The Glorious Becoming (7 page)

“What Varya did was wrong,” Dostoevsky said. “No one can deny that. But this is not right.”

“Did you see?”
Viktor bellowed, grabbing her face and jerking it face-to-face with his.
“Did you see what happened?”
He shoved her as hard as he could. She cried as her body hit the wall; she crumpled to her knees.
“They treat me this way because of you! They despise me because of you!”

“It does not matter that she is guilty,” Dostoevsky said. “What matters that she is ridiculed and no one defends her. That she cries and no one consoles her.”

With every strike of Viktor’s hand, Varvara’s sobs became less and less defined. Face twisted horribly, she whined with closed eyes, her body curled protectively against the wall.

“No one should feel the hurt that she feels, captain.” Dostoevsky faced Scott fully. “You and I, we took a life to wear the uniforms we wear—I have taken many lives. Varvara broke a heart. Whose sin is worse? Yet we pray for forgiveness while persecuting her. This should not be so.”

“Please...please...” Varvara’s words were barely audible as she lay heaving on the floor, protecting her head with her hands as the beating carried on. Her tear-streaked face reddened with each strike that connected.

“Worthless, hideous woman!”

“I have heard it said that Varya gets what she deserves. What do
we
deserve, Scott? What do you deserve, Sveta?”

There was nowhere to flee—no one to save her. Varvara’s reprieve rested at the hands of her tormenter, whose bellows blended in with the sounds of his assault.

“Varya needs us now more than anybody else,” Dostoevsky said. “Even more so than Jayden. Jayden has been wronged, but he has his friends. Varya has no one but Viktor. She is hated.”

When the violence finally ceased, what remained was the trembling shell of a woman whose face at one time had been beautiful. Blood trailed from a place where his nails had cut her forehead. Her lips were cracked and split. She looked like a battered corpse. Viktor’s spit was always the last thing to hit her. Over the weeks, she’d grown to anticipate it—to find relief in it.

It meant it was over.

As Dostoevsky’s eyes settled on Scott, a small smile escaped. “She can be saved, Scott.” He nodded hopefully. “I feel it. No one is more ready.” Gesturing briefly with his hand, he seemed on the verge of saying something that he couldn’t quite find the right words for. He gave up and fell back to three he
could
find. “I feel it.”

Scott and Svetlana swapped looks of culpability, their eyes shifting to the floor beneath sheepishly arched eyebrows. Contrarily, Dostoevsky stood before them with a glow upon his face. It dimmed everything else there. “If you have any compassion for Varya,” he said quietly, “pray for her. Pray that she would see the truth, and that she would be delivered. God has gone after worse.”

Varvara stayed on the floor until Viktor left; he always left when it was over. Summoning just enough pride to push herself up, she rose shakily to her feet.

Over the next hour, the young blond medic would stumble to the sink, wash her face, and comb her hair. She’d cake on makeup that she kept in Viktor’s room for those very occasions. She’d wait for the swelling to go down. Then she’d leave.

Room 14 greeted Varvara with the same cold glares she’d come to anticipate—the kind of glares reserved for women who betrayed their men while they were in the hospital. The kind of glares reserved for whores. No one said a word to her, even as the lights dimmed and the operatives of the Fourteenth laid down their heads. She closed her eyes to the unaccusing sound of silence, and the company of a dog that—for some reason—chose that night to sleep under her bunk. And to three silent prayers, from three people who weren’t even on her mind. Three more prayers than she’d ever had in her life.

Blanketed in numbness, she found sleep.

4

THURSDAY, MARCH 8
^TH
, 0012 NE

0645 HOURS

EDEN COMMAND

H
ECTOR
M
ENDOZA
scanned the T-junction where Command’s central hallway met the judges’ suites. His olive eyes narrowed, the Spaniard waited until he was certain there was no one else present—at least, no one he didn’t approve of. Without turning, he signaled the two men behind him to approach.

Mendoza was EDEN Command’s new security chief. He was darkskinned, even for a Hispanic, with slick curls of black hair and an expression that could shift between charismatic and perverse at a moment’s notice. He was a psychological chameleon, hand-picked for his new role by Judge Carol June herself. The man Mendoza replaced, an Australian named Willoughby, had been unceremoniously shipped off to
Sydney
. Flanking Mendoza were two other men, Tyson and Givens—his personal deputies.

