Epic: Book 02 - Outlaw Trigger

Outlaw Trigger

Lee Stephen

Stone Aside Publishing, L.L.C.

Copyright (c) 2008 Lee Stephen.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

ISBN-10: 0-9788508-1-5

ISBN-13: 978-0-9788508-1-4

Editing by Arlene Prunkl

Cover Illustration by Francois Cannels

Book Design by Fiona Raven

First Printing December 2007

Printed in USA

v1

Published by

Stone Aside Publishing, L.L.C.

Dedicated to

Humanity

0

Sunday, July 31
^st
, 0011 NE

0500 hours

Novosibirsk, Russia

Alexander Nijinsky stared through the darkness that was the Hall of the Fulcrums, his eyes resting on the wooden doors before him. He was inside the Citadel of The Machine—the heart of the Nightman sect. In truth, it looked more like a dungeon. The orange light of wall-mounted torches danced across the surface of his badge, intermittently illuminating the blue and silver of the EDEN logo upon it. He drew in a breath of preparation and turned his eyes to the sentries by the door.

One of them shifted to face him. He spoke through the zombified stare of his helmet. “Alexander Nijinsky?”

The flames on the wall flickered as the new initiate stood beneath their hues. “That is me,” he answered in native Russian.

“
Enter.”

The wooden doors clanked as a giant deadbolt slid from behind them. Nijinsky pressed his hand against its thickened frame and it opened with an antiquated groan.

Novosibirsk
was built over Fort Zhukov, an acropolis dating deep into the Old Era. The surface of the fort had been cleared to make room for the EDEN facility, but the underground structure remained. Initially, the ruins served no purpose. But to Thoor, they were ideal for his lair. The underground of Fort Zhukov was excavated and re-established, not as a part of the base itself, but as the enigmatical home of the Nightmen. EDEN didn’t even know it was there.

It suited them perfectly. The walls were constructed with stones. Torchlight illuminated its passageways. And a throne was prepared for its god. The concept was part function, part madness.

It was all Ignatius van Thoor.

The Inner Sanctum itself was enormous. It was Nijinsky’s first time inside. Torches lined its limestone walls and a crimson strip of carpet led deeper within. Nijinsky stepped forward as the doors clunked shut behind him. He flinched; then his ice-blue eyes scanned ahead.

There were no sentries in the chamber. Far in the front of the room, the horns of a Nightman’s fulcrum armor stood silhouetted against the sparse lighting. Behind the Nightman, a stairway ascended to the throne. The throne of the Terror who ruled them. But the Terror could not be seen; he was veiled in darkness.

“
Alexander Nijinsky,” the Nightman said. He wore no mechanized helmet. His voice was natural and clear. “You may come forward.”

Nijinsky gave no verbal response. He hadn’t been asked to. He straightened into an erect posture and marched toward the throne. When he came within scrutiny’s distance of the Nightman, he stopped.

The Nightman was slender. He was of dangerous stature; the dark curves of his armor complemented his tanned face to perfect atrocity. His jet-black hair was slicked back, and his eyes pierced ahead.

“
My name,” the Nightman said, “is Yuri Dostoevsky. But you will address me as commander. You have never heard my name before, correct?”

“
I have not, commander.”

“
And you have never seen my face before?”

“
No, commander,” Nijinsky answered, “I have not.” His eyes flitted behind Dostoevsky to the darkness of the throne. They lingered for a moment, then returned.

“
I have heard your name before,” Dostoevsky said, “and I have seen your face. We both know why you are here.” Dostoevsky took a single step forward. Scrutinizing Nijinsky’s uniform, he angled his head into a question. “Do you like that badge, Alexander?”

Nijinsky looked down at his jersey. His EDEN badge, the rank of delta trooper etched on its surface, reflected the flickers of light. “No, commander.”

“
Do you wish to wear a different one?”

“
Yes, commander. I do.”

Dostoevsky’s stare locked onto Nijinsky’s. His expression suddenly turned hard. “Then you know what it is you must do.”

Nijinsky drew a breath. “Yes, commander.”

Dostoevsky lifted his hand. Enclosed in it was a flat metal box, its hinges tainted with rust. He extended it to Nijinsky.

Nijinsky took it and gazed down upon it. His fingers traced its deteriorated edges. Then he opened it. Inside was a photo and a ring. “Who is she?”

“
Her name is unimportant. She will come to you.”

Nijinsky’s eyes lowered again, where they regarded his badge. The bold letters of EDEN stood proud amid the silver and blue of its frame. His pupils shrunk, and he returned his focus to the commander. “I will do what it is you require.”

“
Return when it is done, and you will be given what you seek.”

There was no hesitation. “Yes, commander.” Nijinsky bowed his head, gazing into the shadow of the throne a final time. He peered there for a moment, before he stepped back, turned around, and strode out of the chamber. The wooden doors closed in his wake.

