Alien Storm

by Ken Bebelle

  Keenan’s eyebrows lifted nearly to his hairline. He knew Jonesy well, but had never understood the full extent of his cybernetic implant.

  Phillips spoke more rapidly now, as if finding the right cadence to deliver this information. “Dr. Abbé decoded this after Mack returned. We’ve had no further transmissions since then. Only Abbé, Gunny, and I have seen this. And now, you.” He took a breath. “You’d better sit down, son.”

  His curiosity rising, Keenan took a seat and tipped his chin at the screen. “Ok. Hit me.”

  Phillips swiped two of the central screens and monochrome footage began to play. At first, Keenan couldn’t make out what he was seeing. Shortly though, his eyes began to recognize the sinuous alien lines of the background.

  The seconds dragged on as Keenan watched the feed in stunned silence. At the final bit of footage, hands went cold and clammy. He turned to Phillips with a snarl. “That’s Cam.” His heart pounded and his neck flushed with hot anger and fear. “Where is she? When was this taken?” He was out of the chair but didn’t remember getting up. Adrenaline fueled energy thrummed in his arms and legs.

  Phillips waved him back into the chair and pointed to the bottom corner of the feed where a small series of numbers was displayed. “Abbé thinks this feed is about six hours after last contact in Segovia.”

  A bright flame of hope burned through him and Keenan had to take a calming breath before repeating the latter half part of his question. After some quick mental math, he came to the unpleasant result that two weeks had passed since this footage. “Do you know where she is?”

  Phillips nodded. “Abbé believes she’s here.” He pulled up a holographic map of Antarctica. He spun it slightly before tapping a spot high above the Earth.

  Keenan blinked. “She’s in space?”

  Now Phillips paused and when he spoke, his words came slower. “Abbé manually did the calculations. That’s all we have and it’s two weeks old. We don’t know if she’s still there. But Jonesy’s signal data indicates the last transmission came from somewhere directly above the Needle.”

  Keenan collapsed into the nearest chair, staring at the blurry video frozen on Cam’s face. Her eyes were closed, and she looked like she was strapped upright into some kind of machine. His gut rolled over and fell off a cliff, a wave of helpless, impotent anguish crashing over him. “She’s been going through god only knows what these last two weeks.”

  Phillips laid a firm hand on his shoulder, gripping tightly. “Steady, son. Stay with me here. I need you to keep your head in the game if we’re going to have a chance at bringing her back.”

  Keenan nodded slowly. He looked from the screens into Phillips’ hard gaze. “Yeah. I’ll do whatever it takes to bring her back.”

  Six

  Beaufort’s Breakthrough

  KEENAN

  Stepping back into the lab, Keenan saw that Abbé had pulled up a full sized three dimensional rendering of a Ringhead Hunter. Dr. Beaufort was pacing beside it, looking small next to the seven foot long monster. The sight of the alien rekindled the hot anger in his gut. What was Cam suffering through right now? He wasn’t going to be able to sleep tonight.

  Abbé pointed to the claws and elbow spikes, “I have been working on the armor to withstand these, and await data from one the material engineers.”

  Beaufort nodded absently, then tapped and swiped on her tablet. “I confirmed with Corporal Chan that in addition to the softer flesh here at the neck, there is a vulnerable spot here.” Beaufort tapped at the lower belly of the holographic image.

  Remembering that encounter shifted Keenan’s mood and he snorted. “Bells only found that out because she fell under one the first time we encountered those bastards.”

  Looking up, Beaufort’s lips quirked. “She is very resourceful.”

  Keenan approached the Ringhead image and gestured to the claws. “It’s important to stay out of reach of these. They like to gut us with these spikes.” Despite his jangling nerves he kept his voice dispassionate, slipping into the way he talked to his students at the training center. However, unlike his soldiers, these scientists didn’t need to hear about how Ringheads would stab a soldier in the throat and the arterial spray would coat everyone within a five foot radius.

  He cleared his throat. “When they aren’t stabbing us, they crush rib cages, or shake us the way a terrier does with rats.”

