The Glorious Becoming (46 page)

“It was contextual reassurance!”

“What?”

Travis’s palms hit his face.

All of a sudden, a gloved hand grabbed Travis’s right wrist. Tiffany’s wrist was clutched, too. Before either of them could react, they were thrust together as handcuffs snapped closed between them.

Travis’s eyes widened.
“No freakin’ way!”

The sentry nodded pleasingly. “That was a really good idea.”

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no!” exclaimed Tiffany. “This is
not
cool!”

“I wasn’t suggesting that you
actually
handcuff us together!” said Travis.

“He said he had to take a dump!”

Travis shot her a stupid face. “I didn’t say I had to take a dump, I said I might have to take one in the future.”

“Oh, what-
ever
, as if there’s any chance you’ll never have to take a dump again in your life!”

“Well hell, it’s the same for you!”

“Oh yeah? Well I can hold it.”

“For freakin’ days?”

“We’re not gonna be together for
freakin’ days
!”

The sentry quietly snuck away.

* * *

R
OOM 14 WAS
buzzing with activity. The moment word leaked from Max and William that the
Pariah
had returned, every single Fourteenth operative—the lone exception being Travis—flocked to Room 14 in search of answers. The burden of finding them fell on Dostoevsky.

Several things had been relayed to Dostoevsky from the Citadel, all of which he conveyed to the Fourteenth. Several transports had been shot down. Klaus Faerber’s son was aboard one of them. The
Pariah
was among the interceptors. That all of the interceptors, the
Pariah
included, had made a beeline for
Novosibirsk
immediately after their attack was as damning as evidence could be against the base known as The Machine. And according to the Citadel’s claim to Dostoevsky, that was exactly the way EDEN wanted it.

The key was the
Pariah
itself. It had been shipped off for repair, away from
Novosibirsk
. It was never returned, the word from EDEN being that it was unsalvageable. Clearly, it had been salvaged.

The question was
why
?

It smelled of a setup.
Novosibirsk
had been lied to by EDEN, that much was provable—at least from
Novosibirsk
’s point of view. But if this was indeed a setup, EDEN would undoubtedly deny that the
Pariah
or any vessel from
Novosibirsk
had ever been shipped to them for repair. And if that was believed by the rest of the world, as it likely would be, then only one truth would be plainly visible to them:
Novosibirsk
had just killed Klaus Faerber’s son.

“So if everything in the world points to us,” David asked, “how are we supposed to prove that it wasn’t us?”

Dostoevsky answered, “A woman pilot flew the
Pariah
back to The Machine. I don’t know who she is, or if she is involved in anything—”

“She’s not,” Max tactfully interrupted. “Just trust me on that one.”

The fulcrum nodded. “Regardless, she may be the key.”

“So Thoor could just show this girl to the rest of the world, right?” asked David. “She can tell them what really happened.”

Hesitating, Dostoevsky said, “At this time, that is not what the general wishes to do—not yet. We do not know if EDEN knows she is here. I think the general wants to let EDEN accuse him first, so that when she is revealed, it will be in the wake of their deception.”

“We need to tell Scott this,” said Svetlana. “He needs to know what is going on.”

“He will find out soon enough, if not by us, by the rest of the world. If Faerber’s son was indeed on one of those ships, this will be a global event.”

“Hell o’ a way to make the world turn on yeh,” Becan said. “Kill the son o’ its most beloved hero.”

“If it’s a set-up, it’s genius,” said David.

Svetlana spoke again. “Yuri, we
must
tell Scott the truth. If he hears this from the news, he will not know what really happened.”

“We cannot do that, Sveta. It could compromise his cover. He will find out the truth, rest assured.”

“He knows what they told us about the
Pariah
,” said David. “That it couldn’t be repaired. He’ll know something’s not right.”

The door to Room 14 was suddenly and wildly flung open. A calamitous racket of footsteps and shouts followed.

“It’s gotta be there, it’s
gotta
be there!”

“
Ow
! You jerk, stop moving so fast!”

“Time is of the essence. I have to move fast!”

After a flurry of bewildered stares, the occupants of the lounge rose from their chairs and rushed to the bunk room, where Travis was frantically tearing through one of the closet toolboxes. Handcuffed to his wrist was the battered blond pilot.

