by Stephen, Lee
“Yes,” he said to her. “Yes, I do.”
Nina’s gaze settled on his face. For several moments, even with the potential for chaos all around them, she stood still and silent. She was realizing where he stood. Did she stand there, too?
Reaffirming her grip on the M3, Nina turned to cover their rear. “We must move quickly.”
Closing his eyes, Mikhail whispered a thank you to whatever God was listening. He’d have finished this mission by himself if he’d had to, but Nina’s help would undoubtedly make it easier. “Do you have a family, Nina?”
Her expression changed somewhat as he addressed her by her first name, though it quickly passed. “No. Do you?”
“I have a daughter. She is six. Her name is Kseniya.” Seconds were precious—but these were worth it. He wanted Nina to know his motivation, in case there was any doubt.
The sniper nodded. “Let’s do this for your daughter, Mikhail.”
Save your daughter. Disable communications. That was precisely what Mikhail intended to do.
Weapons raised and ready, they forged ahead.
5
1549 hours
THE CORRIDOR THAT led to the forward section of the spacecraft was angled upward, a result of the tilt of the ship. The pain that surged throughout Mikhail’s shoulder couldn’t be ignored—it could only be tolerated. With Nina at his side and both operatives making frequent glances behind them, the pair progressed up the ascension.
There was no turn to be seen ahead; the corridor simply ended at a metal door similar to those they’d passed along the way. Mikhail was fairly certain by that point that opening the door would not be an issue. It was what lay behind the door that was his concern. He needed it to be the bridge. It had to be. He was confident that it was. This felt like the right way to go, almost to a familiar degree. The feeling grew stronger with every step he took.
His palms were sweaty around the grip of his pistol, even though no hostiles were jumping out to challenge them. With droplets of sweat rolling down his temples, he glanced back briefly to survey the intersection they’d been walking away from. No aliens were there. He focused ahead.
As they drew to within ten meters of the door, Mikhail picked up his pace, trotting to the door until he was able to press his body against the wall beside it. Mirroring him, Nina’s focus shifted back to the corridor behind them. Eyeing the control panel, Mikhail placed his hand over the door mechanism. His gaze shifted to Nina, who briefly looked his way. There was no need for words—their expressions said everything. This was it. If Mikhail was right, the bridge lay on the other side of that door along with whatever forces were prepared to defend it.
Silently, Mikhail mouthed his countdown. “Three.” Nina wiped her hair back, gaze locked on him. “Two.” Mikhail’s heart rate intensified. His senses kicked in fully. It was time. Inhaling to say the inevitable, his hand pressed against the panel. “One.”
The mechanism was activated. The door slid into the wall. Simultaneously, Mikhail and Nina rushed into the room, weapons raised and ready to fire.
The moment they stepped inside, there was no doubt that this was the bridge. It was spacious—control panels were everywhere. Technology beyond their comprehension. Noise and light that had travelled across the stars. It was the heart of a technological behemoth.
Rushing into the room’s center, they spun in every direction to locate targets. There was only stillness. There were no living aliens—gray or otherwise—anywhere. Several corpses could be seen scattered across the floor, likely victims of the crash. The culmination of that crash, the American front outside, and his strike team must have dwindled the aliens’ numbers to the point where critical areas, such as the bridge, could no longer be defended. That was all Mikhail could surmise.
Alien hieroglyphics were everywhere, none of which seemed at all familiar to Mikhail, even with his echoed alien memories. “It is here. It must be.” Pointing to the door they’d entered through, Mikhail said, “Cover the exit.” Nina acknowledged and moved into a fortifying position, her M3 aimed down the corridor as she covered inside the door.
None of the panels anywhere near Mikhail looked familiar. Look across the room. Mikhail’s gaze shifted to a panel on the far side of the bridge. Immediately, familiarity clicked.
Gunfire erupted, yanking Mikhail away from his thoughts. Raising his Makarov, he took cover and watched as the door on the opposite side of Nina’s whisked open. All at once, Hemingway, Reed, and Sparks backed inside, each man firing his weapon ferociously. It was a desperate retreat. Within seconds, it became apparent as to why.
