was a different situation than the one she’d been in previously with the Fourteenth. Now there were twice as many Nightmen in the unit, and they were ten times more radical than the Nightmen before them, Anatoly and Baranov. This new crew took totalitarianism to the extreme.

  At that moment, Scott did something that surprised even himself—he gently squeezed the back of Svetlana’s neck. Unspoken reassurance. For a moment, he felt her tension release.

  “Prepare to drop!” Travis yelled from the cockpit.

  Scott latched on his faceless helmet. It attached to the clamps of his armor. He stared through its interior view screen, where a transparent map of the church appeared. Maps were available only about half the time; thankfully, this was one of those times. He took a moment to study it, as the Nightmen around him got ready.

  He watched as Svetlana removed her helmet briefly to pull an insulated layer of rubber over her head. The blond tips of her hair disappeared. She slipped her helmet back on.

  The Pariah‘s inertia shifted. They were about to drop.

  Dostoevsky readied his assault rifle. He assigned everyone a shadow. “Remington—Romanov. Goronok—Voronova. Broll—myself.”

  Scott turned to Egor. The slayer stuck out like a pillar. “Keep her safe.”

  “I will, lieutenant.” The slayer was strapping on a single-barreled 40mm slug launcher, nicknamed a hand cannon. It was capable of firing anything from armor piercing to incendiary rounds. The one-handed weapon walked a strange line between grenade launcher and pistol—exclusively a demolitionist’s toy.

  The bay door whined open. There was no time to be leery of church now. The Bakma didn’t care how Scott felt. If he allowed the church to affect him, he’d only be more vulnerable and easier to kill.

  There was a thick layer of snow on the ground, and fresh snow was still falling heavily. What the starlight didn’t illuminate, his True Color Vision did. tcv was one of the numerous technologies EDEN shared with the Russian military sect.

  The church was grand. Red bricks formed its walls, and reaching to the heavens was a massive bell tower—the same tower Scott could see from the map. For a moment, even through the warmth of his internal heating system, the fulcrum from America felt cold.

  Then it began.

  Dostoevsky burst from the door. He dove straight from the security of the troop bay and rolled to the church’s closed entrance. Plasma blasts exploded at his feet from above. Auric charged behind, followed by Scott and the others. Their dash lasted barely a few seconds—enough time to avoid plasma themselves.

  Scott knew where the blasts were coming from—an alien inside the bell tower. It might have been a sniper. The blasts weren’t inaccurate, they were just a split second behind. Plasma was a deadly brand of weapon, but its rate of fire was slower than projectile. That was one edge humanity had.

  The Nightmen and Svetlana slammed against the front of the church, right beside a set of polished doors. The Pariah lurched into the air and turned to depart.

  Suddenly, a small metal orb fell to the ground. It stuck in the snow meters in front of the Nightmen. A plasma grenade.

  Time slowed.

  Nicolai jerked the church door open. Egor pulled Svetlana to his chest. Dostoevsky and Auric tensed. The moment the doors were fully open, all six of them dove.

  The boom that erupted behind them propelled them into the sanctuary. Immediately Scott felt a loss of control, then a searing heat against his back and the hail of shrapnel hitting his armor. He saw the ground pass beneath him as he soared facedown into the building, his arms flailing. Then instinct and experience kicked in.

  Bend knees. Lower shoulders. Turn head.

  He hit the ground in an awkward roll, one that nonetheless brought him upright to his knee. The slayers around him did the same. Svetlana remained cradled in Egor’s arms as if he were carrying a child.

  Plasma blasts erupted all around.

  Scott aimed at the alien attackers, of which there were several scattered in the sanctuary. An exchange of projectile and plasma ensued. The Nightmen dove behind the cover of the available pews as woodchips flew through the air.

  “Two on the north side!” Dostoevsky yelled. “Three at the south!” With those words, the counterstrike formed.

  Scott popped up and fired a burst at the aliens in the south. The three Bakma there ducked for cover.

  At no time did Scott’s mind stop racing. Dostoevsky and Auric have the two on the north. Egor will concentrate on the three on my end. As if on cue, the oversized Egor launched a blast from his hand cannon. The corner where the Bakma hid exploded, and the plasma fire ceased.

  “Two targets retreating,” said Dostoevsky, referring to the two aliens on the north.

  Scott had no idea if the three Bakma on the south were dead or in retreat. There was only one way to find out. “Nicolai, suppress.” He leapt up to charge the enemy stronghold.

  Nicolai cracked off several bursts.

  The sanctuary, or what was now left of it, was huge and ornate. The space was the size of a gymnasium. A wide stage spanned the front, complete with an altar, pulpit, and baptismal pool. White ceilings arched high above. As he charged, Scott took it all in.

  Plasma had a distinct odor. If inhaled too heavily, it watered the eyes. Scott could smell it through his helmet as he rushed the Bakmas’ position. Nicolai’s bullets whizzed over his shoulders, splintering the wood along the wall and shattering stained glass windows.