“I got it!” said Travis, pulling a handsaw from the toolbox. He and the woman separated their handcuffed wrists as Travis began to furiously saw.

“What the hell?” Max asked.

Stopping the saw motion, Travis inspected the cuffs, then chucked the saw back in the closet. “Veck!”

“Travis, what is the meaning of this?” Dostoevsky asked firmly.

“They cuffed us together!” answered Travis. “A sentry did it. He said I was responsible for watching her!”

Tiffany waved timidly at the Fourteenth. “Hello.” She returned to Travis. “Okay, seriously. Fix this
now
.”

“Travis, why are
you
watching her?” asked Max.

Throwing up his free hand, Travis answered, “I don’t know! Why does anything here happen the way it does? Why’s the food suck? Why are there Nightmen? Why do we have a dog?” He pointed at Flopper, whose tail was wagging merrily.

“Oh, he’s
cute
!” Tiffany said.

“Whoa!” said William. “Is that the chick from the comm?”

“Yes, Will, this is the ‘chick from the comm.’”

“Dude,” William said, silently mouthing to Travis the word
hot
.

Tiffany was deadpanned. “I could totally just read that.”

Dostoevsky was less than amused. “Travis, stop digging around. We need to discuss this.”

“No,” Tiffany said, “he needs to cut this thing so I can go get my friends!”

William’s eyes sparkled. “She’s got
friends
?”

“Not those kinds of friends, idiot,” said Travis.

Max cleared his throat. “I don’t want to rain on you guys’ parade, but you ain’t cuttin’ through those.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those are tungsten carbide. Unless you got a diamond hacksaw sittin’ around, you might as well start rehearsing your vows.”

Shaking her head emphatically, Tiffany said, “There is like, no way I’m staying attached to this dork. There’s gotta be a key.”

“Yeah, there’s a key,” Max answered, “but if a
sentry
hooked you guys up, count me out of the team tryin’ to find it. I don’t feel like getting shot in the face.”

Covering his face, Travis fell on his rear. As soon as Tiffany’s hand followed, she yanked it back. “Stop pulling me!”

“I can’t help it!”

“Why are you giving up? Go talk to that sentry guy!”

Travis growled loudly. “Max is right. If a Nightman has the key, there’s no way we’re getting it back. They’d shoot us for asking.”

“Okay,” said Tiffany, eyeing everyone, “what the hell is a Nightman?”

Silence fell over the room—no one wanted to answer. After several seconds, Dostoevsky addressed the group. “Max, Sveta, David, stay. The rest of you, go find something to do.”

The unselected operatives groaned.

Tiffany turned, jerking Travis’s wrist. “You heard the man, let’s go.”

“Not
you
,” the fulcrum said irritatingly. “You two are obviously staying.”

The blonde’s eyes narrowed.

Within a minute, the unselected operatives had left Room 14, leaving Dostoevsky, Max, Svetlana, David, and the linked Travis and Tiffany alone. They moved to the lounge, where Travis and Tiffany claimed a table together. To ensure their privacy, Dostoevsky closed and locked the lounge door.

“All right,” said the fulcrum. “Talk.” His focus fell on Tiffany. “What is your name?”

Her face fell. “No. Freaking. Way. I am not doing this again!”

Dostoevsky raised an eyebrow.

“When I got here they stuck a sack on my head and dragged me down to some musty old cellar where they were asking me all these questions about who I was, what happened, and if I was trying to bring down the ‘Nightman sect,’ whatever that’s supposed to be.”

Waving his hand, Dostoevsky said, “I am not going to do that to you, I promise. I am asking who you are because I want to know. I am Yuri Dostoevsky, acting captain of the Fourteenth.”

“That’s not a captain’s uniform.”

He eyed his black jumpsuit. “I am what is known as a fulcrum. It is a position of leadership among the Nightmen.”

She
ugh
-ed.

“If I may?” David intervened. “I’m from EDEN, too, Miss...” He eyed her nametag. “...Medvedev?”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “This is totally not my uniform.”

“Right. Anyway. You’re probably wondering what’s up with all the black people everywhere.”

Her brow furrowed. “What black people?”

“No—no, not those kinds of black people.”

“See what I’ve been dealing with?” Travis asked.