A guardian marched into the room, weapon blazing, as the three Americans dove for cover in different directions. The armored robot was identical to the one Mikhail had and his team had encountered—and it was right in the midst of them. As the guardian launched a volley, the Green Berets leapt over railings and dove behind consoles. Whipping his head to Nina, Mikhail instructed her to hold her position. Then he fumbled for his alien rifle.
A blast erupted across the room. Reed tumbled over a console. The soldier had been struck.
Mikhail knew he had no chance to fire his alien weapon accurately—not in the shape he was in. Earlier he’d had the benefit of perfect positioning and a wall to support his dead arm. The way he was now, the kickback alone would knock him off his feet. He had to get his weapon to Hemingway. “Captain!” As soon as Mikhail cried out Hemingway’s rank, he flung the alien rifle in the American’s direction. Hemingway watched it as it rattled toward him and dove to claim it.
“How the hell do you fire it?” Hemingway demanded. The guardian set its sights on Sparks.
Mikhail was seeking his own cover now. Hands over his head, he screamed, “Use the…thing! The…” What was the right word for the firing mechanism? “The toggle! Put your hand on the toggle!”
Rising up from behind the console, Hemingway lifted the alien rifle against his shoulder. A bolt of blue energy exploded from its barrel, careening off to the side and madly off-target. A wall console shattered in a spray of sparks.
The guardian fired on, its relentless march taking it straight toward Sparks. The soldier grunted as an energy bolt connected squarely with his stomach. Bursting open, his body toppled.
From his position behind the guardian, Hemingway fired again. This time, his aim was true. A metallic groan emerged from the guardian as it stuttered forward, struck by its own technology. Before it could turn to face its human assailant, it was struck a second time. Smoke bellowed from its innards as it teetered backward like a falling tree. Crashing against an island console, it slid motionless to the floor. All was still.
Humming, almost pulsing, the consoles around Mikhail provided the only commentary to the final rush of the extraterrestrials—or what Mikhail hoped was the final rush. There wasn’t much more they could handle. Sparks was likely dead. Reed was injured enough to have not participated in the climax of the fight. Mikhail himself was essentially down to one arm. They were all battered. But not beaten.
Pushing up gingerly and wiping blood from his mouth where he’d nicked himself on a console, Mikhail scanned the bridge. Across the way, Hemingway was abandoning the awkward alien rifle for his submachine gun. Nina was darting between the debris toward Reed and Sparks.
“Captain Hemingway,” Nina said, looking across at the American. She was assisting a wincing Reed to his feet. “Sparks is dead.”
Hemingway said nothing in response; for the first time, the Green Beret leader looked genuinely tired. His focus shifted to Mikhail. “Do you think that communication relay is here?”
“Yes,” Mikhail answered painfully, the agony of his shoulder wound returning in full force. Limping across the room, he approached the console he’d recognized from before. “It’s this one.”
Propping Reed against the wall, Nina collapsed beside him. The female sniper was spent.
“We never ran across any other aliens,” Hemingway said. “Just that metal thing.” Looking
at Mikhail in puzzlement, Hemingway approached him from behind. “You sure that’s the panel?”
He had no doubts. “This is the one.”
“How do you…?” Hemingway’s question trailed off as Mikhail reached for the console. He watched the Soviet captain begin to work.
In a way Mikhail couldn’t explain, everything about the console looked familiar. The hieroglyphs, the buttons, even the position his hands needed to be in to work the controls. It was as if his body was possessed.
Mikhail’s fingers flew from one end of the console to the other with lightning-quick efficiency. There were several displays on its surface, each flashing sequences of code that changed with every glyph Mikhail tapped. Chirps, beeps, mechanized alien voices. His hands were conducting an orchestra he couldn’t comprehend.
