by Stephen, Lee
Suddenly, the overhead lights went full-blast; the hallways were completely illuminated. A vibration came to the entire area—Mikhail leapt back and raised his M3.
“What did you do?” asked Nikolai.
“Nothing, I did nothing!” There was no way a fist to the wall had done this—this was something else. The spacecraft was getting its power back.
Something crackled along the veins of ceiling lights. A rasping alien voice emerged, seemingly from the lights themselves, and repeated the same phrase over and over again, like some kind of warning. Ahead, the door panel lit up. A mechanical whir emerged from the door’s housing; it was opening. The whole of the strike team readied their weapons as Mikhail fell back into formation. The door slid into the wall.
Hostiles appeared.
Two reptiles and one gray alien were gathered along a series of wall panels on the other side of the door. By the time they saw Mikhail and his team, weapons were already being fired. A barrage of .45 APC rounds was slung toward the extraterrestrials, who were in no position to counter. Head and neck shots struck true even as the human soldiers stalked forward. Mikhail and his team crossed the door’s threshold as the aliens toppled backward.
Past the fallen aliens, the hallway opened into a spacious, elongated chamber that looked roughly twenty meters long. Metallic doors sealed the room at both ends, with the rearmost door following the ship’s downward slant. “Clear,” Hemingway said, taking position to cover it. Reed knelt alongside him, submachine gun poised and ready.
Before Mikhail could make any sort of declaration, the door at the opposite end of the chamber opened. Two more reptiles. Bursts from Mikhail and Nikolai felled them, but the quick kills ended there. Past the fresh corpses, a third reptile dove for the cover of a right-hand turn further up the hallway. Using the corner as cover, the alien fired a flurry of blue energy bolts the humans’ way. Though none of the bolts struck, it was enough to force Mikhail’s team to duck out of the elongated chamber and back into the hall they’d entered from.
We cannot lose ground—not here! If the aliens were allowed to force Mikhail’s team backward, this was going to be a quick mission. Sliding to the corner of the chamber, Mikhail leaned around and fired a suppressing shot at the reptile. Glancing behind, Mikhail looked at the door on the lower side of the chamber. It was still closed. “Hemingway, Reed, open that door! The rest of you, suppress!” The concept of suppression went against his own declaration of shoot only when you can hit, but in this instance, they had no choice. They had to move forward or they’d be flushed backward.
Diving to the center of the chamber from the hall, Nikolai raised his PPSh-41 and released a volley toward the hostile, forcing it back around the corner. Sparks joined alongside the Spetsnaz. The two of them, combined with Mikhail’s fire from around his own cover, were enough to momentarily hold the alien at bay.
“Let me get to where you are,” Nina said to Mikhail, still covered behind him. Her pistol raised, she eyed him sternly. “Trust me.”
She’s still a sniper. “Take position,” he said quickly, spinning away from the corner as she took his spot. Mikhail’s focus shifted to Hemingway and Reed. “How is it coming with that door?” he shouted.
No sooner had Mikhail asked the question, Hemingway and Reed leapt back from the door as it slid up into the ceiling. “It’s open and we’re clear!” the American captain said.
Mikhail spun back to the firefight. Nikolai, Nina, Sevastian, and Sparks were suppressing what were now four distinct sources of alien weapons fire coming from around the corner far ahead. Moments later, four became three, as one of Nina’s pistol rounds plugged an alien dead center in its throat the instant it showed its head.
Unclipping a grenade from his belt, Mikhail ripped out the pin in his teeth. “Now pay attention to this,” he murmured, hurling the grenade down the hallway. As it bounced toward the corner, the three remaining aliens held their fire. “Everyone, come!” Mikhail shouted, motioning for them to follow through the lower-side door. “Same position—Nikolai, up front!” They reassumed formation just as the aliens opened fire again. But the extraterrestrials’ offensive was short-lived, as Mikhail’s grenade erupted in the hallway. The walls trembled amid the sound of reptilian screeching. Mikhail didn’t bother looking back. Whether the three around the corner were wounded, dead, or dying, the humans were now officially a force to be reckoned with. That was all that mattered.
