The Glorious Becoming (8 page)

The rest of Archer’s day passed quickly. No mention was made during the afternoon Council meeting of the Ceratopian vessel, ensuring that the fine details of its crash had gone unnoticed by Pauling and the others—a direct result of having the “right people” in the position of first notification. Carol June was to thank for that.

But this was too close. There could be no more errors. No more carelessness on the part of the Ceratopians—only diligence. That was what Archer needed to fulfill the operation. It was what humanity needed to survive.

5

THURSDAY, MARCH 8
^TH
, 0012 NE

0700 HOURS

RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

P
ULLING OPEN THE
door to General Hutchin’s office, Lilan stepped inside. It was the morning following Falcon Platoon’s mission in Pennsylvania, a morning the colonel had anticipated since returning from the previous night’s mission. He was about to tell the general about his Ceratopian versus Ceratopian suspicion. Delivering new information like that gave Lilan a purpose beyond just training rookies. It made him matter.

Lilan’s relationship with Hutchin had seen its highs and lows over the years and was now resting somewhere in the middle. The colonel hadn’t taken well to having his unit turned into a post-graduate training course, though time had tempered his initial anger. Lilan hoped he wasn’t finally accepting his age, but was aware that it was a sad possibility.

Entwining his fingers atop his desk, Hutchin smiled at the colonel. “I hear you’ve got something for me. Let’s hear it.”

“General, I believe the Ceratopians may be engaged in a civil war.”

It was impossible to become fully accustomed to Lilan’s level of bluntness. The colonel wasn’t one to beat around the bush; he typically ripped the bush up by the roots. Hutchin lowered his spectacles, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Run that one by me again?”

“At the Pennsylvania callout last night, Major Tacker noticed severe hull damage at the rear of the Ceratopian Cruiser, opposite from the side of ground impact. The structural damage was consistent with heavy neutron weaponry. In the initial callout, Command indicated that this was a delayed crash from an earlier encounter. I don’t believe that was the case. I believe another Ceratopian vessel may have shot this one down.”

Hutchin placed his spectacles on the table. For several seconds, he simply stared at the colonel. Finally, he leaned back in his chair. “We’ve fought against these jokers for a decade now, and we’ve seen nothing to indicate a civil war among any species.”

Lilan’s tone lowered. “With all due respect, general, it took ten years to find out that the Bakma and Ceratopians were at war against each other.”

After the initial impact of the statement, the general chuckled. “True.”

“We need to tell EDEN Command about this,” Lilan said. “We need them to investigate, just in case there’s any possibility here of intraspecies combat. Something like that could be groundbreaking.”

“What if it was just friendly fire?”

“Sir, what if it wasn’t?”

Hutchin sighed. “I’m not arguing, I’m just telling you these are the questions Command will ask. Look, if a civil war theory turns out to be true, it could be game-changing. Absolutely, I’ll pass it on to Command. I’m just preparing you for what they’re going to say. Have you mentioned this to anyone else?”

“No, sir. I didn’t want rumors to start. But I know what Tacker and I saw. That was a neutron blast, and it was right by the engine. Someone hit that ship right where they needed to.”

“I’ll get it in Command’s hands today.”

“Thank you, sir.” Lilan stepped back in preparation to leave.

Holding up a hand, Hutchin said, “Not so fast, colonel. I’ve got something for you, too.” Picking up a document from his desktop, he handed it to the colonel. “You’re getting a new rookie from
Philadelphia
. He comes in Monday.”

Lilan raised an eyebrow. “I’m getting a rookie
now
? Graduation’s a full month away.”

“Not for this guy.”

Lilan eyed the general then looked at the dossier. He blinked at the very first line. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, it’s serious, colonel. Command wants to be ahead of the game with this one, slip him in under the radar. If they wait until graduation, this place’ll be a media circus. The kid doesn’t need that.”

“Strom Faerber? Falcon is getting
Strom Faerber
?”

The general nodded. “That’s right.”

“What’d I do to deserve
this
?”

“Come on, Brent,” answered Hutchin. “This is a big deal.”

