Epic: Book 03 - Hero (41 page)

“
Yeah,” Max said, looking up. “That’s where I been, too.”

No one else came to find Max that morning, and no one buzzed him on the comm. For the next hour, the lieutenant leaned against the nose of his ship, silent and reflective as he observed the morning light break through the gray. He remained meditative and still, removed from the rest of the world.

Svetlana was cleaning the lounge when her comm beeped. Abandoning her wash rag, she grabbed the device she’d left lying on the table. She stared at Max’s name on the display, hesitating before finally acknowledging. “Yes, Max, I am here.”

Max’s response was so delayed that Svetlana looked at the comm to see if their connection had been lost. Max spoke the moment she did. “What’d you want me to do?”

The corners of her lips slowly curved up. “Max, thank you
so
much.”

“
Don’t mention it. What do you want?”

Closing her eyes, smiling serenely, she whispered a prayer. When it was over, she got back on the comm. “So I have a question.”

“
Yeah?”

“
What can you do with personal armor?”

* * *

The remainder of the day passed without incident for the Fourteenth. As the reality of Captain Clarke’s death set in, awareness grew that the unit belonged to the Nightmen. By midday, the official word had been relayed: the new leaders were Captain Dostoevsky and Commander Remington. The Fourteenth was under fulcrum rule.

The news brought a new swagger to the slayers of the squad. All four—Viktor, Nicolai, Auric, and Egor—went about their tasks with an air of invulnerability. There was no EDEN captain to keep them in check.

Other news circulated, as well—news of far greater importance than the chain of command. Reports began to pour in from Europe in the wake of the Bakma attack. Despite the fact that
Novosibirsk
existed in its own frozen world, the impact of the miniature invasion would be felt across the globe. The death toll had not reached millions, as had been feared. Nonetheless, almost eight hundred thousand had died. The global economy was in crisis. Political leaders had been killed. Entire cities and towns were in ruin, as relief efforts began to organize across the planet. It was the largest unnatural catastrophe in the history of the world. Even in its extreme isolation,
Novosibirsk
too was affected.

Numerous units, none of which were Nightman in origin, had been transferred from
Novosibirsk
to various bases and stations throughout Europe. Recruiters were hitting the city of Novosibirsk as well. An entire continent needed to be restocked with operatives.

Stockholm had been all but obliterated. The lack of industry in the city diminished the impact of its losses on the rest of the world, but SwEDEN was left in chaos. The financial losses were too high to calculate, and the dual loss of both its capital and a cultural metropolis had crushed the country’s morale. EDEN bore the brunt of the anger as spin doctors quickly attempted to deflect attention to the responsible Bakma. Despite their efforts, almost every official estimate contained words like
complacency
and
outrage
.

Copenhagen, on the other hand, had fared considerably better. EDEN forces in Denmark, though still overwhelmed, had made a much larger dent in the Bakma offensive. They had held the aliens off long enough for additional forces to arrive. Though the city had taken its fair share of damage, as had Stockholm, it had not been shut down. It was already even forming a recovery plan.

But beside the loss of a few units, the impact on
Novosibirsk
was still less than that of other places. The global economy was of little consequence to The Machine. Political leaders didn’t matter, nor did almost anything concerning the rest of the world

And so the Fourteenth moved on. Soon Becan and Derrick would be returning, if not to active combat right away. Jayden’s eye continued to improve. Relations between many of the unit’s operatives were more strained than ever. Only a handful were optimistic about the future, though cautiously so. That was the world of the Fourteenth.

It was the only world that mattered to any of them.

24

Wednesday, November 16
^th
, 0011 NE

2010 hours

The City of Novosibirsk

The next night

From inside his vehicle, Dostoevsky carefully watched the small gathering of men and women outside the funeral home. He followed their smallest movements while he shifted apprehensively in the driver’s seat. His hands—gloved with black leather that matched his jacket—held fast to the steering wheel in front of him.

It had snowed all day in the city of Novosibirsk. Fresh white piles were on the sides of the street and the rooftops of the buildings. Dostoevsky’s own vehicle, a polished black Dovecraft hoverquad, was parked against the road a block from the funeral home. He had not had the courage to park any closer. In front of the building, in crudely written letters on an outdoor bulletin board, a simple message was displayed.

Nathaniel Edmond Clarke

7.21.25oe - 11.14.11ne

Dostoevsky was nervous. He had never attended a wake before; he’d never been emotionally affected enough to go. Looking around the street hesitantly, he muttered to himself in Russian.

No one else from the Fourteenth was present—or at least there were no EDEN vehicles to indicate otherwise. Dostoevsky was the only member of the unit who owned a local vehicle. Dovecrafts were expensive, but money was never an issue for fulcrums; they had access to anything they wanted.

Once again he scanned the front of the building. His hand trembled against the door, until he finally pulled the handle. He pushed the door out slightly, and it automatically slid back to open the way. It slid shut in his wake when he stepped out.

The air was frigid, and he slid his hands into his pockets. The sun had set over an hour earlier, and the unhindered arctic wind had come in full force. As he walked, head angled tensely to the ground, icy vapors escaped from his lips.

Dostoevsky was from Siberia. The cold was nothing new to him; tonight, however, it felt particularly uncomfortable—more so than ever before. He intentionally avoided eye contact as he strode up the short stairway that led into the funeral home. As soon as he was inside, he shook the ice from his jacket.

The building was small and modest in appearance. He was standing in a rectangular foyer with two open wooden doors leading into the viewing room. Several people made desultory conversation, and he identified a few British accents. He purposely avoided meeting their eyes.

