Epic: Book 02 - Outlaw Trigger (40 page)

They were all Nightmen.

He staggered back against the wall. His eyes trailed down to the body. The body he’d beaten. The one he’d destroyed.

No. What they were saying was impossible. Steklov was the Nightman. He was the Nightman that Dostoevsky had given him. He was the name on the paper. It was him—he was the one Scott was supposed to kill.

When it clicked, his whole stomach fell.

Dostoevsky had never said that Steklov was the murderer. He had only given Scott Steklov’s name. Scott had assumed.

Scott felt his head as it turned heavy. Why would Dostoevsky do that? Why would he give Scott an innocent name? He had known what Scott would do. He’d known that Scott would attack. Dostoevsky’s words repeated in his head.

Do what you feel that you must. Do what you know you can live with. You will take it with you for the rest of your life.

What would he take with him for the rest of his life? The death of an innocent man? That wasn’t vindication at all—that was just murder.

Scott froze.

That was just murder.

As it came to him, he felt everything turn cold. The chill down his spine stung again. The boy on the floor had been murdered, and it was Scott who had murdered him. Scott was…

No…

Dostoevsky had said it in Scott’s room. He gave Scott Steklov’s name because Scott wanted
to know it. He wanted to know it. He wanted to know who he was supposed to kill. He wanted to know who he was supposed to murder.

No. It wasn’t possible. It
couldn’t
be possible. That was too much, even for the Nightmen. Wasn’t it?

Scott was a man of God. There was only one thing that could push him enough to take another man’s life. Only one thing that even came close. It was the one girl they knew he would kill for. The one girl that they knew. But they knew. Scott had even given them her picture.

They knew what it was that he’d do.

He stumbled backward out of the room. He pushed his hands back through his hair. It was all to get him.

For the second time that week, Scott ran as fast as he could. He ran as hard as he could. He ran with the purpose of a man who was terrorized. And for the first time since her death, he prayed to God.

His legs only slowed when he reached the hall to Room 14. He could see its door in the distance. With every step forward, it seemed farther away. His heart fought the desire to rip itself out of his chest; his gut twisted in knots.

Then he saw them.

They walked out of Room 14 with a purposeful gait. They were two men that Scott had never seen before. But he knew who they were.

They were Nightmen.

In their hands, being pushed down the halls of the barracks on a cart, was a helmetless set of EDEN armor. As soon as they saw Scott, they slowed down. They didn’t stop. They simply allowed their gazes to rest upon him with looks of curiosity and smugness. Then they were past.

Scott’s final breath before entering Room 14 felt like the longest he’d ever taken in his life. Like the last breath of a man beneath a guillotine. His stomach sunk deep as he rounded the corner to enter.

Everyone else was already there. David. Becan. Jayden and Varvara. Max, Boris, and Oleg. Travis and Esther. The bunk room was virtually full. But their gazes were not fixed onto him. Their gazes were fixed on his closet. As soon as he saw what they saw, he fell to his knees.

Its horns proclaimed its sin with soulless malevolence. Stamped on its chest, beneath an upside-down crimson triangle, was a name. It was the name of a murderer. But this time, he knew the name well.

The name on the armor was his own. It was the armor of a fulcrum elite.

Behind Scott, the footsteps of a man approached in the hallway. They stopped in front of the door. Scott didn’t have to turn to know who it was. He recognized the voice as soon as it spoke.

“
He saw you in Siberia,” Dostoevsky said. “He told me that he wanted you, for us. He told me to train you. Then he asked me what it would take.”

It was real. What Scott saw before him was real. The horns, the darkness, the damnation. His rite of passage had been fulfilled with bloodthirsty vehemence. Exactly the way they had planned it.

“
You are now what you are,” said Dostoevsky. “What you have done, you must now live with. You are my brother.” The room fell silent as it was said. “You are one of us.”

Scott crumpled face first to the floor. Tears now streamed down his face. He reached out his hand, but no one took it. He cried out to God, but heard nothing but silence.

She hadn’t died for someone else. She had died for him. And he had become what had killed her.

The halls reverberated with the sobs of the lion. The devil had stolen its soul.

20

Friday, August 12
^th
, 0011 NE

EDEN Command

“
All right, everyone,” said President Pauling. “Time to read the verdict. All in favor of Archer’s proposals, let’s hear it. We’ll start with Tamiko.”

“
Yes,” she said.

“
Yes,” said Iwayama beside her.

“
Yes,” followed Judge Yu Jun Dao.

As the votes continued to be announced, Torokin gave the papers a final look. Everything written in them was perfect. Every situation was defined. Everything worked. He frowned as he scanned them further.

“
Yes,” said Lena.

“
Yes,” said Rath.

It had all been so well done. So thorough and neat. It read better than any of Kentwood’s old documents.

“
Yes,” said Castellnou.

“
Yes,” said Grinkov.

The voting stopped. After several seconds of silence, Torokin looked up. All eyes were solely on him.

“
Leonid?” asked President Pauling.

Torokin looked at the documents once again. So intelligent. So perfect. It pained him to read.

“
Judge Torokin?”

“…
yes.”

Pauling smiled widely. “Excellent! Benjamin, we’ll begin immediately. You’ve done an outstanding job.”

“
I’ll second that,” said Judge Blake. “This was magnificent.”

“
We’ve talked about
Novosibirsk
a thousand times,” added Carol June. “This is the
first
proposition that bears any semblance to a coherent plan. It’s almost embarrassing.”

Archer returned the smiles with one in kind. “Thank you all so very much. I can’t tell you what a pleasure it’s been to contribute.”

