Bastion Science Fiction Magazine - Issue 4, July 2014
Page 9
The pterodactyl had soared, but however it flew, wing motion had nothing to do with it.
“You need to look more natural, so you don’t attract attention.” She realized how absurd that sounded.
#
“Just a spot of weather,” said the captain.
The waves were over ten feet, and rain slanted across the flight deck. Huntington, the captain and Lieutenant Spencer were preparing to take off in one of the Trafalgar’s helicopters. Huntington was in a jump seat in the back, and the other two were up front. Having the captain along wasn’t Huntington’s choice. He checked his equipment and put on a pair of headphones.
“Wind zero-one-zero, gusting twenty-four,” said a voice from Trafalgar’s flight control tower.
Rain streamed like tears across the helicopter canopy as wipers fought to keep up. The sky was dark with clouds. Red and white flashes from the helicopter’s lights reflected off the rain-slick deck.
“Swordfish one-four, you’re cleared for takeoff.”
The cabin shuddered, vibrating with power. Members of the deck crew crouched low as the Swordfish climbed from the flight deck. Through the window, Huntington saw whitecaps rushing toward the Trafalgar. Malta was hidden by clouds and rain.
“Sir,” said the lieutenant, “Malta flight control wants to know what’s going on.”
“Tell them we picked up a garbled transmission and we’re doing a search, possible rescue. Give them our destination vector.” He turned to scowl at Huntington. “This had bloody well better be worth it, Doctor.”
“It is.”
In front of the lieutenant, GPS showed the carrier falling behind them, and Malta ahead.
“Do you have it on radar?” asked the captain.
After a moment, the lieutenant replied, “Not anymore, sir. I think it’s gone down. Should I go back for a water rescue team?”
“Do an aerial survey. We don’t even know what it was.”
Huntington saw a beacon ahead of them through the rain-swept canopy. He checked his instruments.
“It’s there!” he said. “The mascon!”
“What?” asked the lieutenant. “That’s a rock, not a mountain. I’m not sure it’s even big enough to set down on.”
The captain pointed at the infrared monitor. “Someone’s down there. The pilot.”
#
Yasmine saw the helicopter’s searchlight through the storm before she heard it. It took a minute before it dawned on her that it was coming to rescue her. She tried to make herself as small as possible.
“Go away,” she shouted desperately. “Go away!”
Beside her, the pterodactyl studied the beating machine approaching beneath the clouds. The searchlight played over the rock, illuminating the crashing surf and sea spray.
Without warning, the creature shot straight upward into the clouds, past the helicopter.
“No!” screamed Yasmine.
#
“What the bloody hell was that?” exclaimed the captain.
“Some kind of signal rocket,” said the lieutenant. “The pilot’s still down there.”
Pressed against the side window, Huntington saw a solitary figure on the rock.
“Swordfish one-four,” radioed the flight control tower. “We have a possible SAM launch from your location. Do you–”
The captain interrupted. “Scramble a Harrier.”
“I’m setting down for the pilot,” said the lieutenant.
The captain opened the helicopter’s survival kit and took out the pistol.
On the navigation system, grid-lines appeared on the island, suggesting a landing spot. Huntington noticed it was nearly on top of the figure on the island. But as the Swordfish descended, the figure scrambled away.
The helicopter yawed from side to side in the wind. The lieutenant cursed, trying to keep centered over the rock. Finally he landed with a jarring bounce that rattled the cabin. The engine RPMs dropped.
The captain shoved the door open and leapt out onto the rock. Huntington followed. Whatever was going on, the answers were here. Wind howled. Rain pelted his face.
A girl cowered at the edge of the helicopter downdraft, backed against the crashing surf. What was she doing in the middle of the sea?
The captain was still holding the pistol, and probably regretting it. “Hello?” he shouted over the roar of the engine.
The girl didn’t answer.
“Ciao?” he tried.
“Go away!” shouted the girl, in accented English.
“What happened?” called Huntington.
The girl looked up into the sky desperately, as if hoping for an angel to rescue her.
“Come along,” ordered the captain. He lunged forward and grabbed the girl by the arm.
“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked.
The captain dragged her into the helicopter. Once they were inside, he slammed the cockpit door shut. When he released her, she fled to the back of the cabin.
“Who is she?” asked the lieutenant.
“Damned if I know,” said the captain, “but it wasn’t safe there.”
“Swordfish one-four. UFO descending toward you at high velocity.”
“We’re returning to Trafalgar. Where’s my bloody Harrier?”
“Lifting off now, sir.”
The lieutenant increased power to the engines, and the Swordfish rose from the island, snatched away like a leaf in the wind.
Huntington removed his headphones, offering them to the girl, but she shrank away from him.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
In the roar of the engines, she didn’t answer.
“What was it?” he asked. “The thing on the island with you.”
She opened her mouth, closed it, then finally said, “Pterodactyl.”
Between her accent and the rotor noise, he thought he’d misheard, but when he repeated the word, she nodded.
“They’re extinct,” he said.
She nodded again.
“How’d you get here?”
“It carried me.”
Huntington wasn’t even sure there was a connection between the girl and the mascon. She must be delirious. “I came here looking for an anomaly,” he said. “But I don’t know what it looks like. I need more data. Were you on Malta an hour or two ago?”
She nodded.
“Harrier to Swordfish,” said the radio. “UFO closing. Permission to engage, sir?”
The captain turned to look at Huntington.
“I…I need more data.”
“Permission to engage?” repeated the Harrier pilot.
“I’m your data!” cried the girl.
The captain turned away. “Permission granted.”
“There it is!” said the lieutenant.
Huntington leaned forward to see out the canopy. There was a blur of motion and the vapor trail of a missile.
The explosion tore a hole in the clouds like a curtain being ripped away. Huntington saw a cityscape of lights, as if the sky had turned upside down. Then he realized it wasn’t a city. They were stars, packed close together like the heart of a galaxy.
The curtain snapped shut, clouds spiraling like a hurricane.
“The target’s gone!” said the Harrier pilot, then with a curse, “The plane’s tearing apart!”
The Swordfish bucked wildly as the sky convulsed, and Huntington saw the pilot’s white knuckles on the controls. There was a loud bang.
“We lost our tail rotor!” shouted the lieutenant.
The helicopter began pinwheeling, losing altitude. The captain jumped to his feet, yanking open the compartment for the life raft.
Huntington realized that the mascon visitor had left; whatever force had powered the wormhole or whatever it was gone. They were going to land in the sea, and there would be no more data. “My God, they must think we’re monsters.”
The girl looked at the scars on her hands. �
�I showed it who we are.”
###
George Walker lives near Portland, Oregon, USA.
He has sold stories to Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, Stupefying Stories, Abyss & Apex, Electric Spec, Ideomancer, Wildside Press, and elsewhere. Anthologies containing his stories include Mothership: Tales from Afrofuturism & Beyond, Bibliotheca Fantastica, and others. His website, containing links to his stories, is at https://www.sites.google.com/site/georgeswalker/
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