Lilan stared at the document. “More like a big distraction.”

“Command wants him broken in slowly. The kid’s dad is the most decorated soldier on the planet. We don’t need anything happening to compromise that, like his son getting shot in the head.”

“Meaning...”

“Meaning he’s a part of Falcon,” Hutchin said, “but not a
part
of Falcon. Training only, on base, one-on-one with you. Don’t even let your other operatives know he’s there. If there comes a time when he’s ready to accompany them on missions, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. In the meantime, keep him clean.”

Lilan skimmed to the bottom of the document. Everything from grades, to professor remarks, to physical scores, screamed
off the charts
. Keep the kid clean? What a waste. “I’d say ‘thanks, but no thanks,’ but something tells me I don’t have a choice.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Well, ain’t that a peach?” Returning to attention, Lilan offered General Hutchin a half-hearted salute. It was returned in similar fashion. Without another word, Lilan left for the door.

* * *

I
T WAS ALMOST 0730
hours when Catalina’s eyelids flickered open. Moaning softly from under her covers, she arched her neck and shoulders back. The motion ended with a sigh.

Tiffany was snoring from the bunk beneath her. The blonde was one of the noisiest sleepers Catalina had ever known. But after two years with Tiffany at
Philadelphia
, the Canadian was all but used to it by now. Easing down the side of the bunk, Catalina’s feet touched the cold tile floor. Wincing briefly, she crept to her closet.

It was already later than she typically slept. Most of her comrades were probably already in the cafeteria. Slipping on her jersey, Catalina looked in the mirror. “Oh, come on,” she whispered. Leaning close to her reflection, she examined the newly-emerging pimple on the right side of her cheek. “Veck.” She wasn’t a fan of cosmetics, but when it came to pimples, all bets were off. Grabbing her makeup, she began masking the spot. That was one thing about Tiffany that annoyed her—the pilot was immune to acne. It was one of life’s numerous injustices. Satisfied with her efforts, Catalina tied her hair into a ponytail and made for the door.

Catalina had joined Falcon Platoon with the December class of 0011, as had most of her teammates. In the two months she’d been a soldier, she’d crawled up to the rank of beta private. According to the rumor mill, she and Mark Peters were on the verge of a promotion to gamma, a rank she wanted to beat him to at all costs. But as much as Mark was her personal rival, it was a different soldier’s accomplishments that Catalina had her sights on.

His name was Scott Remington. She’d never met him, nor did she care about him outside of one simple fact: he’d accomplished more in a shorter period of time than anyone else in EDEN history. As far as Lilan and Tacker were concerned, Remington was the golden boy of Falcon Platoon. He was a ghost who haunted the unit on a daily basis, someone whose accomplishments they’d repeatedly been encouraged to emulate.

She’d first heard of Remington in
Philadelphia
, where he’d been the talk of the Academy after the
Battle of Chicago
. What he’d done was legendary. A soldier, on his first mission, taking charge of a strike team and leading it through hell to claim victory. Everyone had watched his press conference. He’d given every cadet hope that they could make a difference—that any one of them could singlehandedly win the war.

Then he was gone.

She wasn’t sure if it was because he’d merely been a flavor of the week, because something had derailed his career, or because he was dead, but no one ever talked about him again—at least not by name. Of course, the
Battle of Chicago
was still talked about. But instead of the discussions being about Scott Remington, they were about “that guy who was on his first mission.” Truth be told, she’d forgotten his name, too, until she ended up in his former unit. Until she ended up in his room.

It was Major Tacker who had broken it to her that Room 419, the room she shared with Tiffany, was formerly Remington’s. That was all the coincidence Catalina needed to become totally driven. She wanted to do what he did. She wanted to do it
better
. After enlisting in EDEN for no good reason at all, chasing the ghost of Remington was the first driving purpose she’d felt. She wanted to catch him more than she wanted to defend Earth. It was egocentric, but it was better than no purpose at all.

