Xenonauts: Crimson Dagger

by Stephen, Lee

  “Whoa! Stop!” The American captain’s words were ignored. Thrust ahead into the middle of a firefight, he dove to the ground as the evacuation of the chamber ensued behind him. Then the blast came. The chamber was enveloped with blue plasma as the alien grenade erupted—a shockwave knocked all of the evacuees off their feet, even as they escaped the chamber. Iosif, the last to leave, was blown forward into the wall of the hallway, his face slamming against the metal with a burst of blood. He fell lifelessly backward.

  The remnants of the strike team were left little opportunity to recover from the blast. A pair of reptilian aliens—the ones Hemingway had been holding off—were firing at them from down the hall. As one of the remaining Green Berets fell, Mikhail looked for any nearby cover. There were only rooms with closed doors. Then he checked behind him. They were clear there. If they could drop these two reptiles, they could fall back and regroup.

  Diving to one side to avoid a blast of energy from one of the aliens, Mikhail rolled to his feet and raised his pistol. His bullet found its mark—one of the aliens’ necks. His second and third bullet left no doubt. The reptile toppled to its knees then fell forward.

  Hemingway was already on the other. From his prone position on the tilted floor, the Green Beret leader aimed his M3 and pulled back the trigger. The reptile stumbled backward, shielding his body with his arms as if that would stop the ballistics. It didn’t. As Mikhail and the other Green Berets joined the attack, the alien was overwhelmed. It collapsed.

  “Behind!”

  It was the worst thing that could have been shouted. “Behind” was where they were supposed to fall back to. Moments ago, “behind” had been clear. The Soviet captain swiveled to face his rear. What he saw next stunned him.

  In one fluid motion, Nikolai—his medic—wrapped one arm around Nina, rolled her to the safety of the floor, then propped up on a knee. Grabbing Iosif’s abandoned PPSh-41 with his empty hand, Nikolai fired it. The bullets struck the flanking reptile dead center of its forehead. Before the alien’s body had even hit the ground, Nikolai was back on his feet, his submachine gun raised and ready. “Clear!”

  This man is no medic.

  That was a discussion for another time. Right now, their fallback path was open. “Forward and together!” Mikhail said, indicating the direction in front of Nikolai. “Green Berets, secure rear!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Taking position next to Nikolai, Mikhail began to stalk forward. Sevastian and Nina followed, with Hemingway and his two remaining soldiers walking backward behind them. Their twelve-man team was down to seven, one of whom, officer or not, wasn’t supposed to be on the strike team at all. That meant six of the original dozen were dead. They were effectively at fifty percent.

  All along the hallway, running lights flickered like a dwindling pulse in the strange alien ship. The hallway was illuminated only in dim, intermittent moments. The slant of the spacecraft, while off-balancing, was manageable. Within ten steps, their constant pull to the right had been compensated for.

  Based on their orientation, Mikhail was certain they were heading deeper into the spacecraft rather than toward its wingtips. Just the same, going deeper wasn’t his priority. Regrouping was. So when they approached the first open door he’d seen along the way, he directed Nikolai to enter it. The “medic” did, indicating no hostiles shortly thereafter. Holding his position at point, Mikhail directed those behind him to duck into the room. As soon as they did, he backed in himself.

  “What the hell just happened?” one of the Green Berets asked breathlessly, hands on his knees as he looked at Hemingway.

  Reloading his M3, Hemingway answered, “We got punched in the mouth.”

  Mikhail was searching by the side of the door for some kind of way to close it. Coming across something that looked like a button, he punched it. Nothing happened. Either he was doing something wrong or the door had no power. “Everyone, back up.” Walking across and up the slanted room, the group of seven put some distance between themselves and the doorway. He looked at the nearest Green Beret. “Keep watch outside the door. If something appears, shoot it.”

  The American nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  This room was completely unlike the one by the entryway. There were no canisters or boxes anywhere. Blue tubes lined the walls with what seemed to be some sort of liquid flowing through them. The same dim, pulsating lights that had been in the hallways were present here. In the center of the floor was a large, circular depression, easily large enough for several people to stand in. Although curious as to the room’s purpose, Mikhail had more pressing matters. This was a time to regroup.

