by Mars Dorian
“The signal’s showing on mine, too,” Yeltzin said.
Rosco instinctively reached for his side-holster when he remembered all weapons were stripped off. Damn it.
“Sir, look.”
Yeltzin pointed toward one of the small crevices inside the corridor, reminiscent of a slim cargo storage unit found on civilian freighters.
“You want us to hide there?”
“Do you want to get into a fist-fight with an alien life form you know nothing about?”
It wasn’t on his bucket list, but Yeltzin was big and buffed up enough to punch a hole through a hull layer, if he chose to. Rosco’s brain cells worked on overtime but the seconds ran out. The red triangle neared their position.
“You’re right.”
They both bowed and pushed themselves into the wall’s embedded niche, right next to the corridor’s path. Easier said than done; with Yeltzin’s XXL size and their armored atmogear, space was a luxury. To Rosco’s dismay, he had to press his back tight against the soldier’s front plates, which brought his protected butt against the giant’s geared genital area.
“Don’t get any ideas,” the captain said half-jokingly.
“What do you mean, sir?”
A misfired joke.
Rosco didn’t bother to explain it because the target entered their corridor. He kept his mouth shut and swapped his glance between the flickering triangle on the motion sensor and the path. A faint noise sounded from the right—hard, yet organic, skin rubbing on solid ground.
Distance to object: 21 meters.
Rosco’s right hand clutched the laser-cutter and pressed it against his chest plate to prepare for a quick jab attack.
The scratching sound increased.
His heartbeat hammered.
Rosco was never afraid of meeting his opponents head-on, but that counted for the human versions only. He suppressed the shiver in his arms and focused on the corridor. Since he and Yeltzin were stuffed into the trench, he could only grasp a window slit of a view.
From the corner of his right eye, he saw it; a reptilian torso zigzagging through the corridor. It reminded of him of a cobra slithering, but this alien was even faster.
What in the world?
He could only see the alien’s body up to the waist, if you could call it that; a green-bluish skin that looked like an artificial carapace with organic armor plates. The snake body passed him by an arm-length. Based on its size, it must have been as short as a teenager. Maybe it was an offspring unit?
Rosco could have easily thrust his cutter forward, right into the reptilian skin, but to what avail? The creature would have called for backup. The alien snaked along, farther in the direction of the corridor to the left. Rosco exhaled but kept his sound levels down. He wanted to crawl out the niche but Yeltzin’s tight grip prevented him from leaping out. “Sir, that’s not safe. Let’s wait until it’s out of sight,” the giant whispered.
Rosco nodded with ground teeth but rolled out when the patience became unbearable. He faced the creature’s back now dozens of meters in front of him. His fear was confirmed. Yes, the creature moved the lower part of its body like a damn snake from Earth; the upper looked almost humanoid. Rosco recognized something reminiscent of a neckless head glued to the torso and two slender arms with claw-like fingers.
A humanoid snake creature.
He’d preferred the cliché green alien man version that writers and visual artists had imagined in the previous century—harmless, cute aliens, not this atrocity. At least it was relatively short, reaching barely to his shoulder plates. Rosco was tempted to sneak up from behind and deliver a stealthy stab. But he wasn’t good at close quarter combat, and Yeltzin remained right: fighting one of them wouldn’t bring them anywhere but back to the cell. The captain crept into the niche again and waited until the far away life form twined around the corner and disappeared. The gentle giant spoke again.
“What did it look like?”
61
Rosco was superb at visualizing but terrible at mouthing his optical impressions. The sight still haunted his eyes like an infection. “It reminded me of a midget man-snake mutant from an Earth horror movie.”
It took a while for the lieutenant to answer. “That ugly?”
“At least it’s back. Reckon the front isn’t a looker, either.”
He helped the giant move back to the corridor. It was a miracle Yeltzin even fit into the tube pathways. “What now?”
Rosco’s hands went to his mouth when he noticed tiny flares drizzling down on Yeltzin’s armor plates. At first he thought he was hallucinating, but then he recognized the effect—the blue fireflies were back in the house. Rosco readied his laser-cutter and watched his motion scanner. Multiple red triangles emerged on each side of the corridor. Seven in total, squeezing the two men like a blood sandwich. Rosco’s teeth tore at each other. Anger mixed with frustration. He wasn’t going to go back to the prison. Better die with a cutter in your hand than without air in your lungs.
Rosco turned to Yeltzin.
“Are you ready for the afterlife?”
62
The red triangles beeped on Rosco’s motion sensor; now eight in total, moving in some kind of formation. Rosco got a visual. The creatures snaked toward them aggressively. Their long arms carried barrel-shaped tech reminiscent of firearms—only their version was part of their armor. It was impossible to detect where their natural skin started and the hull layers ended.
Rosco froze to the spot and felt the resistance boiling inside his body.
Flight or fight?
His battle instinct told him to swing his cutter, but his mind knew the odds were stacked against them—two men versus eight aliens with beam weapons?
Bad math right there.
“Sir?”
“Don’t move, I’m thinking of something.”