Inside the viewing room were only two sparse groups of people. One consisted of two middle-aged men, laughing softly at what sounded like business. On the other side of the room, two men and two women appeared engaged in light conversation. But it was the center of the viewing room that caught Dostoevsky’s attention. There, next to a simple display of flowers and photographs, he beheld a white wooden casket. He stared at it for several seconds, mesmerized, before he felt a tug on his jacket. Snapping out of his momentary daze, the fulcrum turned around.

A little girl, barely three feet tall, stared up at him with bright hazel eyes, matching his stare with a toothy smile. In her hand was a small card.

Dostoevsky took the card in hand. Flipping it over, he stared at the photograph on its front. It was a picture of Captain Clarke. He was leaning back with a wide, goofy grin, with a red clown nose on his face. Underneath the picture was a poem.

Blessed are they who bring smiles to our souls. Blessed are they who put laughter in our lives. Blessed are they who fill our homes and our hearts with warmth.

Beneath the poem was a single sentence:
In loving memory of Dad.

When Dostoevsky finally pulled his eyes away from the words, he found the girl still smiling expectantly. After a moment of awkwardness, the Nightman offered an uncomfortable nod.
“Spasibo.”

The girl grinned and swayed back and forth.

The two groups of guests still chattered quietly. No one seemed to notice him standing there. Sliding the card into his pocket, he ducked his head and walked farther into the room.

There was a funeral planned for the late captain. Svetlana had mentioned to the Fourteenth that it would be held the next night. Dostoevsky wasn’t sure how many from the unit were going, if anyone at all. Clarke had always kept himself at a distance. He let everyone be.

Walking hesitantly to the casket, Dostoevsky peered in and saw Clarke’s body for the first time. The fallen captain’s skin was an odd, waxy white—it almost didn’t look human. After mere seconds, Dostoevsky averted his eyes to the photo-laden bulletin board behind the casket.

Despite the banality of the pictures, they were Clarke as the fulcrum had never seen him: a photo of him sitting before a fireplace with what looked like an aging dog at his feet; a photo of a younger, shirtless Clarke, holding a woman of equal age in his arms; a photo of him as a child.

The clown-nosed photo was there, too, though now it could be seen in its entirety. Clarke was outstretched on a sofa, that same goofy grin on his face, as two young girls lay laughing on his lap. The girls’ eyes were solely on their father. Dostoevsky recognized one as the girl who’d given him the card.

He tore his eyes away, closing them just long enough to turn away from the casket and find his way out. As he scanned the room instinctively, he locked eyes with one of the women. She appeared quaintly old-fashioned in a simple black dress. Her hair, a mix of burnt auburn and brown, was tied back in a neat coil. She watched him with an unabashed stare.

Dostoevsky almost tripped, but he quickly caught his footing and quickened his pace. Breaking his eyes away from the woman—the widow—he shoved his hands into his pockets and hurried to the exit.

The frozen air bit at his face the moment he stepped back outside. He blew out a breath and rubbed his gloved hands together.

“
Wait!”

He knew who it was the instant he heard her. It was Clarke’s wife—she was close behind him. He pretended he hadn’t heard her.

“
Wait! Please!”

Dostoevsky took several steps more, then paused. His car was still a ways down the street—he couldn’t escape. But even as her footsteps approached from behind him, he resisted turning around. Only when he heard her stop mere meters away did he finally pivot to face her.

“
I know who you are.” She looked at him with sympathetic eyes.

Her words caught him off guard. It was the first time he’d seen her before. No one from the Fourteenth had ever seen Clarke’s family—at least, not that he knew of. How could she know who he was?

“
He always respected you,” she said, “even when the two of you didn’t see eye to eye.” She pressed her lips together softly. “He believed you could be a better leader than he was, if only you could break free.”

He didn’t know how to respond. He felt more uncomfortable than at any other time in his life.

She took a step closer. “God can forgive every one of us. He can forgive you, too.”

Dostoevsky was in shock at her words. Why was she telling him this? He was the worst kind of murderer—a calculated, cold-blooded killer. Of all the fulcrums in The Machine, he had always been among the most notorious. His name and ‘God’ had never been in the same sentence.

She reached out to gently touch his cheek. It was the most compassionate touch he’d ever felt. His face fell unguarded; his defenses crumbled. He felt his soul snap.

Until she spoke again.

“
I am so sorry about your fiancee.”

Dostoevsky blinked. He cocked his head as if he didn’t understand.

“
What they did was a
terrible
thing.”

It took a moment for reality to set in. Her sympathy wasn’t intended for him, nor was her compassionate touch. Not for him. Never him.

She thought he was Scott.

Her concerned expression lingered for a moment before she slid her hand from his cheek. Offering him a final smile, she turned and walked back inside.

As Dostoevsky climbed back into the driver’s seat of his hoverquad, he trembled violently. He shook as he turned on the ignition and pulled out in the street. As soon as his wheels brought him to minimal speed, they retracted and his driftdrive engaged.

He drove for several blocks—past the funeral home he’d just left and around an intersection far up the road—until he could drive no further. Slowing his Dovecraft, he pulled alongside a curb and shifted to park.

Folding his arms over the steering wheel, he buried his face. The first sobs that came out were heavy. They poured out in heaves. Then the worst of it came out.

He hammered his fists against the steering wheel, screaming at the top of his lungs. He flailed his head and thrashed his arms wildly. When his emotions finally ceased their assault, he pressed his fist to his mouth and bit hard. He stared at the bleak cityscape before him, his reddened eyes lost somewhere else.

The Dovecraft remained parked for almost ten minutes, before it restarted, pulled out, and went on its way. At no point did it pull over again. At no point did it deviate at all. It simply drove on until it disappeared down the road—the road that led back to damnation.