  Gaze returning to the crew, he surveyed who remained. Hemingway was down to two soldiers, though they both seemed in fighting condition. On his own side, Mikhail was down to three. Sevastian was wounded—the extent of which, Mikhail wasn’t sure. But judging by the way the senior lieutenant was keeping his right shoulder locked against his chest, it was more than just a mere hindrance.

  As for Nina, the sniper was leaning against the wall, buckled over on her knees with her palms against her eyes and her fingers stuck through her mud-caked hair. She is uninjured. She will be fine. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t supposed to be there. She was part of the strike team now.

  That left Nikolai Lukin.

  Mikhail’s focus shifted to his “medic.” Eyes already on Mikhail, Nikolai’s posture seemed to indicate, somewhat defiantly, that he knew the game was up. Hands on his hips, the mud-covered operative said nothing. That was fine with Mikhail—he had more than enough to say himself. “Who are you?”

  Though Nikolai was looking directly at Mikhail, he remained tellingly silent.

  Breaking the silence, Hemingway said, “He’s Spetsnaz.”

  That was already what Mikhail was thinking. He just wanted to hear it from Nikolai himself. “I said, who are you?” After another non-answer, Mikhail raised his pistol. He aimed it straight for Nikolai’s head. “We have already lost half of our men. One more will not make a difference.”

  Very faintly, Nikolai’s pupils shifted to focus on the Americans. Inhaling slowly, the Russian agent answered. “I am under the Main Intelligence Directorate.”

  As soon as he heard it, Mikhail closed his eyes and lowered his pistol. The Main Intelligence Directorate. Spetsnaz GRU. They sent him an elite covert agent. Looking up again, Mikhail simply asked, “Why?”

  “You are not an idiot—“

  “Why?” Mikhail shouted sharply. Along the wall, Nina flinched.

  The stare Nikolai gave him was soulless and cold. When he answered, his voice was unwavering. “You already know.”

  Hemingway and his Green Berets listened in silence.

  Yes, Mikhail knew. And for all practical purposes, so did the Americans now—or at least, they knew something was suspect. That was enough to force the issue into the spotlight.

  The conversation Mikhail knew he was about to have went against everything he’d believed in prior to the mission. About countering the Americans and keeping them at arm’s distance. About not trusting them. But now, what choice did he have but to address this? Hemingway was no fool. In revealing himself, by necessity or not, Nikolai had essentially shown the Americans the Soviet Union’s hand. Like it or not, believe in it or not, it was time to explain. The Americans were onto them. What choice did Mikhail have? And so he faced Hemingway.

  “There was concern among our higher ranks that you would betray us. The fear was that you would kill us once the mission was finished, then use the technology in this vessel to lay siege to the world, as you did with Japan. Only by surviving you could we hold your country accountable.” He glanced at Nikolai. “And he was sent to give us an advantage.” If the Green Berets made their move to kill the Soviets, chances were they wouldn’t have started with the medic. That would have given Nikolai time to react.

  Quietly, Nikolai spoke. “They sent two of us. Vikhrov was my partner.”

  Yuri Vikhrov. Their eng
ineer. The two lowest-ranking officers on the Soviet side of the mission had both been covert agents. Mikhail shouldn’t have been surprised.

  “Obviously,” Nikolai said, “things did not go as planned.”

  “What exactly were you gonna do to ensure your survival?” one of the Green Berets asked. “Kill us once the ship was secure?”

  Nikolai eyed him coldly. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

  The Green Beret lunged toward Nikolai. Mikhail stepped between them before contact could be made. “This is not the time!” He eyed the Green Beret’s name tag: Reed. “Listen, Reed, you have to understand our position.”

  Face twisted in a scowl, Reed pushed himself away. “Yeah, I bet you’d like us to understand your position—“

  “Corporal,” said Hemingway.

  “—so the moment our back is turned you—”

  “Corporal!”

  Going silent, Reed looked back at his captain.

  Hemingway’s expression was stoic. “Were we in their shoes, we’d have been ordered to do the same thing.” He stepped between both his soldiers, then looked at Mikhail. “I can assure you our orders weren’t to eliminate you at any point in this operation. From one man to another, I give you my word. What else do I need to give you for us to continue this operation?”

