The Glorious Becoming (66 page)

“Boris!” she screamed over the comm. “Did they take back the trams?”

There was a pause before the technician answered. “Yes! I am sorry, I have been programming transports. I have lost all the trams!”

In the same moment that the guards opened fire, something equally horrible caught the scout’s eyes. Necrilids. Not wild, escaped necrilids. Necrilids amid the humans. The patrol units. It didn’t matter that she’d met the one called Tiburon. As soon as the guards pointed to her, the pack of four creatures bounded ferociously in her direction.

Gasping, Esther turned and bolted back down the hall, noticing for the first time that Centurion was gone as she rounded a corner to return to his cell. Her breathing grew tight. The necrilids’ clawing grew closer. Whipping around desperately, Esther tried to get a bead on one with her pistol. But the monsters were too fast. They leapt from wall-to-wall with insatiable ferocity. Losing her footing on the slippery surface, Esther fell flat on her rear. She was facing the necrilids dead on. They were meters away.

She was about to be ripped apart.

Suddenly and all at once, the patrol units dug in their heels. Their claws skidded frenetically; they reared their heads away. It wasn’t an attack—it was an emergency deviation. They were slamming on the brakes. Esther’s head turned to look behind her, to see what the predators were reacting to.

It was ten feet of metallic, full-body armor—a colossal, five-horned machine, lumbering around the corner with earth-shaking mass. And it was holding a neutron rifle. As the necrilids wavered back and forth diffidently, Centurion leaned forward, spread his arms out, and roared. The Ceratopian bodyguard was fully geared.

Had Esther allowed a second for recollection, she might have remembered the laboratory tables with alien armor and weapons scattered throughout Confinement. But she didn’t have a second. Gripping her pistol, she launched herself from the floor toward Centurion, sliding feet-first behind him.

Hissing hesitantly, one of the necrilids arched its back and sprung toward Centurion, jaws opened. Centurion’s free hand lashed out, his fingers wrapping tightly around the necrilid’s neck in mid-jump. Rasping desperately, the beast scratched at Centurion’s face, its claws clanging and deflecting off the Ceratopian’s armored helmet. Growling lowly as the other necrilids watched, Centurion leaned in to look the monster in the face, tilting its head in dominating boldness. Then, with a single violent flick of his forearm, Centurion snapped the necrilid’s neck. The patrol unit was tossed to the ground next to Esther, its nerves twitching before its body went limp.

Centurion aimed his neutron rifle just as the EDEN guards rounded the corner. Zaps of red neon burst forth; humans and necrilids scattered in all directions, some avoiding the blasts, the others careening off the walls as if struck by a train. Within moments, they were in full-fledged retreat.

Wiping hair from her face, Esther leapt on Centurion’s back, scaling the titan until she was looking over his shoulder, one hand clinging to the alien’s armor, the other aiming her pistol. “All right, you beast,” she sputtered. “Full speed ahead.”

Bellowing loudly, the Ceratopian surged forward.

* * *

NOVOSIBIRSK

O
N THE SURFACE
of
Novosibirsk
, the Nightmen were being decimated. The global forces of EDEN, led by Vector Squad, were pushing steadily through the defenses of The Machine. Plumes of fire erupted in every direction; orange bullet trails zinged back and forth. All across the grounds of
Novosibirsk
, the dark warriors of General Thoor—slayers, fulcrums, and sentries—lay strewn across the concrete. It was turning into a massacre.

Running full-speed for the hangar were Dostoevsky and the Fourteenth. With every whizz that flew past their ears, they ducked lower and lower to the ground. Far ahead, beside the fiery wreck of
Novosibirsk
’s massive hangar, sat the
Pariah
.

“Travis, status?” asked Dostoevsky. The fulcrum dropped to a knee behind some cover, motioning for the operatives behind him to hurry. Next to him, David and Egor joined in the fight. EDEN was shooting anything and everything that moved out of
Novosibirsk
, Nightman or not.

Derrick stutter-stepped, his chest bursting with red liquid. The southerner toppled to the ground.

“Derrick!”
William skidded and turned around.

“Will, come on!” shouted David, tugging at the demolitionist’s shoulder. “Get to cover!” William wasn’t budging. Looking around desperately, David found Varvara. “Get over here!” The all-but-forgotten medic hurried Derrick’s way.