  That’s how Cam had gotten hurt before. A Ringhead Hunter had picked her up and squeezed. And kept squeezing. Keenan shook away the awful memories in the medical ward with her afterwards. That’s over now, man. Shut it down. “Our most effective tactic is overwhelming firepower. Plasma rifles only. Concentrated fire to the weak point at the neck.”

  He looked at Abbé. “But I gather they’ve upped their game now, right Doc?”

  Abbé looked startled for a moment, but gave a short nod in response. “Yes, the iceboxes, yes.”

  Keenan hadn’t been on base, but he’d read the after-action reports. “What do you make of it, Doc?”

  Abbé looked over at Dr. Beaufort. “Honoree, I’ve been waiting to go over this with you too.” He pulled up a few more holo displays. Images began to scroll and Keenan recognized them as Segovia.

  Stan zoomed in on an interior shot. “This is the kitchen footage from Sergeant O’Neill’s helmet cam.”

  It was ripped from Keenan’s nightmares. “What is it, Doc?”

  Stan poked at the image, then gestured at a series of alien structures jutting out of the tiled floor of the kitchen. “These cylinders were found in the kitchen, by the pool, and also over by the lake. They generate a massive freeze effect, chilling the atmosphere around them.”

  Keenan took a moment to process this, the realization settling in his stomach like a cold ball of lead. “Jesus. It’s the Needle.”

  Beaufort gasped, a hand coming up to cover her mouth in distress.

  Stan frowned. “It’s worse than than, Lieutenant--it’s an armory for the Ringheads.”

  Keenan leaned against one of the cool walls of the lab, barely listening to Beaufort and Abbé chatter on. Apparently the Ringheads used these cylinders to encase themselves in some kind of super ice armor, making them nearly impossible to kill.

  He’d blooded himself in combat with the Ringheads over the mega monolith dubbed “the Greedle” over in Greenland. He’d lost so many men that day and he would never forget the horrible sensation of severing Kekoa’s legs with the plasma knife.

  Two years later, when he’d found out Cam had nearly died at the hands of another Ringhead, Keenan realized that as bad as losing his own men had been, it was a special kind of agony to watch your love lying pale and still in a hospital bed, each breath hardfought. They’d made it through that and Keenan had started to hope again for a future together. Phillips crushed those hopes two weeks ago.

  Now Cam was back to possibly alive, but captured and being tortured on an alien ship. Oh, and the Ringheads had figured out a way to breach the green zone. The hits kept coming, whipsawing his emotions like an out of control helicopter.His breathing shallowed out. Bad. He needed to pull his shit together, he couldn’t let his team see him fraying like this, not when they all needed him. Keenan concentrated on regaining some control, slowing his breaths before he passed out. The good old standby of inhaling for four counts, holding for four counts, exhaling for four counts. His eyes drifted to half mast, fatigue piling onto him at last.

  As he watched from his spot in the lab, one of the doors slid open to admit a trim blond man in a dark suit. Abbé turned to the newcomer and a sour expression marred his face. “Oh, it’s you, Agent Harding.”

  Keenan found himself amused despite his fatigue. Abbé looked at this new guy like something he’d scraped off the bottom of his shoes.

  Agent Harding ignored Abbé and stroke over to Beaufort. “Dr. Beaufort. Eli Harding, US Liaison for the IWC.” He held out his hand.

  Beaufort peered down her nose at his hand and after a pause, she shook it br
iefly and then dropped it like a hot rock.

  Huh. That was strange. Keenan had never seen Dr. Beaufort be anything but courteous. First Abbé, now Beaufort. Who was this guy? He studied Harding, seeing a clean-shaven and neatly attired man, maybe a decade older than himself. Not a scientist. Taut and fit, but not in uniform so Keenan ruled out military. What does he do for the IWC?

  Abbé drew a breath and puffed out his chest. “Honoree, Agent Harding has been waiting for you.”

  Beaufort stared at Harding, her normal warmth missing in that gaze. “I had no idea why I was being summoned down.”

  Harding gave her an easy nod and turned to Keenan. “That’s right, Lieutenant Flynn was not cleared for that information.”

