Xenonauts: Crimson Dagger

by Stephen, Lee

  “No, no, no…just lay still.”

  Again, Nina whispered, “Behind you.” She had no idea why she’d said that. She barely even remembered shouting it, even though it was scarcely a minute earlier. Rolling her head to the side, she opened her mouth to begin saying, “I don’t know,” but stopped as soon as she saw her surroundings. This wasn’t a hospital. It was a tent. A massive, barren, white tent. The bed and medical equipment around her were the only things present at all. She moved to sit upward.

  Once again, the doctor stopped her. “Don’t. You need to lay still.”

  “Where the hell am I? Why can’t I feel my legs?”

  “You were injured in the explosion. Your legs have been numbed.”

  Her eyes widened. “The explosion?” Memories flashed through her mind.

  She and Mikhail charged into the bridge on the three-count. Weapons raised, they immediately searched for targets. None were there.

  All of a sudden, Hemingway grabbed her. He slammed her head against the console. She toppled over as everything spun.

  Mikhail didn’t see the robotic guardian coming—he was too busy looking at her, making sure she was secured in the capsule. Beating on the glass slit, she screamed.

  “Behind you!” She blurted the words out again. The bald-headed man flinched. “Mikhail! Where is Mikhail?” Nina lurched up—then she saw them. Her legs. They were gone below her knees. “Oh my God!”

  The man grabbed her again. “Miss Andrianova, please, lay still!” Her eyes were panicked, her breathing relentless. She was hyperventilating. Looking off to the right, the man screamed, “I could use a little help, here!” Immediately, two large soldiers emerged from a slit in the tent wall. They sprinted toward the bed, grabbing Nina as soon as they reached her. As they forcibly held her down, the bald-headed man injected her in the neck with a needle. Seconds later, Nina’s squirming stopped. Eyes rolling back, she went motionless.

  Jaw setting, the man took a step back. “Let it be known that at 1802 hours, the subject had to be sedated. We’ll try again in twelve hours.” The two soldiers nodded.

  From a speaker situated in the corner, a garbled voice emerged. “Six hours.”

  “She won’t be awake in six hours!” Sighing, the man rubbed his head. “And give me some damn straps next time!” When the voice didn’t reply, the man looked at one of the soldiers. “This is your post for the next twelve hours. If at any point she wakes up, let me know immediately. She shouldn’t, but…you know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He nodded at the other soldier. “Let’s go. Palmerston’s turn again.”

  Away from the room but observing through a small black-and-white monitor, a goateed man sat back in his chair. Picking up a pencil, he scribbled something on a notepad.

  “You heard the way she said that,” a thick Russian-accented man said behind him. “She remembered something.”

  “Yeah, well,” answered the man in the chair, an American. “We don’t know that.”

  Leaning against a desk, the Russian nodded. “I’m telling you. That was realization.”

  “The realization that she doesn’t have feet.”

  “Give her time.”

  Slowly, the American’s stare drifted to another monitor sitting further away. In the center of its display, hands clasped on his lap in a solid white room, Thomas Palmerston sat idly. “That thing he said they saw. That had to be her. Except they saw it happen twice.”

  The Russian pointed at Nina’s monitor. “The way she asked where Kirov was. She was expecting him to be alive. She didn’t ask about anyone else.”

  “Think he was in the other one?”

  “If he was, where did he go?”

  Shaking his head, the American signed. “We’ll find out soon enough. Or we won’t.” In the other monitor, Palmerston looked across the white room. Seconds later, the same man who’d spoken to Nina appeared next to him. “His story hasn’t changed in forty-eight hours. If we don’t get anything else from him today, I’m gonna recommend we send him home.” Rising from his chair, the American turned to the exit.

  The Russian raised an eyebrow. “Do you think that is safe?”

  “Oh yeah,” answered the American with a nod, “it’s safe.” Walking through the exit, he stopped briefly to glance back at his counterpart. “He loves his wife and kids.” Without any more words—only the exchange of an understanding nod—the American left the room.

  * * *

  Ten hours passed before Nina’s eyes cracked open again. As the haziness faded, she was able to make out the form of a man sitting several meters away in a chair, his attention focused on what looked like a newspaper. He was unaware of her, at least for the moment. Closing her eyes to keep her consciousness a secret, she waited for her mind to find clarity. It didn’t take long.

  She remembered everything. The bridge of the spacecraft, the self-destruct sequence. Shooting Hemingway from behind. The mad dash with Mikhail to the escape capsules. Seeing the guardian attack him from behind, then her capsule soaring into space.