Even as his fingers darted from one end of the display to the next, the thought emerged in his head: how could this be? He didn’t remember any of this from the gray’s memories, yet he was operating this console as if he’d operated it his whole life. The panel shifted again, a blue triangle in the upper corner morphing into a red circle. The lines of code faded, replaced by a row of hieroglyphs.
Mikhail’s eyes darted to one of the overhead displays. The power conduits were rerouted. All remaining energy was now transferred to the core. The overload sequence was ready to engage. Hand gripping a lever at the top corner of the console, he pressed it forward until it clicked into place. It was almost done.
Then he stopped.
Ever so slowly, he looked at the overhead display again—the one he’d just interpreted as a core overload. Except now, he was interpreting it differently. Now he was interpreting that all remaining energy had been transferred away from the communication relays, not to the core. Overload sequence? No, this was a communication shutdown. It was all clear again—everything he was doing. Why had he discerned it in a totally different way mere seconds before? It was as if his mind had corrected some sort of error in perception. Overload sequence…overload sequence…where had that even come from? Hands easing away from the console, Mikhail took a step back.
Power conduits transferred to the core. Not away from communications. To the core.
A series of visuals flashed through his mind. Kseniya screaming. More spacecraft were landing; they were invading Zossen. Storming into Mikhail’s home. Kseniya’s body erupted as their energy weapons tore through her. The images faded; the console was in front of him again. In the midst of Mikhail’s silence, his mission—as direct as it had been since the moment it first came to him—resurfaced.
Return to the console. Shut down communications. Save his daughter. It was a simple task; his only task. Nothing else mattered. Not heeding Colonel Dorokhov’s original orders, not defeating capitalism. There was but room in his mind for one thing and one thing alone. There was only room for…
…there was only room for…
What am I doing?
Brow arched, he looked up at the display again. The depiction no longer registered as a communication shutdown, nor as a core overload. It was now completely undecipherable—a language he’d never seen before. Sweat poured down his forehead as he stepped back. What the hell is going on?
Deep within his consciousness, something roared. A scream of pain. Mikhail felt a wave of agony that was not his own.
Standing from the floor, Nina looked at him strangely. “Mikhail?” Behind Mikhail, Hemingway cocked his head.
With every second, the throbbing grew worse. The roar became louder. Pain struck him, as if knives had been thrust into his cerebral cortex. Mikhail doubled over forward, only his palms stopping him from hitting the floor face-first. Clasping the sides of his head, he screamed.
He felt a mental curtain fall; he perceived a presence he’d never been aware of until then. Separate from himself. His head pulsed, it pounded. The presence was grasping at him, fighting for him. But it was losing. Mikhail’s vocal chords unleashed a screech the likes of which had never escaped him before. It sounded inhuman, and for a moment—the faintest of moments—he felt the other presence’s mind.
It was wounded. Crawling. It was trying to escape. The presence had never been prompting Mikhail to disable communications; communications had never been lost. It was trying to get Mikhail to blow up the ship.
Suddenly, Mikhail was forced out, the fallen curtain replaced by a solid wall. He felt a tangible release. It was gone.
Nina and Hemingway were gathered around him as he struggled to stand, just as they’d been when it’d first touched his mind. Back when Mikhail thought it was a gray’s dying memory. Their voices emerged again.
“Mikhail!” Nina said. “Quick, lean him against the—”
She never had a chance to finish her sentence. Grabbing Nina by the back of the head, Hemingway slammed her face-first into the wall console. In the next second, Mikhail himself was grabbed by the American captain and flung across the room, where he crashed against the wall.
Reed clambered to his feet in alarm. “Captain?”
Without a second’s hesitation, Hemingway aimed his M3 at Reed’s face and pulled the trigger. The back of Reed’s head burst open. He fell lifelessly to the floor.
The bridge went still.
Hemingway’s eyes focused on the console Mikhail had left behind. Approaching it, his fingers began working the various inputs on its surface.
Mikhail’s vision was spinning—a combination of mental trauma and the attack from Hemingway. What is going on? Groggily, he placed his hands on the floor and attempted to push himself up. Blood trickled from his nose and ears. He felt faint.
