The Glorious Becoming (4 page)

Despite the mild sexual harassment thrown her way, Catalina managed to get her shower in. When she stepped back into the hall after she was finished, she was relieved to find Tom and his friends gone. Within moments, she was back in her room.

She and Tiffany were not the first to go to bed that night, nor were they the last. One-by-one, room-by-room, the operatives of Charlie Squad and Falcon Platoon brought their battle-worn night to a close, their dreams replacing the echoes of gunfire from only hours before. For some of them, this had been their first mission. For most of them, this had been their worst. As the moon offered its twilight serenity, the promise of a new day hovered beyond the horizon. A new day—their reward for surviving the last one.

Dream, they did indeed.

2

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 7
^TH
, 0012 NE

1402 HOURS

SIBERIA

“T
HEY ARE COMING!”

The cry came from the antechamber ahead. Confirming the functionality of his plasma rifle’s modulator, Wuteel slammed against the wall of his Noboat’s interior hall. The hum of calibrated plasma emanated from his weapon. Sparks popped intermittently from the exposed wall circuitry around him.

“Wuteel calling Tissana,” the Bakma hissed. “The Earthae are breaching!”

“They breach here, as well!” his alien comm crackled.

Projectile erupted in the antechamber, met by a volley of retaliatory plasma. Wuteel pointed. “Move! Hold them until assistance arrives!” The Bakma survivors trotted ahead. “Imminent emergency!” Wuteel barked through the comm. “We require immediate extraction!” Behind him, an armored canrassi growled predatorily.

“We are nine g-ticks from the homeworld,
Nectae-
1,” came an answer from
Nectae-
3, the only of the three
Nectaes
not already on the ground. “Stand by.”

“Standing by!”

M
EANWHILE, ABOARD
the also-fallen
Nectae-
2, Security Lord Tissana and his team of survivors fortified the outer entrance of their ship. The ground outside was cold. Howling winds whipped through the antechamber door; the bloodied Bakma rasped loudly as the Earthae engaged. “Override automatic door control. Block them out!” The Bakma by the entrance complied.

“Lord Tissana,” one of the Bakma yelled to him, “the Earthae bring titans!”

Before another word could be uttered, the outer door, still in the process of being closed, erupted in fiery orange. Bakma flew in all directions.

Falling against the antechamber wall, Tissana heard the Earthae titan fire again. Diving down the interior hallway, the security lord felt the element-melting blast of the titan’s flame cannon behind him. Flicks of debris from the walls peppered his body. He looked back—the antechamber was ablaze. Scrambling to his feet, the Bakma lord’s focus returned to his escape route.

Too late. Tissana never even noticed the Earthae assassin until he whipped back around. He’d never seen it enter the ship at all. The Earthae propelled itself straight up from the wall, its foot slamming into the side of the Bakma’s head, sending him crashing into solid metal. He spun around desperately, trying to locate the assailant. He found only death. The Earthae’s blades slid into his neck at the exposed line between his breastplate and chin-guard, then were yanked back as fresh warmth poured from the alien’s neck. The last things Tissana saw was mocha skin, brown eyes, and dark lashes.

And the faintest hint of a smirk.

W
UTEEL GROWLED
as a bullet tore through his shoulder. He stumbled but maintained his retreat. He’d felt the projectile go straight through—a lucky break. Behind him, the canrassi reared back and roared.

“Attack!” ordered Wuteel, pointing to the open antechamber door where his crew was fending off the Earthaes.

The beast’s roar subsided to a low, threatening growl. Lowering its body, its hind legs propelled it forward through the smoke.

Wuteel lifted his comm again. “We cannot hold here much longer!”

I
N THE SKY AND
approaching the scene, the third Noboat materialized. Eyes focusing on the ice-covered tundra, Operational Lord Du`racchi leaned forward in his chair. “Stand by,
Nectae-
1. We have arrived.” He swiveled to face communications. “Status of
Nectae-
2?”

“No contact from
Nectae-
2, lord.”

Du`racchi swiveled back around.

“Lord!” The cry came from navigations, as the officer there turned to him. “The Earthae have sent an intercept vessel, class unknown!”

“Class
unknown
?”

“Affirmative, lord!”

“On screen.” Moments later, the Noboat’s main view screen changed. What appeared was a long vessel constructed of sleek, dark metal. Du`racchi’s eyes narrowed. This vessel...it had armaments. Earthae mounted projectiles, wingtip ballistics. This was no ordinary Vultureclass transport. It was a gunship.