All three men held elite-issue X-111 chaos rifles. Unlike the 5.56×45mmfiring, gas-operated E-35, the X-111 utilized an atomic piston mechanism and 6.8×43mm “terminal” rounds. It never jammed—never malfunctioned. With subtle elements borrowed from Ceratopian neutron technology, namely the ability to charge ammunition with reverse-gravitational energy, the chaos rifle was more than a force to be reckoned with. It was a living organism’s worst nightmare. Unfortunately for the rest of EDEN, it was a taxpayer’s worst nightmare, too—each chaos rifle cost roughly six million dollars to manufacture. Unless someone was a member of EDEN Command Security or part of an elite unit like Vector Squad, they likely never knew the rifle existed.

Directing Tyson and Givens to stand guard at the two far ends of the hallway, Mendoza positioned himself in front of one of the suites—the one belonging to Benjamin Archer. There, the Hispanic chief waited.

It wasn’t long before a new set of footsteps emerged down the hall. Turning his head, Mendoza watched as Judge Malcolm Blake passed by Givens’ checkpoint, offering the deputy a subtle nod in the process. Blake then set his sights on Mendoza.

Positioning his eye in front of the door’s retinal scanner, Mendoza waited for the chime, then pushed the door open and stepped aside. Each judge and the president had scanners built into their doors, programmed for their unique retinal signatures. A positive scan was the only way the doors could be opened from the outside. The security chief and Intelligence Director Kang were the only men with access to all rooms at EDEN Command.

As soon as Blake was inside, Mendoza sealed the door from the hall, casting a purposeful eye to his two deputies. The hall was secured.

“We have a problem,” Blake said inside Archer’s room.

Archer was standing in front of his stove, pouring a mug of hot tea. He spoke to Blake without looking. “I’m aware of the situation. What’s the latest update?”

The black Briton hesitated. “The ship was assaulted by a ground team from
Richmond
last night.
Richmond
acted under the assumption that it had been shot somewhere else and was only crashing near them. There’d been report of a confrontation between a Cruiser and some Superwolves near northern Japan only several hours earlier. We think
Richmond
thought this was that ship.”

“Were there any survivors?”

“Carol already contacted their Xenobiology lab. There were none.”

Turning around, Archer locked eyes with his British counterpart. Blake submissively lowered his head. “This was supposed to end with H`laar,” Archer said, “but what I find more concerning is that
Richmond
assaulted it without our approval.”

“I spoke with General Hutchin about that very issue. Apparently this was a new dispatcher. Someone trained him with the old protocol. It’s since been corrected.”

“The one time the rule was broken is the one time it needed to be obeyed,” Archer said.

Blake sighed. “We were fortunate the ground team killed everyone. But what if they hadn’t? It takes one, just
one
of H`laar’s followers to survive and to speak.”

Archer gazed at the conch lamps on his wall, then sipped his tea. “This is a contest of discipline. We cannot allow ourselves to become blindsided, not by H`laar’s group, not by EDEN, not by anyone or anything. Right now, at this moment in history, we are the most important species in the galaxy as we’ve come to know it. Everything hinges on us. Not on humanity, Malcolm. On
us
. On you. Me. Kang, Carol, Jason, Hector.” He turned to his desk. “Reiterate to the global network that our new policy must be taught as the new standard—no interceptions, on the ground or in the air, without the express permission of EDEN Command. This incident was a terrible mistake, but it could have been worse. We still control our fate.”

Blake nodded.

“Go.”

Stepping back, Blake turned for the door.

“Oh, one more thing,” said Archer. Blake turned, raising an eyebrow. “The last Vindicator arrived today. That means we’ve met our goal. I have you to thank for that.”

Expression blank, the black Briton asked, “At what point do you plan to tell me why we’re stealing ships from
Novosibirsk
?”

Archer’s answer came with a smile. “Soon enough, Malcolm.”

The smile was not reciprocated. Nodding in stoic silence, Blake exited the room.