  Though she didn’t know where she was, she knew why she was there. She knew why the bald-headed man was asking her questions. She knew why she wasn’t in a regular hospital. She was the sole survivor of a mission that never officially happened. If there were any answers to be found out about what took place inside the spacecraft, only she could provide them. Only she knew the truth about the strike team’s fate. About the trek through the downpour and the ambush of the dig team. About the aliens and weaponry they’d faced. About the unveiling of Nikolai Lukin and the courage of Sevastian Tyannikov, and about Hemingway and his honorable Green Berets. About the man who’d led them, trusting every one of them to do their jobs while doing his better than any of them. Whose six-year old daughter would never see him again.

  For almost an hour, Nina laid in stillness, her eyes closed to ensure the obliviousness of her watcher. Inside, where the guards couldn’t reach, Nina made plans. Her life would never be the same—a fact that went well beyond her physical impediments. The bald man’s questions would only be the beginning. She had answers the world needed to know.

  When Nina opened her eyes again, she did so with confidence and determination. Confidence that she could provide whatever information was necessary. Determination that she’d overcome not only the questions, but the recovery. Gaze fixing on the guard in the chair, she said simply, “I am awake.”

  The guard almost dropped his newspaper. Shooting up, he looked toward the far end of the room and made a series of hand gestures. Within seconds, new footsteps entered the tent.

  So it began.

  The official story of what became known as the “Iceland Incident” emerged in the following days. It was that of an aborted Soviet invasion of the island, thwarted by the small-scale deployment of NATO nuclear weapons. The battle had been costly to both sides but of little gain to either; despite calls for escalation of the conflict, saner heads prevailed. It was announced that Iceland was to be administrated jointly by both superpowers and that a clean-up operation at the blast zone would begin at once.

  In reality, a massive operation was underway at the crash site to scour the entire area of any remnant of extraterrestrial technology. Clandestine meetings were held at the highest levels of military and civilian administration, laying the foundations for a secretive new organization that would protect humanity if the extraterrestrials returned.

  For most, the events of April 23rd 1958 were the terrifying culmination of the political tensions between two nuclear-armed superpowers and a welcome justification for a thaw in their relations. But for a select few, they were something far more significant: the knowledge that there was intelligent life beyond our planet—a hostile force against which humanity needed protection.

  For the next two months of her life, Nina Andrianova lived within the confines of the facility she’d woken up in, answering questions, undergoing hypnosis-induced recollections, and discussing the events of Kirkjub�
�jarklaustur in the minutest of details. Though her days of fighting on the battlefield were finished, there was value in being the only living person to face alien forces in combat. The “organization” recognized this. And so they made her an offer.

  A different kind of war required a different kind of warrior. The downed alien spacecraft had been assaulted by the best forces the Soviet Union and United States could offer, yet none of the original strike team had survived. Combat like this required a certain type of soldier with a certain type of training. And so that became her role. Observe. Make judgments. Then bring in. By the time the 1960s came around, the covert organization—codenamed Xeno—was fully operational. Nina had an eye for talent. Only fitting for a sniper.

  And so she recruited, trained, then recruited some more. And all the while, she waited for the one recruit she wanted. The one she hoped she’d have a reason to cross paths with. A recruit who was dear to her heart without even realizing it. Twenty years after Mikhail secured her in the escape pod and saved her life, Nina got her wish.

  Sunday, May 27th, 1971

  1135 hours

  Ivanovo, Russia

  IT WAS BARELY a drizzle. Not even enough to darken the strands of her hair, despite the fact that she’d been standing under it for almost ten minutes. It was the kind of day she hated, overcast and dreary, yet in a terrible way, appropriate. Droplets clinging to the split ends that rested atop her shoulders, she closed her eyes and bowed her head. Through parted lips and a cloud of frost, she whispered.

  “God our Father, Your power brings us to birth, Your providence guides our lives, and by Your command we return to dust. Those who die still live in Your presence, their lives change but do not end.” Every week, she came to that same place and recited that same prayer. Words of hope for a body there only in memoriam. “May they rejoice in Your kingdom, where all our tears are wiped away. Unite us together again in one family, to sing Your praises forever and ever. Amen.”

  The headstone bore only a name and two dates. Mikhail Alexander Kirov. Born March 2nd, 1925. Died April 23rd, 1958. That day was one of the few she remembered about him. It was a day without a true goodbye. A day when love was stolen from the grip of a little girl who didn’t know enough to know that anything was wrong. Unusual, yes. But not wrong. It was a day with sunshine and puffy clouds, birds singing in the garden, and fresh food in the kitchen. The kind of day little girls are supposed to live for. Wiping away raindrops and saline, she sucked in through her nostrils and whispered, “Four apples, papa.”

  Of all life’s questions, of all its relentless assailments of doubts and what ifs, that was the one answer she knew. Not a day went by when it didn’t flit through her mind. Love, expectation, justice…throughout her life, each had been uncertain territory riddled with tripwires and falsities. She was yet to figure any of them out. But she knew there were four apples.

  Exhaling, the hazel-eyed brunette took a single step back. Goodbyes always felt rushed, so she never said them. Straightening her outfit, she turned for the sidewalk.