David continued. “The people wearing black uniforms. They’re called Nightmen. They used to be a Russian military sect, disbanded a long time ago. As you can see, they’re not exactly disbanded today.” She seemed to be listening. “The Nightmen run this base, even though it belongs to EDEN. People like us, in EDEN, are kind of like...guests.”

“More like hostages with room and board,” mumbled Max.

“The captain here,” said David, pointing to Dostoevsky, “he’s a Nightman, too. He’s a fulcrum—it’s like a rank.”

She raised a free hand. “What makes them different from EDEN?”

From the other side of the lounge door, William yelled, “Because they murder people!”

David pounded his fist. “Damn it, Will!”

Kicking at the lounge door, Dostoevsky said, “If I hear any of you in that room again, you will all get beaten!” Footsteps could be heard retreating back to the hall. The bunk room door closed.

Tiffany looked mortified. “Nightmen
murder
people?” She stared at Dostoevsky.

“That probably wasn’t the best way for you to hear that,” said David.

“Not all Nightmen are like you think,” Dostoevsky said with resignation.

Tiffany pushed back her hair, dragging Travis’s hand along. “I just want to go back to
Richmond
.”

Upon mention of the base, David blinked. “You came from
Richmond
?” She nodded. “Some of us came here from
Richmond
, too! You ever heard of Falcon Platoon?”

“Umm,
yah
. That’s totally my unit.”

David’s face fell. “Wait a minute.
What
?”

“My unit, my friends. We’re in Charlie Squad of Falcon Platoon.” She blinked. “Hey, wait a minute, are you Remington?” At the mention of Scott’s name, Svetlana’s eyes widened.

“Remington’s our captain!” said David. “You mean to tell me you’re part of Colonel Lilan’ crew?”

Tiffany nodded emphatically. “That’s why we have to get back! Everyone who survived is hiding in the marsh. If we don’t rescue them, they’re gonna die!”

“How many survived?” David asked. “Did Lilan and Tacker make it?”

Frowning, Tiffany answered, “The colonel did. But Major Tacker was riding with Delta. They didn’t make it.”

“My God.” David ran his hand over his head. “Who else made it? Those were our friends.”

“Cat made it, so did Javon, Tom, and Donald. And Lilan. That’s it.”

“If you mean Donald Bell, I knew him. Lilan’s the only other name I recognize.”

“I think a lot of people have changed since you’ve been there. They either got transferred, or got preggers, or whatever.”

David tilted his head strangely. “Someone got pregnant?”

Before either of them could speak further, Travis cleared his throat. “Okay, this is a wonderful conversation and all, but can we please focus on
this
?” He lifted he and Tiffany’s cuffed wrists.

“Yeah,” said Tiffany, “we need to be separated so I can go get my friends!”

David looked at Dostoevsky. “Captain, I know this isn’t exactly convenient, but if there are survivors on the ground, they could be more evidence that this is a set-up against
Novosibirsk
.” He hesitated. “And those are some of my friends, too.”

Max folded his arms. “Not to cut off the good captain before he can answer, but EDEN sent Superwolves to take Tiffany down, Dave. That airspace is gonna be infested.”

“There’s gotta be a way!” said Tiffany. “We can’t just leave them there.”

Closing his eyes, Dostoevsky lowered his head. It wasn’t prayer—just contemplation. After several seconds, he looked up again. “There may be a way.” As the others watched him expectantly, he turned toward the exit.

“Where you goin’?” asked Max.

“To talk to General Thoor,” the fulcrum answered.

* * *

T
HOOR WAS IN
the middle of an emergency meeting with his counsel when Dostoevsky marched into the Throne Room. The others present—Oleg, Antipov, Marusich, Saretok, and Krylov—turned to regard the once-revered fulcrum.

“I
thought
I smelled something,” said Oleg in Russian.

“You come here unrequested,” Thoor said coldly.

Ignoring Oleg, Dostoevsky focused on Thoor. “I come to offer a solution.”

“I offered him a solution a long time ago,” said Oleg, “but he didn’t let me kill you.”

“Strakhov, quiet,” Thoor’s gaze returned to Dostoevsky. “To which problem does your solution pertain?”

“The rest of the unit from
Richmond
—Falcon Platoon,” Dostoevsky said. “There is a way for us to rescue them undetected.”