Mendoza was waiting in the hall when Blake stepped out. Pointing his chaos rifle at the ceiling, the Spaniard moved to allow Blake to pass. Without a word, Blake strode down the hall, away from Mendoza and past his deputy’s checkpoint. The three members of the security team eyed one another, before Tyson and Givens returned to Mendoza’s position. Together, they resumed their patrol down the hall.

* * *

SHORTLY AFTER

A
RCHER MARCHED
purposefully through Confinement, passing the low-end holding cells as he made his way toward maximum security. He allowed himself to glance at one cell in particular as he walked by: a cell with a slender—but no longer weak—Bakma inside. Nharassel watched Archer move past him, their eye contact lasting mere moments before the British judge was gone.

Unlike the low-end cell blocks, maximum security was off-limits to all but the highest scientists and officials. They were guarded to the core by security personnel, all of whom had been brought in by the new Chief Mendoza. All security under the previous administration had been transferred or released.

The supervising scientist at maximum security smiled graciously. “Good morning, Judge Archer. I did not expect you today.”

“I need to speak with Henkatha immediately.”

The scientist’s expression shifted. He lowered his voice and kept pace with Archer. “What is wrong, sir?”

“That’s precisely what he’s going to tell me.”

Archer and the scientist continued through maximum security until they reached the final cell on the block—one that only Archer, Kang, and a handful of carefully-selected scientists were permitted to enter. Ceratopian no. 12.

“Lock down this block,” said Archer. “No one else enters. Black out the cell wall.”

“Understood, sir.” The scientist opened the cell door, and Archer stepped inside. The door slid shut behind him, and moments later the glass darkened, blocking out the hallway.

The Ceratopian inside was a tan-skinned specimen, uncharacteristically slender, though not unhealthily so. Its deep brown eyes focused on Archer as it turned its five-horned head to face him. Rising to its feet, the alien spoke. “Archer.” The Ceratopian’s voice, gravelly and guttural, spoke with atypical English clarity. Just the same, the alien’s words were slow to the point of simple-mindedness.

“Good evening, Henkatha.” Glancing behind him, Archer ensured that the cell was both closed and tinted. He faced Henkatha again, all innocence in his tone disintegrating. “What the
bloody
hell was that?”

The Ceratopian growled lowly. “An error. Nothing else.”

“An
error
?”

“H`laar’s group was small. We do not know how they got a ship. It is dead now.”

Unlike the Ceratopian’s slow and thought-out words, Archer’s were fast and emotional. “That they’re dead isn’t the problem here. The problem’s the aftermath and potential. Do you have any idea how close this came to direct intervention?”

“I spoke to Conqueror Gu`racch. The ship was from the Armada. They were traitors. He destroyed them. He will destroy all traitors. Like he destroyed H`laar.”

“Henkatha,” Archer said flatly, “it only takes one error to ruin
everything
we’ve worked toward.”

The Ceratopian snorted softly.

“That H`laar is dead no longer matters. The purpose of killing H`laar was to stop
this
from happening.”

Henkatha snarled. “They cannot win. We have the Armada. Even if they take one ship, we will win.”

Archer shook his head. “You don’t understand, Henkatha. You must ensure that no one from H`laar’s group even
enters
our space. Even that is too close.”

“I will tell Conqueror Gu`racch.”

“Good,” said Archer, nodding. “Tell him to attack something, soon, even if it’s someplace obscure. Reinforce that you’re the enemy. Right now this is contained, but it only takes one phone call from a general to the president to ruin years of work. Tell him that.”

“I will.”

Archer allowed himself to smile faintly, just enough to express his approval. Then he stepped back to leave.

“Archer, sir...”

“Yes?”

“Good bye.”

For several seconds, Archer stared at the alien, wearing a trying-tosmile expression that teetered on the edge of genuine pity. Finally, he answered, “Good bye, Henkatha.”

Stepping from the cell, Archer slid his hands into his pockets—his first moment of comfort in hours. The scientist was there to find him.

“Did you get what you needed, sir?”

“I did,” Archer said, lowering his voice. “He needs to speak with Gu`racch again. Make it happen.”

“Yes, sir.”

The two men parted ways.