The distance decreased to eight meters on each side. Rosco got a better look at his captors. He could detect something like gills on the rear of their pointy faces. The aliens bore no mouths, but multiple eye-shaped slips placed around their face.
“They look beautiful,” Yeltzin said with a calm voice.
“That’s stretching the definition of beauty.”
But Rosco had to admit that—despite their alien features—they were well-placed. As if a creature designer had assembled each body part with the utmost color-knowledge and symmetry.
Still, Rosco worried more about their behavior than their beauty. He kept his defensive stance when the aliens stopped snaking closer. They halted at a three meter distance on each side of the men but kept their rifle-arms pointed at them. Rosco looked left and right.
Oh, the pressure.
What to do?
The blue fireflies whirled around them like azure fairies. They floated at eye level and flickered in rapid succession. The alien team of the left side reversed their position and showed their backs to the humans. The aliens on the other side wormed closer but allowed their rifle-arms to dangle down.
“I think they want us to follow them,” the gentle giant said.
Yeltzin, the alien-whisperer.
But he seemed right about that—the blue fireflies followed the team snaking away, like a flare-based way pointer. Rosco licked his lips and followed the blue swarm and its alien owners. What choices did they have?
“Watch the back; I’ll keep track of the front… just in case.”
“Okay.”
Yeltzin didn’t look convinced, but the last thing Rosco wanted was a lethal shot from behind. He wanted to see his killer.
Sandwiched in between the two alien teams, the two humans followed the creatures deeper into the tunnel maze. An intricate tube system of moving walls unleashed before their eyes.
“This isn’t the way back to the cells.”
“I know.”
Did the path lead them to the feeding chamber?
The sacrificial altar for their alien god?
Rosco expected the twisted and worse. He
kept talking and apparently, no one of the alien captors seemed to mind.
“Do you think their carapace is armor or actual skin?”
“It’s hard to tell, sir. Their surface layers look like a coherent whole.”
Rosco pictured the scientists back at Daystellar’s Martian facility. They would have gone bonkers over meeting a sentient life form, but Rosco could only think about the risk factor—what were these creatures scheming now? He wanted to zap into their brains and make sense of their odd tactics. Just to get some kind of indicator to what was going on now.
He nudged Yeltzin with his elbow plate and whispered, “Let me try something.”
“Do you want us killed, sir?”
The giant looked worried, which furrowed Rosco’s brows. “I thought you don’t believe in death.”
He addressed the alien form leading the way. “Hey! Can you understand me?”
No reaction.
Rosco summoned his breath and yelled twice as loud. It was hard, because his helmet and the thin atmosphere mitigated his voice.
“I’m speaking to you.”
Nothing.
Which was weird; not even the creatures behind them changed their movements. Rosco didn’t know why, but he stomped the ground with his spiked atmogear boots as hard as possible. A crisp cling sound reverberated throughout the nearby corridor that would have caught anyone’s attention—except the aliens. Both groups in the back and the front of the convoy remained oblivious to his noise.
Could it be…?
Yes.
Rosco tilted his head and smiled at his oversized soldier comrade.
“I think they’re deaf.”
63
“Are you sure?”
“Yell and shout. Really let loose and see what happens.”
Yeltzin roared his voice like a siren on steroids. The corridor seemed to vibrate under the giant’s vocal thunderstorm. The amplifiers in his helmet increased the effect. Yeltzin was that loud that Rosco’s auto-adjust had to lower the decibel levels to prevent ear damage, but apparently not loud enough for the aliens. They didn’t even twitch. The gentle giant met Rosco’s glance with a bewildered look. “I think you’re right, sir.”
Excellent…deaf aliens.
Rosco could work with that.
With that many eyes in front, and all of their illusionary technology, maybe their entire species was so focused on visuals they ignored audio all together. Something to keep in his tactical mind should an opening arise.
“Sir, look.”
The curved corridor rivered into a glowing opening; it looked like an adjacent room, albeit much grander in scale. The aliens motioned them to move onwards. The two men traversed the threshold between the corridor and the new room.
And what a room it was.
Rosco didn’t realize how much his jaw dropped. The half-domed chamber was the size of a ceremonial hall with many corridor holes leading in and out. But what really blew him away were the bipeds standing in the center of the cave chamber. Two more aliens with colorful armored skin gathered around two humanoids. One stood in a crouched pose with eyes focused on a datapad. The other one waved her hand with the smuggest of smiles.
“Captain, Lieutenant. It’s good to see you,” Ming Brakemoto said.
64
Rosco’s face wasn’t sure what to express. Every new step inside this territory became more and more fantastical, yet all four humans were united again in the middle of an alien base. Doctor Brakemoto waved like a girl enticing her friends to take a hover-ride on the wild side. Rosco wanted to send her a quick mind-note, something along the lines of: um, Doctor, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re surrounded by heavily-armed and hostile life forms.
Like she gave a damn.
Ming waved the two men over with more pressure in her voice. “We’re not going to eat you.”
No, but they might, Rosco added in his thoughts. He approached the center stage with his lieutenant. Some kind of projection device awaited them—maybe the alien’s version of a tech table. Ming seemed completely oblivious to the alien horde around her as they swarmed the chamber with their rifle-arms ready.