L
UNGING FROM
Nectae-
1, the canrassi roared and charged forward, diving amid Earthae as they scattered in all directions. Wuteel raised his hand to signal the offensive.

Ka-pow!

Wuteel froze, his hand still locked in the air as his opaque eyes bulged with horror. The canrassi toppled over, lifeless, a single clean exit wound visible in the center of its skull.

It’d been felled in one shot.

“T
HE GUNSHIP APPROACHES!”

“Reenter the rift!” barked Du`racchi.

“It fires!”

The Noboat rumbled as it was struck; klaxons wailed through the halls. The outside world was still visible. “Why have we not shifted?” Du`racchi asked frantically from his chair.

The Bakma at engineering swiveled around. “The crystal is damaged. Rift generation is impossible!”

Visible on the view screen, the gunship turned to pursue.

B
ACKING FROM
N
ECTAE
-1’s antechamber, Wuteel shouted at the Bakma holding the door. “Fall back! Give the Earthae our ship—it is already lost! Our brethren in
Nectae-
3 will arrive soon. We must take the emergency exit to meet them!” No sooner had he said the words, the Earthae breached.

They were like nothing Wuteel had ever seen. They were like war machines. Black and vile, as if forged by the Khuladi themselves. The Earthae leader, ordained in gold trim, sang a chorus of fury through the blazing tatter of its weapon. Then it faced him. When it spoke, its voice resonated like thunder.

“Surrender unconditionally.”

It spoke his language! The war machine spoke his language, as if it were a Bakma itself! It shook Wuteel to his core—but salvation was coming from the sky. Wuteel needed only buy
Nectae-
3 enough time to rescue them. Then, the Earthae would be the ones retreating. Raising their weapons, Wuteel and the survivors engaged the black machines.

F
OR A SECOND TIME,
Nectae-
3 was rocked by fire from the tailing gunship.

“Return fire!”
screamed Du`racchi.

The weapons officer worked the turrets. “I
am
returning fire! I cannot connect. It moves too quickly!”

“Incoming ballistic!”

Nectae-
3 was thrown as its port side erupted. The bridge burst into flames.

C
HARGING THROUGH THE
engine room, Wuteel dashed for the emergency exit. The black war machines had killed the other survivors, leaving Wuteel in a full-fledged retreat. Leaping through still-smoldering fires, he rounded the exit’s final turn. Rescue would be there—just beyond the door. He needed only to reach it. Releasing the interior lock, he kicked the door open and dashed out. Shielding his eyes from the Earthae sun, he searched the sky.

Arcing gracefully downward, Wuteel watched as
Nectae-
3 impacted the earth. The Noboat exploded with fire.

“No...”

There was nobody left. No one. Not in any of the
Nectaes
. Not in the sky. There was only him and his nearly-depleted plasma rifle. Turning around, he heard the war machines move through the engine room. They’d be there. At any second, they’d be upon him. He panicked.

Running onto the open field, Wuteel’s Bakma heart pounded. There was foliage ahead—Earthae trees. The Bakma ran as fast as his exhausted legs could carry him. If he could reach the foliage in time, maybe he could lose them.

The snarling came unexpectedly. Flinching in mid-stride, Wuteel glanced back to locate its source. His heart nearly died. It was a creature, a monster. Flesh-eating teeth chomped up and down, spewing saliva as its tongue flailed savagely. It was like a horror out of Bakmanese lore. Like a necrilid with fur. The monster’s legs propelled it forward—it lunged straight for his boots.

Wuteel screamed as it sank in its teeth.

“Down! Flopper, down!” Max ran full speed toward the dog, who was eagerly snapping at its panicked captive’s shoes. “No bite! No bite!”

Looking back with his tongue hanging out, Flopper abandoned the Bakma to charge at Max, snapping merrily at the lieutenant-technician’s shins.

“No! No bite! Stop!” Grabbing his comm—the first thing his fingers could find—Max frantically flung it as far as he could. Flopper immediately gave chase. “You crazy dog!” Ahead of Max, the Bakma scrambled to its feet. Max lifted his weapon. “I don’t think so, pal. Hold it right there.”

The Bakma’s attention shifted past Max, at the new arrival approaching the scene. The alien’s opaque bulges widened as its whole body tensed.

