The Glorious Becoming (25 page)

The day was only several hours old, but to Scott it already felt like a lifetime. In spite of the tiredness and emotional exhaustion he felt, he somehow managed to muster up enough focus to send a comm message to Thoor, informing the general of his selections for the mission. He even threw a desperation pass in the form of a request to have an eidolon take Esther’s place in
Cairo
, but as expected, the request was denied. Scott was informed, however, than an eidolon would be paying him a visit later that night: Antipov. Auric, Esther, and Boris’s presences were also requested for the meeting. Unfortunately for Scott, Thoor’s requests had to be granted. News of the meeting was sent to the relevant parties.

Scott also briefly commed Dostoevsky, simply to inform him that he would be in his quarters for the remainder of the day, preparing for the mission. It was half true. There was indeed much to prepare for, but Scott also wanted to spend some time alone. He sensed Dostoevsky read into this, as the more spiritually-attuned fulcrum implored Scott to spend time talking to God. To his own credit, Scott tried. He was just too emotionally drained to focus. There would be plenty of time for quiet time later.
Later
always seemed to be his option of choice in that aspect.

There was one call that came through to Scott shortly after his talk with Dostoevsky—one that didn’t at all surprise him. It was a prompt from Svetlana.

He never answered.

14

TUESDAY, MARCH 13
^TH
, 0012 NE

1313 HOURS

L
IGHT, TRANSPARENT BLUE.
Of all the colored glasses Esther Brooking had seen the world through, it was that one she cherished most. It was the one that consoled her. Legs kicking gracefully beneath the water’s surface, the twenty-three-year-old Briton glided along the pool bottom like a ray along the ocean floor. Dark hair streaming behind her head, Esther’s eyes stayed forward; the ever-approaching wall ahead of her was the only motivation to alter her course. Torso bending upward, she eased her head back just enough to begin her ascension. The surface came into view moments before her face found it. With the weight of wet hair tugging at her scalp, she set herself adrift, hands reaching out to steady herself against the pool’s rim.

The pool was empty, as it often was at that time of the day, when the majority of
Novosibirsk
was dispersed in the cafeteria. It was unfair to classify mid-afternoon as her favorite time to swim, as any time was her favorite time. Water was where she found peace. It had been that way since she’d been a child. Dipping her head back, Esther set her feet against the side of the pool. With a heavy kick, she propelled herself back beneath the surface, her body twisting upright as she descended for another lap.

Though Esther loved the water with every fiber of her being, she had someone else to thank for introducing her to it. His name was Kelyle Ogbai, and he was solely responsible for her aquatic addiction. Of the three-point-five billion men who lived on Planet Earth, he was the one Esther despised most.

Extending her arms, Esther pulled herself back to a stop at the center of the pool floor. Settling cross-legged, she closed her eyes and went still.

Kelyle was an Ethiopian. A real-estate mogul from Addis Ababa, to be more precise, and a man of both affluence in his local circle and of adultery in places abroad. Places abroad like London, England, where he met—and abandoned—Esther’s mother.

The memories Esther had of her father were as spotty and infrequent as his visits, none of which were to
visit
at all. They were monetary visits. “Why do you need more?” visits. “It’s not my fault the post office lost your cheque” visits. And every time he knocked on Esther’s mother’s apartment door, his words to Esther were always the same. “Go swim in the pool.” Go away while we fight. The first time Esther heard the words, she was two. But the risk of a toddler drowning was the last thing on Kelyle’s mind.

Bending her body around, Esther righted herself along the pool floor. Straightening her arms at her sides, she kicked herself forward again. The opposite pool wall drew near.

During the first five years of Esther’s life, Kelyle came several times a year. But that gradually changed. By the time Esther was a teenager, the visits had stopped completely. Her experience with parents was her experience with her mother, a single white woman raising a mixed baby. Good Samaritans weren’t exactly lining up to help. “Go swim in the pool.” She’d heard it enough in her formative years to associate water with safety. When the world became real, she could swim to escape. When life—and the shouting—got too loud, she could sink under the surface until she heard nothing at all. Liquid solace. The swimmer was born.

