Under Darkness (A Sci-Fi Thriller) (Scott Standalones Book 1)

by Jasper T. Scott

  Bill smiled reassuringly at them and repeated, “We friend!”

  Chapter 63

  Bill explained in his rudimentary Mandarin that they were defectors with valuable information, but that they needed a translator to explain in greater detail.

  After that, the Chinese reluctantly pulled Don to his feet. Two of them grabbed Bill, and another two went to the Humvee. They returned shoving Beth along between them.

  “Be careful!” Bill said in Mandarin. “She hurt!” But the soldiers ignored him. They marched the three of them through the harbor and down the docks to a transport ship that was at least a hundred feet long, all matte gray angles and utilitarian design.

  A dozen PRC marines joined them in a troop bay at the back of the ship. Two of them carried Ashley in and dumped her on the deck like garbage, and another two arrived carrying the dead Crawler between them. They dropped it beside Ashley. Bill, Don, and Beth were forced to sit on a hard bench along one side of the ship while enemy marines aimed rifles at them from all sides.

  Then a deep thrumming started up, and the ship moved off. Don caught Bill’s eye and nodded to him. “Good to have you back,” he said through a smirk. “Should I call you Gibson or Bill?”

  “What? Why would you call me Gibson?” Bill asked, shaking his head.

  “Bill then,” Don decided. “I didn’t know you spoke Mandarin,” he added.

  “When I was going through my divorce, I needed something to take my mind off things, so I started taking Mandarin classes.”

  “Lucky us,” Don replied. “Why Mandarin?”

  Bill noted the suspicion in Don’s voice, and he realized why. “Relax. It really is me. I took Mandarin because an old buddy of mine owned a hotel in Shanghai. When he heard I was looking for a break from LA, he offered to make me joint-owner with him in exchange for an investment.”

  “So you went to all the trouble of learning the language but decided to come to Kauai instead?”

  “He went bankrupt before I could sell my business and finalize my divorce. I guess there was a reason he needed investors.”

  Don looked to Beth with eyebrows raised. “Any of that true, kid?”

  She was leaning against the metal side of the ship, her eyes shut, and skin pale. “Yeah,” she said in a thready whisper.

  A sharp pang of concern lanced through Bill, and he shot to his feet. “Beth—”

  He took one step toward her before a marine jumped up and aimed a rifle at his chest. “Sit down,” the man said in halting English. “We be there soon.”

  “My daughter is hurt,” Bill replied.

  “Sit!” the marine bellowed, and shook his rifle for emphasis.

  Bill sat reluctantly, watching Beth with wide eyes, his hands restlessly clenching and unclenching with the impotent desire to help her.

  “Well, shit,” Don muttered.

  “What?” Bill asked.

  He shook his head. “If you’re you, then my nana is probably back to herself, too, and I’ve got her locked in my basement like an animal.”

  Bill frowned. “She has food, right?”

  Don shrugged, looking at his hands. “Yeah.”

  “Then don’t worry about it. We’ll go back for her.”

  “If we can,” Don replied. “Seems to me like we’re prisoners right now.”

  “Yeah...” Bill trailed off. “What exactly were you hoping to accomplish by getting us captured?”

  Don arched an eyebrow at him. “Ideally? Convince the Chinese to nuke the bastards out of the sky while we still can.”

  “What makes you think that will work?” Bill asked. “We don’t even know where they are anymore.”

  “We have a clue. Commander Wilde mentioned that the air over the water on the North side of the island is suspiciously cold. I’m betting we’re not the only ones who have noticed.”

  Bill shook his head. “And if they shoot down the missiles before they arrive?”

  “No weapons, remember?” Don said.

  “How do you know they don’t have weapons?” Bill asked.

  Don waved a hand at him. “Long story. Wishful thinking, maybe, but we have to risk it. Besides, if that was a lie and they really are packing heat up there, then we’re fucked. At least if we fire the first shot, we’ll go out with a bang. Their way looks to be a whole lot less pleasant—making us slaves. I’m guessing you know something about that.”

  Bill winced and nodded slowly. He’d been locked away inside his own body for three months. Compared to that, even a wash of nuclear fire sounded better.

  * * *

  Gibson grabbed the severed alien hand off his belt and pressed it to yet another door scanner. A chime sounded, and the doors slid open. He ran down the deserted, gleaming corridor, just as he’d run down the last three, searching for something, anything, that might be critical to the operation of the ship—an engine room, a power generator... a big red self-destruct button. Gibson smirked and shook his head at the thought. If only it were that simple. The corridor went on for miles, winding through the ship past countless doors. He kept glancing at those doors, trying to decide which one he should bother trying to open, but they all looked the same.