“
Let’s waste no time, then,” said Pauling. “Let’s dismiss and get prepared for our roles. Those without individual roles for this operation, your opinions are equally as valid. Feel free to keep abreast with everything going on.”

“
Yes, please,” said Archer. “No one should be in the dark with this.”

“
You’re dismissed.”

As the judges rose again, Grinkov beamed at Torokin. “I am proud of you, Leonid. You did something new.”

“
What new thing did I do?”

“
You admitted that you were wrong.”

Torokin scoffed. “When?”

“
You voted for the proposition. That is admitting, is it not?”

“
No, it is not.”

Grinkov looked past Torokin for a moment, then said, “Well, here comes your opportunity to do so.”

Torokin glanced back, where Archer was fast approaching. The new judge grinned from ear to ear. Torokin muttered under his breath.

“
I appreciate your vote of confidence tremendously, Judge Torokin,” Archer said, as he extended his hand for the ex-Vector to take. Torokin tentatively met it. “I trust you thought the proposal was satisfactory?”

“
I voted for it,” Torokin answered. “That is enough.”

“
I’m so pleased that you did.”

Grinkov cleared his throat. Far behind him, but within earshot, Judge Lena watched with satisfaction.

Torokin grumbled and looked at Archer, but his eye contact lasted only seconds. “You did very good. Very good.” He pulled his hand back to his side, and he looked away. “I was wrong about you.”

“
There’s no need to say that,” answered Archer. “You had your reservations, as you should’ve. And I must confess, I’ve been bold in the short time I’ve been here. But I truly believe in our cause. I want nothing more than to contribute.”

“
Well, you contributed. That is good.”

Archer smiled. “Thank you so much, once again.” He offered the two Russians a final nod, then stepped back to leave. “I look forward to working with you more!” Acknowledgments were exchanged, then Archer was gone.

Lena approached them a moment later. He slapped Torokin on the back. “Did I hear what I thought I heard?”

“
You heard,” Torokin mumbled as he gathered his things.

“
Good job, friend!” Lena said. “That was your first step toward recovery!”

“
And what am I recovering from?”

“
Being a curmudgeon.”

Grinkov laughed out loud.

“
What does curmudgeon mean again?” Torokin asked as he turned to walk away. “That means perfect, correct? That means excellent person?”

“
Right, that’s what it means,” answered Lena sarcastically.

“
Enough from you both. It is time for vodka and preferans.”

“
That sounds very good,” said Grinkov. “Very, very good.” With those words, the three men took their leave of the room.

Everyone but Torokin smiled.

Further up the hall, out of range of the others, Judges Blake and Rath walked in stride. Their steps were purposefully timed. Neither man spoke to the other, and only when all the other judges—all the other judges but one—had branched off from the main corridor, did they slow.

As Benjamin Archer neared them from behind, Blake and Rath parted for him to pass through. Soon Archer walked in their midst.

His footsteps were firm. His countenance and will were unsubmissive. When he spoke, it was not the tone he’d used minutes before. It was as though he’d become someone else.

“
We shall take what they give us, until the time is right,” Archer said. Blake and Rath followed silently. “Then, we shall take what we need.”

“
Yes, sir.”

“
Yes, sir.”

Archer lowered his chin. “Go away.” His amber stare left no room for question. The two other men nodded and changed their directions. They struck a new path down the side halls.

The man they left behind walked with conviction. He walked like he had somewhere to go. But he no longer walked like a prince.

He was the king.

* * *

Friday, August 12
^th
, 0011NE

1353 hours

Novosibirsk, Russia

Dostoevsky stopped in front of the wooden doors that led to the Inner Sanctum. Behind him, the flickers of dungeon torches—the lights of the Hall of the Fulcrums—whispered into the silence of the musty air. The sentries beside the door turned to face him.

“
Let me enter,” Dostoevsky said.

There was no argument from the sentries. For a fulcrum elite, disobedience was out of the question. The wooden doors creaked open, and Dostoevsky stepped inside.

The Terror sat upon his throne in the center of the room. His dark cloak ran over the back of his chair, shrouding the arms of the throne like a veil. As soon as the doors closed behind Dostoevsky, Thoor lifted his gaze to meet him.

As soon as Dostoevsky was in front of the throne, he stood at a lethargic attention. “It is done.”

For several seconds, no answer came from the throne. There was only the remorseless stare of the general—the one who ruled The Machine. Finally, he spoke. “Then it is as I have desired.”

Dostoevsky made no response. But he did turn his head to the shadows. There was a third man there. Someone in addition to Thoor. But he was concealed in the darkness.

“
What is the condition of the Fourteenth?” the general asked.

Dostoevsky sighed a heavy breath. “I was unaware of our new additions, general, but they will coalesce. Captain Clarke will not resist. He never has.”

“
The rest of the unit will cooperate?”

“
They have no choice.”

A moment of silence passed and Thoor lowered the tilt of his head. His eyes bore down the steps of the throne to the fulcrum commander before him. “You are distressed.”

For a brief second, Dostoevsky’s gaze flitted to the floor. It lingered on the stone masonry, before he drew in a breath and replied, “A good man died today.”

“
Steklov is replaceable,” Thoor scoffed. “Insignificant. That is why he was chosen.”

Dostoevsky’s eyes remained on the floor, as the flickers of the torches danced off the shadows of the walls. “I was not talking about Steklov.”

Silence fell, to which General Thoor said nothing. Finally—without another word between them—the general stood and stomped a salute.

Dostoevsky returned it, then spun to make his leave. Before he did, however, he paused to cast a glance into the shadows—to the silhouetted man in the darkness. His gaze lingered on the shrouded observer, the man who was hidden from view. But Dostoevsky knew him. He knew him too well. His glare lingered, and he turned to depart.