  For Mikhail, nothing. That Hemingway was playing peacemaker was enough. There was no way for Mikhail to know if the Green Beret’s words were truthful, but that didn’t matter now anyway. The two sides needed each other to survive. If treachery needed to be dealt with, it’d be dealt with later. “As far as I’m concerned, the Cold War just ended.” It was a statement he didn’t fully believe. But what else could he say?

  “That’s good to hear,” said Hemingway.

  Back to business. “What is your other soldier’s name?” He motioned to the Green Beret watching the hall.

  “Sparks. Both men are corporals.”

  Nodding, Mikhail said, “I have Sevastian Tyannikov, my senior lieutenant, and Miss Nina Andrianova, sniper specialist.” That they had been working together without bothering to introduce themselves was a sign of the level of distrust that had existed. “And we both know Mr. Lukin now.” He looked at Nikolai. “So is any part of you medically trained?” Nikolai nodded. “Then tend to Tyannikov.”

  “Da, captain,” Nikolai said less-than-flatteringly. He approached Sevastian to examine his shoulder.

  Mikhail’s focus shifted to Reed. “I want you to backtrack to the doorway by the entryway. Take whatever you can from the men we lost there. Weapons, ammunition, whatever would be useful.” He had a hunch that part of the ship was clear. It was the deeper interior they needed to worry about. “Go.”

  For a moment, Reed hesitated—until a stern look from Hemingway prompted the corporal’s cooperation. Readying his M3, Reed slipped out the doorway. Mikhail turned to Hemingway. “Whatever time we have now will not last long. Those creatures outside, they will soon alert the rest of their crew that we are here—if they have not done so already. Do you have communication with your general?”

  The look Hemingway gave him was all the answer Mikhail needed. “That’s the first thing I tried when we got in this room,” the American answered. “There’s too much interference coming from the ship. We’ve got nothing.”

  Testing his own radio, Mikhail experienced the same thing. Nothing but static. Damn it. With no communication, there was no way to alert the rest of the Americans that they had made it inside. There was no way to signal the frontal assault. The last thing the Americans saw was Nina leading Mikhail and his team toward the ship. She never even made it back to them. For all Mikhail knew, they thought the infiltration team was dead. That conclusion would only be strengthened with those reptiles lurking about the dig site.

  “We talked about this possibility beforehand,” Hemingway said. “Communication going dark once we got inside. We agreed that we didn’t necessarily need to know that things were going well inside the ship—just the confirmation that we made it inside. But they don’t even have that.”

  Nina would have been confirmation. But she never returned to the jeeps. They were truly alone. Looking at his sniper, Mikhail asked, “Can you manage in close combat?”

  Propping up from the wall, Nina nodded.

  “Here,” Mikhail said, removing the Makarov pistol he’d claimed from Sevastian and handing it to her. “Take this. Here is some ammunition.”

  “Think your weapons survived their torture test?” Hemingway asked.

  Mikhail nodded. “What few we have left, yes.”

  Moments later, Reed returned through the doorway with the salvaged equipment from the fallen Green Beret and Iosif. Setting the salvage on the floor, he picked up a canteen and addressed Nina. “Miss.” Tossing it to her, he then looked at Mikhail. “For the lady to wash her head.”

  Faintly, Mikhail smiled. Perhaps a good man, after all. Glancing back at Nina, he nodded in approval. His focus returned to the weapons on the floor. Iosif’s Makarov was there, along with his PPSh-41 ammunition. “Who’s good?” he asked, looking around.

  “Good,” Sparks said from his position in the hall. Reed and Hemingway affirmed, too. All three Americans still had their submachine guns.

  Nikolai would be fine. He already had Iosif’s PPsh-41, and he could take the extra ammunition. Giving the extra Makarov to Sevastian, that left Mikhail as the only weaponless soldier. Bending down, he picked up the M3.

  “You know how to work that thing?” asked Hemingway.

  Claiming the weapons’ extra ammunition, he tested the M3’s weight in his hands. “I learn quickly.” Looking back at Nina, he saw her massage her head under the flow of canteen water, her black hair reemerging from the muck. Slicking it back and wiping her face, she tossed the canteen back to Reed.