Inside the
Pariah
, Travis and Tiffany were prepping the engines for liftoff. Hopping into the seat beside him, Tiffany assumed the role of copilot without having to be asked.

“Come on, baby, fire up!” Travis said. After a moment of mechanical clunking, the feral dog roared to life. Travis got on the comm. “She’s alive, get in!”

In the midst of a barrage of enemy gunfire, David and Varvara finally managed to pull William from Derrick’s body. There was nothing any of them could do for the fallen southerner—he was dead and too far in the open to risk dragging along. As soon as William was in the
Pariah,
he curled into a ball on the floor.

“Everyone, get on board!” Dostoevsky shouted, waving the others on.

“Do we even have anny equipment in here?” asked Becan. Travis answered in the negative. “Well tha’s jus’ bleedin’ grand!”

I
T HAD TAKEN
Max and Svetlana several minutes to escape from the barracks. Despite its protection behind the superstructure that was
Novosibirsk
’s main building, it had still become an indirect target of the Superwolves’ attacks. Every piece of the main building that flew through the air, every guard tower that collapsed, and every stray missile strike or volley of gunfire that peppered the earth placed the infirmary in peril.

Bursting from its easternmost exit, the pair finally found a path of safety back to the barracks. According to Tanneken, the Thirty-ninth’s Vulture was perched on the southern end of the base where the unit had been working some training exercises the previous day, just south of the officers’ wing. Avoiding the chaos of the outside grounds, Max and Svetlana once again dashed for a pair of double doors—this time on a course that would take them through the inside of the barracks. The lieutenant was gripping Svetlana’s hand firmly in an effort both to speed her along and help her maintain footing whenever the grounds of
Novosibirsk
shook.

They were halfway through the second set of barracks when the hallway far ahead of them erupted in an explosion of fire and rubble. Sliding to a stop, the pair watched in horror as the hallway burst into flames.

“Doggonit!” Turning Svetlana around, Max bolted for one of the side doors. He got back on the comm. “Ann, we just lost half of B-3—we’re gonna have to hit the outside!”

Tanneken’s voice crackled through the comm. “Are you still in B-3?”

“What’s left of it.”

“We are almost ready to lift off. Stand-by, I am coming to you.”

With Sveta at his side, Max sprinted for a pair of double-doors. Hands outstretched, he jostled the doors open. He didn’t even make it through. His body collided against someone else’s the moment he burst through the doorway. Against someone wearing solid black metal.

Oleg.

Before Max could react, Oleg’s palms were thrust square into his chest. The lieutenant’s feet left the ground as he flew flat on his back. Svetlana gasped as the fulcrum turned to her.

Oleg grabbed her before she could run, slamming the medic headfirst into the wall with unforgiving force. Blood burst from her face as she careened off the concrete and onto the floor. Her head rolled limply.

Max heaved to catch his breath even as he staggered to his feet. Reaching wildly for his belt, he yanked out his handgun.

Oleg ducked just as Max’s shot zinged past him. In a single fluid motion, the fulcrum grabbed his own pistol, raised it up, and fired. Max never had a chance to re-aim. The technician’s eyes bulged as a bullet passed through his neck; he clutched the wound and tumbled to the floor. Within seconds, blood was pooling around his head.

Hoisting Svetlana over his armored shoulder, Oleg turned and carried her down the hall. Max wasn’t even given a final glance. The technician was left to bleed out.

I
N THE THIRTY-NINTH’S
lead Vulture, Tanneken Brunner was barking out commands to her squad. Gripping the hand railing, the petite, pigtailed brunette ordered her transports to get airborne. Slinging her comm to her lips, she turned and looked out the open bay door. “We’re on our way, Max. Where are you?”

Silence.

Turning to her pilot, Tanneken screamed, “Why are we not off the ground yet? Move!” Her focus returned to the comm. “Max, did you copy? We are on our way, we need your position.” The Vulture’s engines flared up; it ascended from the ground amid gunfire and explosions. The Dutch captain switched frequencies. “Voronova! Where are you?” Again, she got no reply. Very subtly, Tanneken’s eyes winced. She spun around again. “Get to B-3, you damn fool!” Snatching her E-35 from the bench, she slammed in a fresh magazine and looked at her lieutenant. “Sokolov, get ready to come with me. Commander Shavrin has control until my return.”

“Your return, captain?” asked Shavrin.