Be fierce. Never relent. Go after what you want. Those were the words her mother had taught her; words meant to motivate. And motivate they did. Perfect marks in primary and secondary education. Scholarship offers for swimming, gymnastics, and association football. Scout certification from
Philadelphia
at age twenty-two.

From bastard to prodigy.

But there lies a problem with living life with a chip on one’s shoulder—with never relenting, with fiercely going after what one wants: the possibility of losing. Loss is understandable and even acceptable when the opponent is superior. But when the opponent is
not
...that’s when enmity is born. It’s a universal sensation for the ultra-competitive, be it involving grades, athletics, or objects of affection. Especially objects of affection that should have been won. Especially ones that wear golden horns.

Breaking the water’s surface, Esther shook her head, the reflections of the ceiling lights glossing across the sleekness of her hair. Folding her arms, she rested her chin atop them on the pool’s outer rim. The scout closed her eyes.

“Molly Kelyle.”

At the sound of the unexpected voice—and at the surname she’d never adopted—Esther flinched. Eyes flickering open, she whipped her head around to pinpoint who it belonged to. Through dripping lashes, she stared in confusion. On the opposite edge of the pool stood a man.

Nothing about his appearance was imposing, despite his peculiarly scruffy ponytail and goatee. Sprig clasped between two fingers, he inhaled a deep huff, then released it. Saying nothing, he stared at her from across the poolside.

Esther’s gaze darted to the door, then about the rest of the room. When she saw that no one else was present, she focused on the man again. She’d never heard him enter. For a scout, that wasn’t supposed to happen. Wiping her hair back, she said, “Esther Brooking.” Despite the nature of the correction, her tone was less than bold.

He smiled warmly; his Russian accent was thick. “Only to the rest of the world.”

“Who are you?” she asked quickly. “How did you know that name?”

For several seconds, the man didn’t reply, nor did he move. Then slowly, deliberately, he began to walk along the pool’s rim. “How far were you from Alexander when you murdered him?”

Esther’s body went rigid in the water. She watched him unwaveringly as he stalked around the edge. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Two meters? Twenty? Fifty?” Pausing, he placed a finger at the center of his forehead. “To hit him right here. How far were you away?”

An urge struck Esther to climb out the pool and run. She held it at bay. “Twenty. Maybe thirty.”

“Mm,” he said with a nod. “For such perfect placement. Impressive.” Partaking of his sprig again, he resumed his methodical walk. “Was Remington pleased with what you did?”

Kicking away from the side of the pool, Esther propelled herself toward its center. Not once did she take her eyes off him. “Who are you? I’m not answering any questions until you tell me.”

Crouching down by the water’s edge, he said, “You are special girl, Molly. Very gifted. You are not unlike the man you refused to call father.”

Esther swallowed; her breathing increased.

“He was driven. He owned much land, made many fortunes. It is obvious he loved his work.” Shrugging, he said, “He also loved women, as you already know.”

“Who the
bloody
hell are you?” she asked, eyes brimming. “How do you know these things? Why are you speaking of him in past tense?”

Gaze stoic, he answered, “I speak of him in past tense because four years ago, he was murdered by a street criminal in Addis Ababa.”

Esther’s lips parted. For a moment, she completely stopped breathing.

Catching the subtle movements, he tilted his head. “Was that because he’s dead, or because you wish you could have been the one to kill him?” For the first time during the whole interaction, Esther’s eyes trailed away to the water’s surface. She looked totally distant. “I know your heart, Kelyle’s daughter. I know that it burns for many things. It burns for vengeance and passion. And for Remington.”

Easing her face up, she looked at him.

“He does not realize how similar the two of you are. You are two people cut from the same mold. But in spite of his request for you to join him in
Cairo
, he has rejected you. Hasn’t he?”

“How do you know what you know?” she asked quietly.

“If you cannot have Remington, then you must defeat him. You must defeat him by showing him that the two of you are not equal. That
he
is in no position to reject
you
. Are you motivated yet?”