  Out of breath and seeing stars, Gibson slowed from a run to a fast walk. It didn’t help that he was carrying at least a hundred pounds of gear.

  He walked on for another fifteen minutes, heading for a distant set of doors, hoping to find something useful on the other side. Using the floppy white alien hand tucking into his belt, he opened that door, too—

  And saw more of the same. Gibson let out a frustrated sigh and leaned hard against the bulkhead. How long would it take to walk from one end of Texas to the other? This was taking too long. It was a pity he didn’t know how to use those mass transit capsules.

  As he slumped against the bulkhead, a door opened about two hundred feet away, and a pair of Hydras crept out, their heads turning every which way in the dim silver lighting.

  Gibson brought one of his rifles up to his shoulder and aimed down the sights at them. He popped off a shot, and one of the two collapsed with a shriek. The other one darted back into the room it had come from, and Gibson heard the door slam shut.

  He gave a predatory smile as he strode down the corridor to the wounded alien. It was kneeling and pounding on the door for the other one to open up.

  “On your feet!” Gibson snapped.

  The Hydra stopped hammering on the door and looked at him, all four sets of eyes wide and blinking.

  “Shit, you don’t understand me, do you?”

  More blinking. Four sets of hands went up in surrender, and a guttural trill whispered from one set of lips.

  Gibson frowned, his plan evaporating in a puff of smoke. There had to be some way to communicate his intentions. He needed a guide. Someone to take him to the sensitive parts of the ship.

  Gibson stepped back, making sure he was out of reach, then shifted to a one-handed grip on the rifle and gestured with his left hand. He pointed to the alien, then down to the distantly-vanishing end of the corridor. “You lead,” he said. “I need to speak to your leaders.”

  The wounded Hydra growled something that sounded like a question, and all four of its heads canted curiously to one side—all four sets of eyes were staring at the dead alien hands tucked into Gibson’s belt.

  Gibson gave the Hydra a cold smile and tried miming his intentions to the creature again, but he quickly gave up. “Just get up and start walking!” he yelled, shaking his rifle to indicate the far end of the corridor.

  The Hydra made a strangled sound and then got up and began walking—limping—in the direction he’d indicated.

  “Faster!” Gibson roared, and it picked up the pace—probably spurred on by fear rather than because it had actually understood him. Gibson trailed along behind the alien, frowning hard. They were still barely managing a stroll. At this pace he’d die of dehydration before he found anything. Gibson was just about to put a bullet through the Hydra’s head—hea
ds—when it darted sideways to a particular set of doors and pasted two hands to the sensor to open them. A familiar transparent capsule with rows of seats appeared. Gibson grinned and jabbed the alien in the back with his rifle. “Smart choice,” he said. “Now let’s see if you can pick the right destination to make me happy.”

  Chapter 64

  Chinese marines shoved and prodded Bill, Beth, and Don down a bouncing metal gangway to an open door in one of the lower decks of a waiting Chinese aircraft carrier. Considering how few aircraft carriers the Chinese Navy had, Bill reasoned that this one had to be their flagship. That was a good sign. If he could get to speak to the admiral, there was a good chance that he wouldn’t even need a translator. Anyone that highly placed in the Chinese Navy probably spoke English.

  Glancing behind him, Bill saw a pair of marines carrying Ashley between them. She was still sedated according to Don, but Bill didn’t like the pale, waxy color of her skin. Don had also mentioned that she’d taken a rifle round to her chest and suffered a collapsed lung.

  As soon as they crossed the threshold and boarded the carrier, more blue-clad marines took hold of them and marched them through a narrow corridor.

  Bill jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate Ashley. “The woman need help,” he tried to say—and earned himself a sharp jab from a rifle barrel. Moments later they emerged in a cavernous space with jet fighters on vehicle elevators—the hangar. Bill glanced behind him once more and noticed that Ashley was gone. A sharp spear of dread shot through him, but he calmed himself, thinking the marines had probably noticed her condition and decided to take her to their Med Bay. The remaining marines guided them along a winding path to an elevator platform with yellow metal railings for walls. One of them punched a simple up arrow on a dangling control box, and the platform lurched upward.

  Beth swayed on her feet between the two marines holding her, and her eyes were half-lidded. She looked like she might faint.