  “Captain Kirova.”

  The voice came unexpectedly from off to her right; Kseniya turned quickly to identify it. Further down the sidewalk, under the shelter of an attached umbrella, was a woman in a wheelchair. A double-amputee.

  “They say rain falls alike on the just and unjust,” said the woman, who appeared at least to be in her fifties, judging by the short gray hair tucked under her unidentifiable, yet official-looking hat. Her insignia-less uniform was equally ambiguous. “What do you think of that saying?”

  For several long seconds, Kseniya just stared. Only after it became apparent that the woman was waiting for a response did she finally manage, “Do I know you?”

  The woman shook her head. “No. But I know all about you. I’ve known about you since you were six years old.”

  That garnered a reaction. Blinking and canting her head, Kseniya’s body visibly tensed. The woman wheeled closer.

  “Is that the grave of your father?”

  Hesitantly, Kseniya answered, “Yes.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Who are you?”

  Beneath softening eyes, the woman set her jaw. Silence came again, the only sound around them the pattering of raindrops as they struck the umbrella, the drizzle increasing to a moderately light shower. Finally, the woman answered. “My name is Nina Andrianova. I was the last person to see your father alive.”

  The bluntness of the statement hit Kseniya unexpectedly. Jolting backward ever so slightly, she cocked her head and stared.

  “I know why you joined the military, Kseniya. I know what drove you to excel. I also know you think Americans killed your father. But they did not. Your father was working with Americans on the day that he died.” As Kseniya remained silent, Nina continued. “I have waited nineteen years to tell you this. That in Mikhail’s final hour, he was thinking of you.”

  Emotions in check, Kseniya took a step toward Nina. “I have never seen you before in my life. How do I know anything you are telling me is true?”

  Several seconds passed before Nina expressed a reaction. It was a simple one. Hands moving atop the wheels of her wheelchair, she slowly rolled herself backward. “Because I can show you proof. Proof that I want to show you, on behalf of an organization that could use you. One you have earned the right to know about. But if you want to know it, you must follow me now.” Turning halfway around, she surveyed the ever-increasing shower. “The men the rain fell on that day were all just. Soviets and Americans alike.” She glanced at Kseniya. “So are you.”

  Without any more words, she turned to roll away.

  For the whole while she watched Nina grow distant down the sidewalk, Kseniya never moved. Gone was the drizzle that had gently graced the cemetery, its delicateness replaced by the heavy bombardment of water drops. A storm was on the verge. It’d been like that in Iceland on the day her father had died. Or at least, that was as much as she’d ever heard. No one had bothered to tell her anything else. Until now.

  Through dripping lashes and watered-down bangs, Kseniya regarded her father’s grave one more time. A grave without a body, for a man of whom she had too few memories. A man whose footsteps she’d been following blindly for twenty years. The prospect of seeing for the first time was too much to refuse. If there was a truth to be found, if there was a legacy to be known about Mikhail Kirov beyond the hatred for Americans his death had bequeathed her, she wanted to know. She deserved to know. And he deserved to be known.

  When Kseniya finally walked away to pursue Nina, she left behind a lifetime of uncertainties. A lifetime of no goodbyes, and twenty years of guilt for not being able to answer a simple question—the last question—her father had asked her.

  She never looked back.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  GOD: You are the ever-giver of opportunity. Thank You so much for this one. To You all the glory.

  Lindsey: Your constant support of me is appreciated beyond words. I could not have done this without your patience and understanding. I love you.

  Chris England: Thank you for letting me be a part of the universe you’ve created! You were a sounding board and voice of wisdom throughout this project, and for that I am exceedingly grateful. You have done something incredible with Xenonauts, and you’ve made a fan base very, very proud.

  Francois Cannels: I would never have been involved in this project if not for you. Thank you for introducing me to this world—and for, once again, supplying incredible artwork to the cover of something I’ve done. Your artistic gifts never cease to amaze.

  Fiona Raven: This ain’t our first rodeo and it won’t be our last! I always say it: you’re a consummate pro. Thank you for making me look good time and time again.

  Vincent S. (Jean-Luc) & Christian (thothkins): You guys were outstanding as beta readers for XCD. Thank you for lending your time to this project—it is wholeheartedly better for it.

  The Xenonauts Faithful: Your support of the Xenonauts p
roject is nothing short of awe-inspiring. Thank you all for being so excited about this game and the novella project.

  Lee Stephen is a native of Luling, Louisiana, where he lives with his wife, Lindsey, their dog, Jake, and their newest addition, Levi. In addition to authoring the Epic series, Lee is a full-time coordinator with the Department of Homeland Security & Emergency Preparedness. Keep track of Lee on Twitter @epicuniverse or on his blog at www.room-14.com. His Epic series can be found at www.epicuniverse.com.