  “Spasibo,” she said, a faint smile showing. “Thank you.”

  Mikhail shifted to his other troops. Nikolai was still working on Sevastian’s arm. “How is he doing?”

  “The wound is cauterized,” Nikolai answered. “There’s no bleeding or lodged projectile. Just damage. Morphine should be taking effect soon, so the pain should diminish.” He stepped aside to reveal the shirtless Sevastian’s shoulder. The moment Mikhail saw it, he grimaced. Everything from the right side of Sevastian’s chest to his bicep was a twisted, charred wreck. “For all practical purposes, his clavicle and rotator cuff are destroyed.”

  Holding his pistol with his left hand, Sevastian spoke through quivering lips. “I won’t be as accurate, but I’ll do what I can.”

  The impulse to immediately say no was strong. Having a soldier who was almost totally non-effective in combat was the last thing Mikhail needed. But Sevastian’s well-being was also at stake. What if the aliens found him here? He’d have no chance. More than they needed him, he needed them. “All right,” Mikhail said. “Put your uniform back on, try your best not to look injured. Do some damage.”

  “Da, captain.” Wincing, he slid back into his outfit.

  So this is it. This is the entry team. A pistol-wielding sniper who wasn’t supposed to be there, a Spetsnaz GRU medic, an incapacitated executive officer, and three American Green Berets. Seven mud-covered survivors of an infiltration gone to hell. Readying his M3, Mikhail surveyed his team. Broken, but alive. At least that said something. “We move in three rows. Lukin, you move with me. Sparks and Andrianova, surround Tyannikov in the middle. Captain Hemingway and Reed will take the rear.” It was basic, but that was fine. “The reptiles are vulnerable in the head and neck. Shoot only when you can hit. We need to conserve ammo.” The group acknowledged. “Be aware: there is a second type of alien here. I saw one dead in the entry room. It was gray, and very thin, like a starving child. I do not know what it can do.

  “We will move forward through the vessel toward its center. We do not need communication to alert the American forces that we are here. If we can create enough chaos, it might attract the attention of the aliens outside. If the Americ
ans see that, they can move forward with the frontal assault.” That was still why they were there. That was still what they were going to do.

  Giving the order to move out, Mikhail and his team abandoned the safety of whatever the room was they’d been sitting in. Submachine guns ready, they tracked into the halls and began their trek inward into the belly of the beast.

  It was time to go on the attack.

  4

  1524 hours

  MIKHAIL STRAINED EVERY sense as he led his team through the flickering corridors. His muddied palms gripped his borrowed M3 with fierce determination. He felt a strong inclination to pull the weapon’s trigger, as if the act itself would place a target in view. That was how close-quarters combat always felt.

  Lighting was intermittent throughout the corridor, pulsing on and off as if whatever power source was feeding it was struggling to survive. The lights themselves ran like veins along the top corners of the halls—a design Mikhail had never seen anywhere on Earth. The flickering, combined with the slant of the ship, formed an atmosphere as unsettling as it was unnatural.

  The corridor ended into a solid metal door that was sealed shut. Though there’d been several doors along the route, no sounds had emanated from any of them. For all practical purposes, it seemed that they were leaving a dead section of the ship.

  The soldiers split along both sides of the hallway as they neared the door, their weapons drawn and ready as each step took them closer to whatever lay on the other side. Mikhail scanned for some kind of door mechanism. There was a depressed panel to the door’s right. That had to be something. As he approached it, he signaled for the others to hold behind him. They instinctively knelt to firing positions, weapons aimed at the door.

  The panel appeared to have some sort of screen, but everything was dark. Several buttons were visible, each with a strange symbol, but pressing them did nothing. Come on, Mikhail, figure this out! He’d had the same problem trying to close the first room they’d entered. Was it a power issue, or his own cluelessness? He had a suspicion it was a combination of both. He hit the buttons again. Nothing. Shaking his head and cursing, he looked around the panel for anything he was missing. It was all there in front of him—and it was totally dead. Angrily, he banged his fist against the panel. At some point, something needed to go right.