  Keenan straightened from the wall. “I’m just following orders, Agent Harding, was it?”

  Abbé snorted, interrupting the brewing tension in the room. “I don’t see why Keenan wouldn’t be cleared seeing as how he recovered the device in the first place!”

  Harding’s nostrils flared in annoyance but his voice was mild. “Nevertheless, I’m going to have to ask the Lieutenant to vacate the lab while Dr. Beaufort and I discuss the reason for her visit.”

  Keenan didn’t know who the fuck this guy thought he was ordering him around, but reined in his surge of temper. He had bigger fish to fry right now, namely, tracking down Mack. He tipped his head to the doctors. “See ya, doc. Catch you later in the mess hall.”

  Beaufort blinked in surprise but gave a slow nod. “Yes, okay. I’ll meet you there, Keenan.”

  With that, Keenan stalked out. It was time for some answers.

  With a satisfying click, the latches on his gun case flipped up and Keenan popped open the sleek black case to reveal his babies. Two experimental plasma rifles lay nestled within their foam cutouts. The majority of Keenan’s life as a soldier had been as a rifleman with standard ammo. Now he carried directed energy weapons and he definitely preferred their stopping power. Nothing like a screaming, seven foot tall, blue alien bearing down on you to give you an appreciation for fiery hot plasma bolts.

  Mack had been out on patrol so Keenan had halfheartedly shoveled down some grub at lunchtime while trying to organize his questions into some semblance of order. He’d given up, both on eating and reasoning and decided to hit the range. Beaufort had been a good sport, eating with him in a companionable shared silence. Keenan felt bad, he knew he was lousy company. To his surprise, she asked to join him at the range.

  She hovered near his elbow and pointed at two weapons. “Are they the same?”

  Keenan shook his head and grinned. “Hell, no. This is Unique and this is Monique.”

  She didn’t laugh.

  Keenan sighed. “No, they do look very similar but this one is hotwired to speed the bolt charging. More rapid rate of fire. A little heavier.”

  Keenan lifted the other one out. “This one is a bit lighter, more stopping power but the bolt chamber is smaller so bolt formation takes a fraction longer.”

  Beaufort’s eyes lit up with interest. “Light enough for me to use?”

  Keenan’s mouth curved into a slight smile. He really liked the doc. Her toughness made her a standout in the civilian pool he normally dealt with. She had saved that Marine in Antarctica three years ago, and that was saying something.

  He walked over to the shooting station, and handed Beaufort a set of goggles. “Abbé is always working on stretching the battery life so we don’t come up short in the field. These work pretty well on the Ringheads, or at least they did before this new armor.”

  Keenan made a few swipes at the console and re-set the gallery. A grisly alien replica loomed in front of them on the landscape.

  He checked her stance. Falling into teaching mode felt good. Familiar. Though he rarely had to teach basics like proper rifle form. “Always assume every weapon is loaded. In the case of a plasma rifle, that will be true as well.”

  Beaufort nodded, her face set in tight lines as she concentrated.

  Keenan pointed to the rifle he was holding. It was currently pointed away from both of them. “Always point your weapon in a safe direction--down range.”

  Since Beaufort was already squared off with the target, he didn’t adjust her. “Your stance is good. Are you right handed or left handed?”

  She lifted her right hand.

  Keenan pointed at her legs. “What about your legs? Stronger side?”

  Beaufort thought for a moment, then shifted her right foot forward. “This one is better for me.”

  Keenan tilted his head. “Ok, move your stronger foot about 15 centimeters behind the weaker one.”

  She adjusted her stance. Keenan then went on to show her how to line up the buttstock of the rifle and how to adjust her grip. With each instruction, Keenan felt more like himself, more in control. Beaufort was a good student, careful, and she asked good questions.

  When she was ready, Keenan took back the rifle and pressed a sequence into the stock.

  Beaufort’s brows drew down in confusion. “What are you doing?”

  He double checked the power gauge. Locked and loaded. “This rifle is keyed to me. Experimental Projects only authorized a few of these.”