According to Tacker, Remington had been transferred to
Novosibirsk,
one of the larger EDEN bases, located in Russia. Apparently
Novosibirsk
was where people called
Nightmen
resided, but she didn’t know much more than that.
Novosibirsk
was the last that anyone had heard of the alpha private who’d won a Golden Lion. For all practical purposes, he no longer existed. That made him all the more challenging to catch.

The cafeteria was bustling, like always. Everywhere Catalina looked, operatives were beginning their daily routines, eating breakfast with their units and making their way to wherever it was they were scheduled to go. Outside of the lack of creature comforts, life at
Richmond
wasn’t terribly different from life at
Philadelphia
. A day could be spent training and studying, with the only significant difference being that at any given moment, your comm could go off and you could find yourself in the middle of a field fighting loose necrilids. Comm calls happened with just enough frequency to prevent a sense of complacency.

Catalina’s Charlie Squad teammates were seated together at one of the central tables, with Tom King and the black operatives several seats down from the whites. There wasn’t outright racial tension in the squad—everyone just seemed satisfied to sit with their own ethnic group. Once she had her tray of food, she approached the table and sat down.

Mark Peters, Leslie Kelly, and Frank Smith were sitting together. The moment Catalina saw Mark, her jaw clenched. She wasn’t over yesterday. Not by a long shot. And despite her desire to join her other friends, he was the last person she wanted to be around. As soon as she sat down, Mark cleared his throat. “Well look who decided to wake up. Morning, Hellcat.”

The nickname was one she’d earned on her first mission. She’d pulled off a fairly incredible long-distance shot against a retreating Bakma during a Noboat assault. She’d tagged the alien square in the back of the head from several hundred meters out. The effort prompted Mark to blurt, “Hell, Cat,” and the moniker stuck. But if he thought throwing out pet names was going to soothe her over right now, he had another thing coming.

“Where’s your blonder half?” Mark asked.

Catalina blatantly ignored him. Looking directly at the other two, she smiled. “Good morning, Leslie Kelly. Frank.”

“Good morning, Cat,” Leslie said. She was the unit’s technician, a young woman who leaned a little on the plump side, with bright eyes and short, almost orange-red hair. She was also the only operative never called by first name alone. Everyone called her
Leslie Kelly
for the sake of cuteness.

If Leslie Kelly’s name owned the cuteness title, Frank Smith’s owned the generic one. The unit’s medic, he was a fairly boyish young man with a mess of curly brown hair and a smile that was both innocent and goofy. He was well-intentioned.

Of the four of them, Mark was the only one who looked like a prototypical soldier. He had muscles that were defined enough to give him an athlete’s appearance, but not obtrusive enough to make him look like an ox. He looked cocky, from his dark red hair to the seemingly permanent smirk that was plastered on his face. On a good day, she found his smirk alluring. Today was not a good day.

“What? You ignoring me?” he asked.

Catalina swallowed a bite. Her stare remained fixed on Leslie and Frank. “Would one of you kindly inform Mr. Peters that at the moment, he does not exist in my world?”

“Gimme a break,” Mark said. “You gonna do this all day?”

Catalina chewed, saying nothing, with the only indication that she’d heard him being a knowing smile that barely curved up.

“C’mon. Talk to me.”

She pointed at the other two, indicating to Mark that if he intended to communicate, it would have to be through them.

Mark’s expression said
lame
. He turned to Leslie. “Kindly ask Ms. Shivers if she plans to ignore me for the rest of the day.”

“Catalina,” Leslie said, “Mark would like to know if you plan to ignore him for the rest of the day.”

The Canadian nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“Yes, she does.”

“Well, that’s just great,” said Mark.

Catalina swallowed some orange juice. “You may tell Mr. Peters that, should he choose to confess his shortcomings yesterday, his silent punishment might be rescinded.”

“Mark, should you choose to—”

“I heard her, dingbat.”

“In addition,” said Catalina, “he must apologize to Leslie Kelly for calling her a dingbat.”

Leslie smiled smugly at Mark.

“So guys,” Frank interjected, “last night I read in
Tech Weekly
—”

“Shut up, Frank,” the other three said simultaneously.

Mark crossed his arms. “Leslie Kelly, I’m sorry you’re a dingbat.”