The seven-man team was now hustling down a new hallway—the downward angle at which they traveled adding to their momentum. The hallway seemed identical to the one the aliens had been covering in the opposite direction. There was a sharp, ninety-degree turn to the left that Mikhail could only assume led further into the ship’s center.
One of the hallway doors they were passing opened—the entire group flinched and aimed their weapons. Standing in the open door frame was a single gray alien. It gazed at the group with its opaque, bulbous black eyes.
Sparks, the nearest soldier to the creature, grabbed it by its uniform and shoved it straight into the room. Mikhail followed the Green Beret inside. “Lukin, Reed, watch the hall!” The two men complied as Mikhail, Hemingway, Sparks, and Nina surrounded their gray captive. Sevastian propped himself against the wall.
Though frail in build, the gray alien was almost more horrible than the reptiles. It was almost—almost—humanlike. That borderline similarity was downright disturbing. Even amid the instinctive nature of combat, the insanity of what they were facing had never escaped Mikhail fully. These were beings they’d never seen before—that humans had never seen before. They were freakish. In many ways, they seemed wrong. But there they were. There was an impulse in Mikhail to strike at the gray alien. To beat it repeatedly, incessantly. He recognized it mostly as fear. And so it was restrained.
“What do you want here?” asked Mikhail sharply in Russian, as if the alien would understand the question. The inquiry was more emotional than rational. These beings were on their planet. The desire to know why was overwhelming, even if it led to the asking of unanswerable questions. His language returned to English. “Why have you come to us?”
Nikolai watched from the doorway. “Why don’t you try French? Maybe he understands that.”
“Zatknis,” spat Nina.
“He understands me,” Mikhail said, glaring at the alien face-to-face. “You understand me, don’t you, demon?”
Stepping back, Hemingway said, “We should kill it.”
Mikhail didn’t want to kill it. Not yet. “Did you think we would roll over and die for you? Did you think we wouldn’t fight back?” These were things he needed to say. Things he needed to release. He was pulled away from his daughter for this creature. He could die and leave Kseniya with only a memory of her father because of it. “We will destroy you all.” Now he was ready. “Kill it,” he said to Hemingway, standing and taking a step away. Hemingway aimed his pistol.
The sensation struck Mikhail suddenly—before he had even turned fully around. It was like a pulse, a grab. Different from anything he’d ever felt before. Panic swept over him as a voice emerged in his mind.
Listen.
Then the shot rang out. As the alien’s head rocked backward, Mikhail found himself stumbling against the wall of the room, as if the bullet had impacted both he and the creature. Pain swelled in his mind; it was unbearable. Grabbing his head, he screamed through clenched teeth.
Something was in his head. A sound—a piercing ring that reverberated from one side of his mind to the other. Everything and everyone around him faded away. Images sparked through his brain like an avalanche of memories, none of which were his. Outer space. A small blue planet. An eruption of fire, then a crash. Communication was down. A loss of signal. His job—that was his job. Then they would come.
In the immediacy of the moment, none of it made sense. Then, as the endless seconds passed, the thoughts melded together. The planet was Earth. It was being approached. The explosion was the American nucl
ear missile, followed by the crash. He’d been inside the alien’s mind.
Communication was down, there in the ship. The aliens couldn’t contact their homeworld. That was what that particular gray alien was working toward: repairing communications. He was one of many focused on the task. Once their relays were back online…
…then the rest would come.
Hands grabbed Mikhail; he was expelled from the thoughts. Eyes blinking, he focused ahead. It was Nina. The others were behind her. They were all looking at him. Mikhail could see her mouth the word captain, but no sound came out. He only heard one word, repeated over and over.
Listen. Listen. Listen. Listen.
Then it stopped. The sounds of the present washed in like a great rushing of water. Mikhail’s motor function returned, and he swatted Nina’s hands away.