Scott stared at the Bakma through his black, faceless helmet. When he spoke, his voice resonated. “Laash vak`ar lentaa?”

For several seconds, the Bakma stood motionless before the goldtrimmed warrior. He hesitated before answering. “...Wuteel.”

“Wuteel,” Scott repeated, taking a single step forward. “Vilaash Remington.” The Bakma stared back in fearful understanding. Scott spoke again. “Grrushana rin`kash.”

The alien studied Scott, his bulging eyes surveying the fulcrum’s posture. Finally, it nodded its head. “Grrashna.”

“Take him back,” Scott said to Max. “Make sure he sees Sveta.”

“Aye, aye,” answered Max, shouldering his weapon and approaching the alien. “Come with me, thing.”

The renegades. The cowboys. They went by many different names, but for them, none held the same weight as their official one: the Fourteenth of
Novosibirsk
.

The months that had passed since Scott’s transformation into the
Golden Fulcrum
, as he’d come to be known, had been more than just kind to the Fourteenth. They’d been redeeming. For the first time since the death of Nicole, the former unit of Captain Clarke was a cohesive, unified team. They were also remarkably good.

“Class job, Will,” said Esther, smiling beneath her sky-blue EDEN visor. “Your timing was impeccable.”

William, still standing where he’d blown through the Bakmas’ defensive, grinned back. The hulking southerner, clad in his massive demolitionist’s armor, shouldered his hand cannon.

Such flawless victories had become commonplace. In fact, over the previous four months, no unit in
Novosibirsk
had suffered fewer losses than the Fourteenth, their sole death being that of Nicolai Romanov, one of their resident Nightmen. Outside of that single anomaly, the squad was experiencing an unprecedented stretch of performance.

“Tha’s bleedin’ fairy tales,” Becan said in response to a comment from David by the landing zone. “Don’t blame tha’ one on me, ’cos not a
one
o’ yeh expected a
can-flickin’-rassi
to come bustin’ through the door!”

David unloaded his assault rifle. “But the bottom line is, you screamed like a girl. We’re
both
lucky Jay took the shot.”

“Hey Jay,” Becan said through the comm, “Dave said tha’ was a lucky shot.”

The Texan didn’t reply.

“Leave him alone,” David said quietly. “Kid’s got enough goin’ on.”

The line between EDEN and Nightman had never been as blurred as it was in the Fourteenth—a striking contrast to the tension that had existed prior to Scott’s ascendance to Golden Fulcrum status. Dostoevsky, Auric, and Egor were as much a part of the Fourteenth’s social scene as any of the unit’s EDEN members.

The sole exception was Viktor Ryvkin, the Fourteenth’s only medicallytrained slayer. He was reviled by just about everyone. Murmurings of an affair between Viktor and Varvara Yudina had surfaced shortly after the events in Verkhoyanskiy. Rumors turned to fact when Dostoevsky, delivering a routine message to
Lieutenant
Ryvkin’s quarters, made the infamous mistake of not knocking first. A shaft of hallway light and the sudden shrieking of a bare-breasted Varvara were all it took to deliver the adulterous couple into the depths of unit-wide ire. It had also hurled the one-eyed Texan, Jayden, into a downward spiral that had yet to find bottom.

Dostoevsky’s gaze came to rest on one of the fallen Bakma. Its body was covered in dark red fluid, where assault rifle bullets had tattered its flesh. The alien shivered uncontrollably, clinging to a life that was on the verge of expiring. The fulcrum dropped to a knee, staring through his featureless faceplate into the alien’s opaque, bulging eyes. The Bakma’s lips quivered, and it turned its head just enough to show that it indeed registered the black knight above it. Dostoevsky unfastened his helmet, setting it aside as he met the Bakma with his real eyes. Reaching down, he cupped his hands around the Bakma’s gnarled claws. “It will be over soon.” Dostoevsky repeated the words softly several more times, squeezing the Bakma’s fingers just enough to convey his sincerity.

The alien sputtered, sucking in short, exhausted breaths, its eyes never once wavering from the human above it. Then release finally came. Inhaling a breath never to be exhaled, the Bakma’s head slowly sunk back. Its body went limp.

Dostoevsky stared at the body for several seconds, his hand never releasing the fallen alien’s. Then slowly, the fulcrum closed his own eyes. Whispered words escaped his lips as he bowed his head.