  The first Bakma emerged to fire a shot. It never got the chance.

  Scott was steps away from the doorway when the purple alien popped out—close enough to engage hand-to-hand. Scott raced forward, his armored fist catching the alien’s face the moment it appeared. The Bakma flew against the wall as Scott ducked then swung his rifle down the hallway. He opened fire, and a second Bakma was dead before it could shoot.

  Nicolai was right behind Scott. Grabbing the Bakma Scott had punched, Nicolai gave the alien’s head a violent twist. Its spinal cord cracked in its neck.

  “There were three here,” Scott said through the comm. “There’s one unaccounted.” The last Bakma was nowhere to be seen. But there was no telling how many were hiding in the building. By the look of it, the door and adjacent hallway were actually add-ons to the orthodox church building—an entirely different wing. It might even have been an attached seminary.

  “Pursue it,” Dostoevsky ordered. “Auric and I will pursue the two Bakma on the north. Goronok—take the bell tower.”

  “Da, commander.”

  The Nightmen split up.

  * * *

  Clarke grabbed a support rail as the Pariah neared its second drop point—the roof of the warehouse they were supposed to clear for Jayden. Fire illuminated the streets in the distance. As the transport lowered to the rooftop, the captain readied his gun. “There’s a radio tower attached to this
warehouse, Timmons. You should have an excellent view from atop.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Ryvkin will accompany you. The rest of us will clear the warehouse from ground floor up.”

  Behind the captain, Viktor looked mildly surprised.

  “Do you object to this, Mr. Ryvkin?”

  “Not at all, captain. That will work very well.” His eyes panned to the Texan.

  “Ms. Brooking,” Clarke said, turning to Esther. “Assist Timmons from ground level. Be his second pair of eyes.”

  “Freedom to improvise, sir?”

  “Not yet. Just help Timmons shoot.”

  A look of defeat replaced her anxious expression.

  As the Pariah touched down on the roof, Jayden hopped out. Viktor was right on his heels. The Vulture transport lifted away.

  “I will clear the rooftop entrance!” Viktor called out. “Do not worry about me. Focus only on the streets.”

  “All right, man.” Jayden turned to the tower.

  Viktor watched the Texan for several moments, then turned to the rooftop’s only entranceway: an elevated, closed-door stairwell. The slayer positioned his rifle and opened the door.

  On the street below, the Pariah once again touched the ground—this time to drop off Clarke, David, and Esther. As soon as the female scout stepped outside, Becan’s voice emerged through her helmet.

  “Mind yourself, Molly-Polly. Don’t go doin’ anythin’ too British.”

  She scowled as she traversed the warehouse wall. “I’m lucky to do anything at all, besides being a bloody waste of space.” Since Khatanga, she’d been kept on a leash. In practice, she was barely a scout at all.

  “I guess some people need more time to develop.”

  “Charming. I don’t see your plaster bust.”

  “I had one,” Becan answered, “but they accidentally put my real first name, Willard.”

  “Keep it coming, bollock-brain. Please, I insist.”

  The next voice to emerge wasn’t meant for them. It was Max from the Pariah. “We’re on our way to the federal building, captain.”

  Clarke and David stood prepped by the warehouse entrance. “Good luck, lieutenant,” Clarke answered Max. Behind them, the Pariah rose from the streets. The captain’s eyes met David’s. “On three?”

  “On three.”

  “One. Two. Three.” Taking a single step backward, Clarke grabbed the metal warehouse door and jerked it open. He dropped to a knee as David dashed around the corner inside.

  “Room clear,” David said.

  Clarke followed behind him, quickly assuming the point position. “Stairwell’s ahead, second door to the right. First we clear the ground floor.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Follow my lead.”

  * * *

  Scott eased around a corner. He and Nicolai had pursued the third Bakma into the seminary and up a stairwell, right into a hallway on the second floor. Though the two Nightmen had heard the alien running ahead of them and flinging doors open, they had yet to catch a glimpse of it.

  Behind Scott, Nicolai crouched and covered their rear. It would have taken an impressive effort for the Bakma to have flanked them, but it was still something they would not leave to chance.

  Creeping from the safety of the corner, Scott braced his assault rifle on his shoulder. There are hostages here somewhere. Three doors stood in plain view down the hall—two on the left and one on the right. The hall ended with a left turn. Throughout, illumination was dim. The carpet under their feet allowed them to pad forward with stealth.

  His map indicated to Scott where the doors led. The first left-hand door connected with the next one farther down, forming one large room. It was probably some kind of meeting room.

  He activated his helmet’s ExTracker. It was a motion-detecting device capable of tracking and identifying movement in user-defined radiuses. Only certain officers were allowed to use the technology—Scott never had it until he was a fulcrum. Motion detecting was a controversial affair. In an ideal war, every soldier could utilize it. But soldiers were far from ideal. No matter how often operatives were drilled about false senses of security, they fell victim to it just the same. ExTracker wasn’t perfect technology. Many an operative had charged through a room expecting no resistance, only to be gunned down by something ExTracker had missed.