“Listen!” Mikhail shouted, blinking confusedly as the word came out. He tried again. “Listen!” Gritting his teeth and growling, he forced out something else. “I’m all right!”
Hemingway and Sparks stepped away as Nina rose to her feet. Even from the hallway where they were supposed to be keeping post, Nikolai and Reed’s eyes were fixated on Mikhail.
Back-stepping from him, Nina asked, “What happened?” Next to her, Hemingway’s finger rested on the trigger of his submachine gun. He, too, stared at Mikhail in bewilderment.
In Mikhail’s mind, things were starting to make sense. Pushing up to his feet, he looked at the fallen gray alien. There was a look of open-mouthed finality frozen on the being’s face. It was trying to communicate with him. Through his mind. It had only managed to get out the word listen before Hemingway’s weapon silenced it for good. But what was everything else? What were those flashes, those glimpses at the alien’s memories and purpose? No sooner was the question posed, the answer came. Those were the alien’s most recent experiences with life. At the onset of death, they had flashed—and Mikhail had been caught up in it.
“What just happened, Kirov?” Hemingway asked. “You still with us?”
Nodding, Mikhail answered, “Give me a moment to clear my head.” His brain was throbbing with the worst pain he’d ever experienced. It had to be due to the mental connection. “I know what they’re doing.”
Nina cocked her head strangely. “What do you mean?”
“The aliens.” He looked at the gray’s corpse. “Or at least, this one.” How was he going to explain this? From the beginning. “I think it tried to communicate with me, right before Hemingway shot it. I felt it speak in my mind. It said ‘listen,’ then you pulled the trigger.” He glanced non-accusingly at the American captain. “I know it was from the alien.”
The looks on the other six’s faces were far less skeptical than Mikhail had anticipated. Perhaps in the wake of UFOs, giant reptiles, and strange energy weapons, they were more open to what would normally have been considered lunacy.
Shaking his head, Mikhail tried to explain further. “I felt it, for the quickest of moments—a connection. It is difficult to explain, but it was a presence in my thoughts that was not my own. And when you killed the alien, it was like a floodgate opened, even if just for a moment. I saw the alien’s memories, what it was doing.” He looked at the corpse again. “He was helping to restore communication to the ship. That was the priority task. If communication was restored, they could contact the others—I presume that meant other extraterrestrials.” He wasn’t sure how else to interpret it.
Hemingway seemed to be taking everything in at face value. Kneeling down several feet away, he looked at Mikhail stoically. “So you’re saying that’s what this ship’s crew is currently trying to do? Restore communication to signal the rest of their…whatever. Right?”
“I can only tell you what I experienced,” answered Mikhail. “I have never felt anything like this before.” He resisted the urge to say, you have to believe me. It would have made him feel crazy.
Nodding his head, Hemingway rose. “If that’s what it said, that’s what we go by.”
The look on Mikhail’s face must have echoed his surprise. Hemingway believed him, without question. Why? Without Mikhail needing to ask aloud, the American captain addressed it.
“You’re the best your country could send for this mission. I’m gonna take a step of faith and trust you’re not crazy or an idiot. Because, frankly, if you’re right, we don’t have much time.”
Reed stepped into the room. “And if he’s wrong, sir?” His gaze stayed on Mikhail.
“At this juncture,” Hemingway answered, looking at his soldier, “I don’t think it matters.”
Trust. Even with an extraterrestrial spacecraft looming over the hills, trust had been the biggest question mark throughout this operation. But that was starting to change. If the Americans wanted an excuse to take control of the operation, this would have been the perfect opportunity. But Hemingway didn’t. Mikhail’s stare lingered on the Green Beret leader, eye contact maintained between the two of them. Nodding his head appreciatively, Mikhail readied his M3.
“I don’t suppose that thing told you where we need to go?” Hemingway asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” said Mikhail. “Your bullet was a little too fast for that.”
The American captain waved his soldiers onward, then looked at Mikhail. “We should split up. Two teams will move through the ship faster. Find whatever communication system they’re trying to restore.”