Dostoevsky listened as Nijinsky’s footsteps disappeared down the Hall of the Fulcrums. Behind him, atop the merciless shadow of stairs, the Terror rose from his throne. When he spoke, his voice bellowed from the walls.

“
You are certain he will do this?”

Watching the wooden doors, Dostoevsky answered, “Yes, general. His heart is filled with passion.”

“
But will he take a life?”

Dostoevsky fell quiet. Torchlight reflected from the curves of his horns. His eyes grew colder. “For this…yes, he will.”

The clump of boot steps sounded from the top of the stairway. With every stomp, the Terror ascended closer to the ground—the Terror that was Ignatius van Thoor. As he emerged from the darkness, his remorseless eyes came into view. “Then we shall wait for him to come to us.”

As his voice stopped, the subtle sounds of the Inner Sanctum resurfaced. The flickers of the torches danced in place. Moisture dripped from the cracks in the walls. There were noises from things unseen.

Dostoevsky nodded his head. “Yes, general.”

Thoor stomped his boot to the floor and snapped his fist to his chest. It hovered above his uniform as he bore down at the Nightman he had summoned.

Dostoevsky returned the salute. His own fist hovered over his dark uniform for several seconds before the general relinquished his pose. Dostoevsky then turned away.

He marched down the crimson carpet of the Inner Sanctum and out of the wooden doors. The sentries saluted as Dostoevsky strode silently past them.

He left the Citadel of The Machine without stopping.

PART I

1

Sunday, July 31
^st
, 0011 NE

1228 hours

Western Mongolia

Three months after the assault on
Novosibirsk

Scott smiled as he stood atop the incline. The landscape that stretched before him was surreal. Strokes of wind gently caressed the grass, as the lush splendor of the Altai Mountains stretched far to the south. It was like nothing he’d imagined. It was better. He inhaled the scent of the natural world as he whispered a breviloquent prayer.

It was his first time visiting Mongolia. It had never been a place on his list. Then again, most places weren’t.

As he stared off into the distance, Becan stepped to his side. “Tha’s a lovely view.”

Scott smiled. He couldn’t help it. “Yes, it is.”

The Irishman stood quietly beside him for several moments, then propped his e-35 assault rifle against his shoulder. “Yeh realize wha’ will happen if we fail here?” After several seconds of silence, he answered his own question. “Literally dozens o’ innocent elk will be left defenseless.”

Scott stared off at the landscape once more, then allowed his gaze to drift downward. Downward to the bottom of the incline, where a lone Bakma Noboat lay in wreck. Mongolia had never been a place on his list. Most places weren’t.

He cast a purposeful glance at Becan, then smiled. “We can’t allow that to happen.”

Becan smiled. “Let’s pound some purple monkeys, then.”

Turning around, Scott stood before his crew. His crew. The best undermanned crew in the world—at least in his mind. “All right, everyone. Here’s the plan.”

Max rubbed his oil-stained stubble as Scott spoke.

“
We’ll engage from our position right now,” Scott said. “Max and I will take point. David, Oleg, and Becan, the three of you will v-neck behind us. Varya, you stay in our wake.”

She affirmed.

“
Jay, stay here with Galina and tend to the unexpected.”

“
Yessir.”

“
Travis,” Scott said through his comm, “are you listening?”

“
Loud and clear,” answered Travis from the
Pariah
, which sat perched in the distance.

“
Get airborne and get in front of us. You’re going to be our lead blocker. Stay in front of our charge and maintain pressure on the boat. If you see anyone—
anyone
—open fire. Keep them inside.”

“
Will do, I’ve got Boris on guns.”

“
Take off.”

The
Pariah
‘s engines hummed to life, and it lifted.

“
So that’s the plan, huh?” David asked as he stepped up to Scott.

“
Is there a problem with the plan?”

David grinned. “Any plan with a ‘lead blocker’ is fine with me.”

“
All right,” Scott said. “Then let’s go.”

It was Scott’s third mission as lead officer. Clarke and Dostoevsky had stayed behind. That was the perk of having a lieutenant who happened to be a Golden Lion—
the
Golden Lion. When a situation came up, Scott could handle it. And handle it he always did.

Scott skidded as he rushed down the hill. Smoke drifted from the Noboat at the bottom of the incline, but no hole could be seen in its hull. He was sure there was damage inside.

Bakma emerged from the doorway.

“
Contact!” Travis said through the comm. As ordered preemptively, the
Pariah
opened fire. Its nose-mounted cannon erupted with orange the moment the Bakma emerged. The shots exploded around the Noboat’s entranceway and its inhabitants fell back inside.

Scott got to the bottom of the hill first, where he dropped to one knee. The door to the Noboat was wide open. His hand felt his belt for a grenade. One good toss could take out half of the crew, or whoever was still alive by the door. His fingers curled around the grenade’s surface. Then they stopped.

We can take this thing clean.