  Ironically, soldiers on the whole did better without the device, which was no more as disastrously apparent than on necrilid missions. Although it was convenient to help detect a necrilid before it attacked, it was that much more panic-inducing to watch a little dot suddenly soaring across the screen straight at you. Smells and sounds were just as important as visible clues, and with ExTrackers, smells and sounds were taken for granted. Thus, ExTrackers had been banned from all but command personnel.

  Thankfully, Scott could handle the technology. As soon as his ExTracker was on, he got three hits, all on the right side of the hall. Two in the corner, and one against the back wall. Two humans and a Bakma. According to his ExTracker, nothing was in the large room to his left. Don’t trust it. Look yourself.

  He made a hand signal to Nicolai, indicating to him to investigate the hits in the room on the right.

  Nicolai crossed to the right side of the hallway, nearing the door there.

  Holding up three fingers, Scott and Nicolai locked eyes. Three fingers became two, two became one, and then there were none. The two men burst through the doors simultaneously—Scott into the room on the left and Nicolai into the one on the right. Scott’s room was empty, as ExTracker had predicted.

  Across the hallway, gunfire erupted. Scott sprang to his feet and dashed after it. The exchange stopped before he arrived.

  Nicolai stood alone in the center of the room. Two dead Bakma were sprawled in the corner. The slayer’s shoulder armor was smoldering but intact. Crouched in the corner, behind the dead Bakma, two priests huddled together. The hostages. There had been four beings total in the room—not three as ExTracker had claimed. Thankfully, Nicolai was capable.

  Click.

  The sound came from the hall. Scott and Nicolai froze. It was a door opening stealthily—in a way not meant to be heard.

  On Scott’s motion sensor, a new target appeared down the hallway, just beyond the door to the room they occupied. It was identified as a Bakma.

  Scott signaled Nicolai to the room’s inner wall, the wall shared with the hallway. Nicolai pressed against it. Lowering to a crouch, Scott crept back until he’d placed himself at an angle to the door. The target crept closer.

  His mind churned. Nothing had been behind them in the hall. The room on the other side had been clear. This new target must have come from somewhere else. Possibly from the left-hand turn down the hallway.

  He heard a new sound—the delicate pad of footsteps on the carpet. Nicolai’s body was tense; he must have heard it as well. The Bakma was there, mere meters away, separated only by the wall. Scott was tempted to shoot through the wall, but he restrained himself.

  It could be another human if ExTracker’s wrong.

  Scott issued Nicolai another sign—the signal to fall back. Scott wanted this one himself. His hands remained gripped on his weapon as he eased against the wall that divided the room from the hallway. Nicolai fell back, training his weapon on the doorway. The priests remained in the corner.

  Scott drew a breath as he set down his rifle. He wasn’t going into this one guns blazing. He felt better at close range with a blade. Pulling out his combat knife, he waited a silent three-count. Then he moved.

  He dove straight out the doorway, rolling as plasma bolts fought to keep up. It was a Bakma indeed. Scott bent his knees and leapt straight into the alien. The Bakma fell backward as Scott collided against it.

  There was no hesitation. Scott jabbed his knife straight into the alien’s forehead. The Bakma warrior’s body shuddered with spasms.

  A new sound emerged from around the corner. Scott released the knife, still stuck in the alien, and ri
pped out his pistol. No sooner than he’d lifted it up, another Bakma burst into the hall. The alien had scarcely taken two steps before Scott’s firearm erupted, causing it to collapse to the floor.

  Instinctively Scott turned to his rear. He listened until he was satisfied nothing was there. Then he moved toward the left corner where the Bakma had come from. Instead of edging around it, he burst around it full speed, training his pistol down the next hallway. It was clear.

  Scott returned to the room Nicolai still guarded to retrieve his assault rifle. He watched the priests through his helmet’s interior view screen. The moonlight through the window made the horns of his fulcrum armor gleam. The priests stared back at him, then one of them spoke. What he said was not what Scott expected to hear.

  “You do not belong here.”

  Behind the shield of his helmet, Scott blinked. It was the first time he’d been told that in a church.

  Suddenly, Nicolai lifted his rifle. He aimed the barrel straight at the priests.

  The motion was too fast for Scott to prevent. Before he could yell in protest, the Nicolai pulled the trigger. The priests fell backward in horrified shock.

  ClickClickClickClickClick!

  After several seconds of empty fire, Nicolai’s finger relaxed. “Dead God men,” he said with mechanized smugness.

  Scott lost it. Grabbing Nicolai by the collar of his armor, Scott rammed the slayer back against the wall. The plaster wall cracked with the force. “Never do that again.”

  Nicolai’s slumped posture revealed his subordination; he quickly affirmed.

  Scott fought off the urge to slay the slayer. But his sense of where he was won out. Releasing Nicolai’s collar, he turned to face the priests. “Are you the only two people in the building?”

  The men acknowledged him in silence.

  “Then follow us out.”