Esther said nothing, but her expression said everything. Her stare was once again fixated on the man crouching by the side of the pool. She was listening.

Very faintly, he smiled. “Good.” Pushing up to his feet, he lifted his chin. “Seven months ago, you uncovered the name of someone we intended to kill. Three months later, you shot him in the head.”

A chill struck Esther’s spine.

“My name is Antipov,” he said, “and I am the chief of the eidola. And if you would be so kind as to come out of the water, Molly Esther Kelyle Brooking...I would like to have a talk.”

* * *

AT THE SAME TIME

S
ILENCE. NO MEETINGS,
no voices. Just silence. In the aftermath of Scott’s personal anguish, it was exactly what he’d needed to settle down. Still in his private quarters, where he’d been since speaking to Esther in the gym, he’d already packed his bags in preparation for the trip. The task could have been put off until the following morning, but truth be told, he’d needed to
do
something. A good distraction was a therapeutic necessity, even if it did involve packing the very photograph of Nicole that had sparked his emotional breakdown. He wasn’t leaving her behind. As for what Esther would think about that, he honestly didn’t care.

This entire course of events had begun yesterday. It felt like a week ago. He’d taken Esther to see Tauthin. Tauthin opened up. Everything else followed, and he and his comrades were suddenly bound for Egypt. From his bedside, he stared at the fulcrum uniforms in his closet. His old EDEN armor would be going with him on the trip, original golden collar and everything. He dreaded wearing it.

That’ll never be me again.

The thought hadn’t escaped Scott that for all practical purposes, he and Auric, being Nightmen, were about to unofficially become eidolons. It wasn’t quite the same for Boris and Esther. How did they feel about this? Well...how did
Boris
feel? He couldn’t care less about Esther.

I want to hit her so bad.

Their encounter in the gym burned in him like an inferno. Try as he did to push her out of his mind, it was all but futile. He could forgive Esther’s being angry; after all, he was the poster boy for that himself. But it was her viciousness that stung him. In a single, calculated request, she’d completely changed the way he thought of Svetlana. He knew that was her goal, and he was still powerless to stop it. Esther’s venom was as potent as a viper’s.

Feeling the flushness in his cheeks, Scott turned on the tap and cooled himself off with some splashes to the face—just in time for a knock at his door.

Speak of the Russian.

He knew Svetlana’s knock anywhere. If a hundred random people took turns at his door, he could pick her out instantly. He’d grown that accustomed to the sound of her arrival. It was a delicate knock—one that sought not to disturb. Unless she was mad at him. Then it was the fiercest knock around. Delicacy found him today.

You have to act normal. You can’t let what you’ve been thinking about her show. She doesn’t deserve it.

Drying his face, and against the judgment of his heart, he opened the door. As soon as he saw her, he knew she was struggling. She wasn’t crying, but she was on the verge. “Come in,” he said quietly, stepping aside to allow her entrance. He locked the door behind her.

Her ocean blue eyes were pleading. “Scott, what is happening?”

“Everything I said back in the lounge,” he answered as assuredly as he could. “We have a mission in
Cairo
.”

“But why you? Why must it be
you
? There are eidola who train for this!”

“Sveta,” he said, sighing, “you need to understand that I don’t have a choice. Thoor’s making a statement with this. I’ve gotten away with more than any other fulcrum in The Machine. This is his way of making me pay for it.” He knew there was more to it than that. The Fourteenth had proven time and time again that they were capable of doing things no other unit could—not even Oleg’s elites from the First. Scott was resourceful, and with Svetlana’s life on the line, motivated. Thoor knew that meant Scott would come through.

Svetlana leaned into his arms, as she had time and time again in their recent time together. She laid her cheek against his chest. Very gently, she slid her fingers through the back of his hair. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.” And she wouldn’t. Whether she knew it or not, he was fighting for her. Regardless of whether or not Esther had succeeded in making him view Svetlana differently, she’d failed in stopping him from caring. Svetlana was worth this mission.