“Captain, a lot has happened since we last saw each other,” the doctor said.
“You don’t say.”
Rosco was still confused about this situation.
“Ekström has helped me 3D project the results of my drawing application. Its new color set takes the invisible light spectrum into account.”
Sounded like scientific gibberish, but then Ming’s finger moved on their pad screen and projected colorful hieroglyphs into the airspace above. The aliens on the opposite side of the system moved their bodies and replied with symbols they claw-painted into the air. Doctor Brakemoto nodded with a sugary smile.
“Their species relies solely on visual language, sir. Sound doesn’t even exist for them, probably due to the thin atmosphere and its limited ability of spreading waves. Hence all the illusionary technology we’ve come in contact with.”
Rosco hadn’t realized how much he cocked his eyebrows. “You can fully understand them?”
“Not yet.”
That realization seemed to bug her.
“I’m making progress in baby steps. But I have access to at least six dozen symbols with basic meanings. Using a visual language with unknown color sets is the ultimate challenge.”
One she seemed eager to solve.
Rosco applauded her skill but couldn’t calm down yet. His gaze did a full sweep of the chamber. He counted at least ten aliens, half of which guarded the perimeter with their rifle-arms pointed at the humans.
“I acknowledge your discovery, Doctor, but keep in mind these creatures hunted us down and unleashed deadly energy-based projectiles. It’s a miracle we’re still alive with all of our limbs attached.”
“Is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“They could have easily pulverized all of you, sir, but they decided to bring you here instead.”
“They knocked us down with flashy special effects and imprisoned us.”
“Conflict management. They were afraid of you.”
Rosco exchanged a bewildered glance with Yeltzin. “Afraid of us?”
Four carbon-based meatbags against an army of snake-bodied aliens with beam weapons—looked like their species suffered from illusions themselves. Ming, of course, offered different opinions.
“They’re a peaceful species, Captain. They focus on self-actualization and cherish privacy—ergo, their visual protection from prying invaders.”
“We weren’t invading. We came with peaceful prospects when they attacked us in space. And don’t give me this preemptive strike BS. With their advanced technology, they must have known that a ship of our caliber was no threat to them.”
Ming created new 3D hieroglyphs with the doctor’s upgraded data pad. The aliens on the other side of the tech table promptly replied back with colorful air-drawn symbols of their own. Rosco had to admit that their visuals were pleasing to the eye, even though he’d only see a tiny range of their color creations.
“They claim that our species has attacked them before. They also thought we were the backup called in by the first invaders,” Ming said.
The conversation started making sense again.
One name.
Sunblood.
For some reason, the criminals had managed to travel to this planet before ICED or the megacorps could. Rosco wanted to find out why. “Ask them if they shot down the freighter that’s rotting in the canyon.”
“They didn’t, we already talked about that. They say the ship crash-landed on their territory despite warnings.”
Crash-landed? The Sunbloods weren’t ICED elite, but they were good pilots and troopers. Besides, that ship was a military-grade freighter capable of battle. It wouldn’t just crash-land on a foreign planet without resistance.
Rosco inspected the closest member of the aliens. The creature had many slim eyes, six in total—thr
ee on each half of the arrow-shaped face. Rosco experienced trouble focusing on any one of them. The ornamental structure wrapping its muscular reptilian body lead Rosco to assume this creature possessed authority—maybe the alien’s version of a king or a high-ranking officer. But maybe this specimen was just a decoy unit; a projection itself.
Anything was possible.
Rosco still knew next to nothing about these life forms, their way of thinking, their culture, or their technology. Maybe they were lying by drawing up misleading symbols. Ming herself had admitted she understood only a fraction of their visual language. For the first time ever, Rosco wished he could access the powers of a decryptor.
“Captain?”
“Tell them we’ve come in peace. And that these humans they’ve met before are our greatest enemies.”
She drew new symbols on the datapad that projected the results in glorious 3D beauty. The aliens halted and moved closer to each other, before they answered again. Rosco didn’t like that unusual reaction.
“What’s the matter?”
Ming looked clueless. “I don’t know, sir—wait.”
She updated her translations. “They want to know if we can prove our innocence.”
Interesting, Rosco thought. So the aliens understood concepts like deceit and betrayal. Shouldn’t be that surprising, considering their vast array of holographic Fata Morgana.
“Oh, hold on, there’s more,” the doctor said.
The alien with the garnish added two more symbols. Ming was quick to translate them. Her almond-shaped eyes focused on the captain exclusively.
“They’re offering us a deal.”
65
From prisoner to deal-maker—or breaker. It looked like the life form shared more similarities with humans than assumed, despite their otherworldly appearance. And even though Ming Brakemoto was the xenologist, Rosco had to make sure she didn’t control the outcome of the dialogue.
He was the captain of the crew.
“Deal? They want interstellar credits?”
“No, sir. They have reached an advanced level in their society where currency is obsolete. They’re offering us a potential cease-fire if we take care of the first group of attackers and promise to leave.”