“Did I stutter?” Tanneken asked scathingly, white-knuckling the rail as the Vulture lowered again near barracks number three. Lieutenant Sokolov took to her side as the ship touched down. “If I am not back in five minutes, leave.” Affirmation came, and the captain dashed from the ship.

Half of B-3 was in ruin, a long trail of black smoke pouring into the erupting night sky. Tips of her pigtails dangling behind her helmet, Tanneken jerked open the nearest traversable set of doors—the ones Max would have naturally taken to meet her outside. She needed only two steps in to find him.

Max was laying on his back, a pool of blood soaking the back of his head, his body shivering as he clutched his neck unremittingly.

Tanneken’s feet locked up; the Dutch woman gasped.
“Max!”
She threw her helmet off and slid to Max’s side. Her breathing increased as panicked Dutch flew from her mouth. “Oh my God, Max, oh my God! What happened?” Max’s gaze found her, but only distantly. He was in shock. Her hands moving around him frantically, Tanneken looked lost. “I need a medic,” she said to Sokolov, whipping around to face him. “Comm Pedersen! Hurry!” Complying, Sokolov lifted his comm.

Then they appeared, rounding the corner just as Sokolov pressed the queue button and prompting him to release his comm and reach for his weapon. They never gave him the chance. A single gunshot erupted, and Sokolov’s assault rifle was shot clean out of his hands. Tanneken looked up as Sokolov flinched back.

Vector Squad.

It was a small team—a strike team. As the Vector at point aimed his smoking X-111 chaos rifle, a single word spewed from his mouth in Russian, then German, then English. “Freeze!”

Tanneken was on the verge of tears. All regard for Vector’s status or the fact that they were the assailant went out the window. She pled immediately. “Please. He needs medical attention—he will
die
.”

Shouldering his chaos rifle, the Vector at point hesitated. Behind his clear visor, dubious gray eyes scrutinized her.

The Vector behind him spoke. “We ain’t got time for ‘dis, chief. We gotta move.”

The man at point said nothing—he simply stared at Tanneken.

“Please,” Tanneken whispered, eyes glistening as her bloodied hands held Max.

The forward Vector hesitated, glanced back, then nodded. Motioning for his troops to secure the hallway around him, he knelt beside Max and removed his helmet. Parted jet-black hair fell around his face—his nametag read Hill. He pushed Tanneken aside.

Still trembling, the Dutch captain spoke fervently. “He needs a medic. Please, if you have one—”

Hill looked at her pointedly, motioning toward his belt where an assortment of handguns, grenades, and knives was visible. And in the middle of it all was a medical kit.

“Minh, it’s Vince,” Hill said into his comm as he removed his kit. He was deep-voiced, British. “Bring the
Relentless
to the barracks. I have a medical evac.” He looked at Tanneken. “You can go.”

Turning to Sokolov, Tanneken said, “Go back to the ship. Tell Shavrin I said to leave. Do it now.” Acknowledging, Sokolov turned and left. Tanneken pointed to Max and said to Hill, “Where he goes, I go.” She eyed his insignia briefly. “And I outrank you.”

A glint of surprise struck Hill’s face. Then, very faintly, the Vector medic smirked. “Yes, ma’am.”

Tanneken nodded approvingly as Hill went to work.

“T
RAVIS, GET US
airborne!” Dostoevsky shouted. The remnants of the Fourteenth grabbed onto the support rails of the
Pariah
. “Max, have you reached Brunner’s unit?”

Tanneken answered. “This is Brunner. Max has been shot.”

Silence struck the
Pariah
’s crew. “What do you mean?” Dostoevsky asked. “How was Max shot?”

“I do not know. I found him in the hall—Vector Squad has a medic working on him.”

“Vector Squad?” the fulcrum asked. The others listened anxiously. “Where is Svetlana?”

Tanneken answered, “I don’t know. When I found him, she was gone.”

Immediately, David and Becan rose up. “We’re not leavin’ her,” the Irishman said.

Dostoevsky held out his hand. “No.”

“What do yeh mean
no
?”

Readying his assault rifle, Dostoevsky said, “Goronok, come with me. We will find Sveta. The rest of you need to rescue Scott and the others.” Egor acknowledged and trotted down the ramp.

The
Pariah
’s hull was bring rocked by gunfire. Travis shot a look back. “We don’t have a lot of time!”

Dostoevsky and Egor were already off the ship. David and Becan remained in the open bay door. “Get to Scott,” Dostoevsky said. “Save the others. Go.”