The silence died as a resonating pulse emerged from every direction. Along the ceiling and walls, red lights pulsed with an almost organic rhythm. Every active monitor in the room flashed, their former screens replaced by red alien glyphs.
Hemingway…what did he just do? Rolling over awkwardly, Mikhail stared across the room at the American captain. Hemingway was standing over the console, staring down as if in some sort of trance. Then, ever so slowly, he turned his head to Mikhail. Raising his M3, the American marched toward him.
Panic struck Mikhail. “Captain…” Quickly, he reached for his own weapon, only to realize that it had fallen from his shoulder. It lay directly between him and the ever-approaching Hemingway. There was no way Mikhail could get it in time.
The look in Hemingway’s eyes was devoid of emotion. He looked like a zombie. Submachine gun in position to fire, he stopped within several meters of Mikhail. His dead stare locked onto his Russian counterpart.
It has control of him. The same presence that had control of me. Mikhail had merely been influenced. This was far beyond that. Before he’d ever set foot in Iceland, Mikhail had been warned about American treachery. Now he was facing it in a way he’d never expected. “Do not do this! It is not you!”
The shot rang out; blood splattered Mikhail’s face. But nothing had struck him. No bullet, no pain. By the time he looked back up, Hemingway was already falling. The captain thudded against the floor face-first. Behind him, her Makarov raised, was Nina. For several seconds the sniper remained frozen, her wide eyes locked with Mikhail from across the room. Then slowly, her shoulders released. Nina slumped back against the wall, exhausted but alive.
Mikhail’s reaction couldn’t have been more different. Growling in pain as he shoved up to his feet, he stumbled past the crumpled body of Hemingway to the console. The feverish pace of the act prompted Nina to sit up and take notice.
Mikhail scrutinized the display once more, the glyphs on its surface morphing and changing at a pace too fast to keep up with, flipping and spinning and shifting. Occasionally disappearing, like numbers in a countdown. Numbers in a countdown.
Hemingway had done it.
“Captain?” asked Nina exhaustedly, rising to shuffle toward him.
Looking around, Mikhail studied the other monitors in the room. What he saw was impossible to misinterpret. Red symbols in the shape of the alien sp
acecraft, set to loop with the same animation every few seconds. An explosion. The sense of urgency struck Mikhail immediately.
We need to get out of here. Down the corridors. Out of the entry hole. Across the mud field. With a ship this size, how big would the explosion be? They were standing in the heart of the whole thing. Even if the countdown was twenty minutes long, it might not be enough time to get out of range. I can’t stop the countdown—I can’t even recognize the controls. What is my plan? Between the lights, the sounds, and the chaos of the situation itself, the environment was anything but conducive to thinking clearly. Mikhail had never needed clarity more.
Nina repeated breathlessly, “Captain, what is going on?”
“This ship is self-destructing.”
Her jaw dropped. “What?”
“There was no communication from the gray alien, there was no life flashing before my eyes,” Mikhail said. “I was under the influence of an alien presence. It made me think I had received privileged information that would help us defeat it. It made me think I had gained an advantage when in reality, it was influencing me to help it.” Stepping to the room’s center, he surveyed all the other monitors, each one flashing in its own way, revealing alien hieroglyphs he couldn’t read. “When I figured out what was going on, it released it me and took Hemingway instead.”
Shaking her head perplexingly, Nina said, “Why would…why would it make you blow up the ship?”
“I don’t know! Maybe it realized it had lost. Maybe it needed something else to do the job.” They hadn’t run across a single reptile after their experience with the gray alien, other than the one-eyed reptile that’d regenerated. Everything else had been a robot. Maybe the presence, whatever it was, could only control organics. Humans would have been its only option. Running a hand through his hair, Mikhail racked his brain for a solution. The only moments of truth he’d received from the presence were the brief glimpses of its intentions just before their connection broke. Could anything be drawn from that? Escape. It was trying to escape. If that was true, that meant there was a way off the spacecraft.