  Beaufort inhaled sharply, her fine brown eyes brightening with an inner fire. “That’s it. That must be it.” She took a step back from the platform and yanked off the goggles. “I have to go back to the Vault. Thank you, Keenan.” She dashed off, practically spraying dust in her wake.

  Keenan didn’t know what to make of it. Must be tied to that damned Harding character. Above his pay grade, he guessed. He shrugged and picked up the goggles. He concentrated on getting some shooting practice in until Mack returned.

  Seven

  Infiltration

  Cam inched her way down through the crawl space. It was slow going here. The space was pitch black, the only light from the chem lights they found in the survival packs which were now tied to their feet and hands. The dim green light cast more shadows than light, illuminating dark shapes and alien curves that jumped and danced as they moved.

  The space was tight but manageable for both of them, despite carrying all their scavenged gear. As she descended, Cam wondered who had built this ship for the Ringheads, as these access spaces were clearly not made to accommodate them. The ladder rungs cut into the walls were too small even for them - they were taking them two and three at a time. The rungs were also precariously sloped, making them feel like their fingers could slip at any moment. The light gravity made that much easier, at least.

  She shifted her shoulders, getting off a particularly irritating pipe that was digging into her spine. The discomfort eased and she leaned into the wall, taking her weight on her knees and hips. It was a lot like down-climbing a chimney, something she and Keenan had done on their last trip to Joshua Tree. It wasn’t taxing, or even scary. The repetitive motion centered her mind, kept her focus on the next step and slide down, rather than spinning her thoughts out into the void.

  Above her Jonesy grunted softly with each step down, catching the next rung one-handed. A makeshift rope tethered them together at the waist. Every few steps it would get snagged on an odd protrusion from the walls and they would pause to untangle themselves. At each stop, a faint glow pulsed around Jonesy’s face as his implants activated. He was listening. After a moment, he gave the tether a shake, and they resumed their descent.

  Each break in their movement brought Cam right back to the present. Morbid curiosity got the best of her and she kept peeking under her tank top to marvel at the unmarred skin of her abdomen. She tried to ignore the blue hue of her skin. I’m still me. I’m still me.

  The memory of the wound expelling the bullet and closing up ran on a repeating loop in her head. She had watched it happen with a feeling of surreal horror, at once fascinating and repellent. And yet the truly terrifying aspect of the whole event was not the shooting, not the healing, but the memory loss. One moment she was touching the panel and the next moment she was writh
ing on the floor with Jonesy’s bullet in her gut.

  Opening the panel in the wall had generated an odd sensation, similar to opening the ship doors, but to a much greater degree. She almost felt like someone was talking to her without language, speaking directly to the primitive parts of her mind. Just before her memory blanked out, she remembered a feeling of utter comfort and security, juxtaposed over a sensation of mind-fracturing terror. Even the brief memory of that schism caused her to break out in a prickly sweat.

  The rope jerked taut, pulling her out of her reverie and bringing her to a stop. She looked up into the dim light and saw Jonesy signaling her to wait. His implants flashed for a moment and went dark. Cam leaned back, waiting for the signal to move, and finding the cold of the wall behind her surprisingly comfortable.

  The cold pulled her thoughts back to the chill desert night in Joshua Tree, camped under pitch black skies adorned with a dazzling array of stars. Wrapped in blankets together, they watched for meteors and Keenan rambled on about the advances in Experimental Projects. She only she half-listened, her attention on the starscape.

  He’d levered himself up on one elbow, his face a dim outline in the dark. Hope, painful in its intensity, glittered in his eyes.

  “We’re almost there, Cammie. We’re going to win this. The artifacts they recovered from the London op....Abbé says it could change everything.”

  She’d cupped his cheek with her hand, savoring the feel of the stubble on her palm, the warmth of his skin. She heard everything he said, and yet grieving for so many lost teammates had deprived her of hope.. She couldn’t share his optimism. She’d bitten her lip, reluctant to argue with Keenan. The Ringheads were killing humans slowly, but easily. She had the titanium rib cage to prove it. Only her plasma rifle and Jonesy’s quick actions had saved her from death in Quebec.