“I agree,” answered Mikhail. He and his fellow humans had been thoroughly outmatched at the outset—but the outset had passed. The last thing Mikhail had seen the aliens do was bleed. Three and four-man teams suddenly didn’t seem so insignificant.
Sparks angled his head to one side. “How will we know what their communication system looks like?”
Indicating for Nina and Nikolai to approach him, Mikhail answered, “Ask every hostile you see. If they don’t answer, shoot them.” Hemingway cracked the faintest of smirks. “One team should press forward. Continue in the direction we were all heading. The other should backtrack to the hallway where I threw the grenade.”
“We’ll do that,” Hemingway said.
No—go that way yourself. “No, we will,” Mikhail said. Green Berets present or not, if any side was returning to a known hot zone, it was going to be Soviet. “Continue down this corridor. Create as much damage as you can. We will do the same in the other direction.”
Hemingway seemed to hesitate. “You sure?” Very briefly, his eyes shifted to Nina.
The sniper noticed. Her brown eyes narrowing, she set her jaw and tied her hair into a ponytail. “Don’t worry, capitalist. The team with the woman will do fine.”
“We will head back, then progress beyond the turn we abandoned,” Mikhail said. “If you see a gray one, kill it first. Who knows what they could do if they get inside your head.”
“Aye, aye.”
“We may end up running parallel to each other. If so, we will see you on the other side.” No room for failure. “Make them hurt.”
Raising his M3, Hemingway motioned to his men. “Let’s move, Berets.” Offering Mikhail a final nod, the Americans flitted around the corner, toward the downward slope to the ship’s rear, leaving their Soviet counterparts behind.
Mikhail surveyed his team. Himself with an American M3, a GRU medic with a PPsh-41, a sniper legend with a Makarov pistol, and an executive officer who could barely fight at all. Even still, unconventional wasn’t the word that came to mind. The word that surfaced in Mikhail’s head was professional. “How is everyone on ammunition?”
“Good,” answered Nina.
Nikolai half-frowned. “Good enough.”
Even without elaboration, Mikhail knew the difference between “good” and “good enough” was significant. But any degree of good was better than bad. Kneeling briefly, he said, “Nikolai, you move forward with me. Nina, watch our rear.” With the Americans storming the other direction, attacks from the rear shouldn’t have been huge threats. But even a small threat, if not kept in check
, could take them all down.
“I should take point, captain,” said Nina.
“You have a pistol,” Mikhail answered. “What we need up front is firepower.”
She stood her ground. “What you need in front is the conservation of ammunition. No one else can kill more hostiles with as few bullets as me.”
Did it matter that Nina was carrying a pistol instead of a sniper rifle? Perhaps she had a point.
Studying Mikhail’s expression, Nikolai tilted his head warningly. “Captain…”
“Take point with me,” Mikhail said to Nina. He shifted to Nikolai. “Conserve your ammunition, watch the rear.” For a moment, it looked as if Nikolai would argue. But the Spetsnaz kept silent. Speaking to Nina again, Mikhail said, “I will give you first opportunity to fire, but only for a second. Hit your marks.”
“Thank you, captain.” She dipped her head appreciatively.
Lastly, Mikhail’s focus shifted to Sevastian. The morphine was kicking in, and Sevastian seemed to be moving in less obvious pain. It was a far cry from being wholly effective, but Mikhail would take what he could get. “Are you all right, Tyannikov?”
Sevastian nodded. “I am still your senior lieutenant.” Readying his pistol with his left hand, he waited by the door. “I am ready to fight, captain.”
Of all the personnel involved in this operation, Mikhail respected Sevastian the most. The man was determined, even in the midst of near-incapacitation. That was what they needed. “Cover the rear with Lukin.”
“Yes, captain.”
It was well past time to get going. They needed to move. He spared one last glance at the dead alien on the floor—the alien that had tried to tap into his mind at the wrong time. The alien that might have just given them an edge.