  “She needs to see a doctor!” Bill shouted in English to be heard over the sound of the elevator and the commotion in the hangar below.

  “No doctor. Talk to Admiral first. Then treat injury.”

  “Fuck you!” Bill replied.

  A rifle snapped up to the marine’s shoulder, and he winked at Bill over the sights. “Bang,” he said.

  His buddies broke into peals of laughter.

  Hot rage burned through Bill, turning his hands into fists and his blood to ice.

  “Easy,” Don whispered.

  Bill forced his feelings down. Nationality wasn’t the problem. War was the perfect excuse for people to let out their inner monsters.

  The platform stopped, and the enemy marines ushered them out and down another narrow metal corridor to a sealed door. One of them opened it, and they stepped into a gust of warm, salty-smelling night air. From there they went up a long flight of metal stairs to the flight deck, right behind the carrier’s control tower. Just as they emerged from the top of the stairs, Bill heard a jet roaring and turned to see a fighter streak across the deck with a squeal of rubber tires.

  “Keep walk,” one of the Chinese said and jabbed him in the back with his rifle.

  Bill bit his tongue to hold back an angry retort, allowing them to shove him along into another elevator. This one was far smaller, and it had proper walls. Only four marines crowded in with them, leaving the others to run up a nearby flight of stairs.

  When the elevator stopped, two of the runners were waiting for them with rifles already aimed, but they didn’t look winded. Maybe it was an entirely different pair. It was impossible to say with all of them wearing black ski masks.

  “Keep walk!” the one standing behind Bill said, jabbing him with his rifle again.

  “I’m walking!” Bill snapped.

  Soon after leaving the elevator, they came to another metal door, but this one was open, and a pair of masked marines were guarding it. The three of them were ushered inside. From the broad windows and high vantage point, Bill guessed they were on the bridge. Heads turned as they were shoved inside. One of the officers shouted something in Mandarin that Bill roughly understood to mean, “These are the Americans?”

  Before the marine could reply, the officer spoke directly to them. “I’m told you have important information for me, but you could not tell my men because they would not understand.”

  Bill’s eyes tightened as a tall man came to stand in front of him with shoulders squared and hands clasped behind his back. He wore a white and black captain’s hat with gold braiding.

  “Are you the Admiral?” Bill asked.

  “Yes, I am Admiral Shengli of the People’s Liberation Army Navy. Speak.”

  * * *

  The capsule slid to a stop and Gibson hurriedly untangled himself from the web-like restraints to aim his rifle at the wounded Hydra. “Get up!” he snapped. The alien did so, probably understanding his tone and body language more than his words. Gibson followed it through the open doors of the capsule into yet another corridor.

  “This had better take me somewhere interesting,” Gibson warned.

  The corridor curved around in a slow loop, and they came to a pair of extra-wide doors. Gibson frowned, wondering what was on the other side. The Hydra limped up to the door scanner and placed two hands against it. Gibson took aim, just in case.

  The doors rumbled open to reveal another cavernous room with dozens of Hydras standing and sitting at stations arrayed in tiers of concentric circles on a clear floor. The walls and ceiling were equally transparent, giving a seamless view of stars above, shadows below, and a dawning arc of sunlight in between. The wounded Hydra said something in a trembling growl, and dozens of heads turned to look. All movement in the room suddenly ceased, and several Hydras leapt to their feet.

  Gibson gave a predatory smile and stepped into the alien bridge. “You did good, stinky,” he said, nodding to his wounded guide. His nose still hadn’t adapted to the dead-fish smell of the Hydras. “Who’s in charge here?” Gibson demanded. Not that he expected a reply.

  But to his surprise, one of the Hydras came walking down a flight of glass-like stairs at the highest tier of control stations. It produced a black disc from a compartment in its shiny silver uniform and held it out in one small palm; then it barked and trilled something at him. A split second later, a small, halting voice bubbled out from the device in the Hydra’s palm.

  “I am in charge,” it said. “What do you want?”

  Gibson blinked in shock. “You have a translator?”

  The alien said something else. “Rulers must be able to speak to their subjects and be understood if they wish to be obeyed.”

  “Yeah... about that,” Gibson said, shaking his head. “You’re going to have to find another planet to subjugate.”

  More alien sounds rippled out, followed by, “We like this one.”

  Gibson waggled his rifle at the alien and grabbed the other weapon from where it dangled by its strap. He aimed each of them at one of the alien’s heads. “And I like putting holes in your heads, so we’re going to have to come up with a compromise.”

  Four sets of eyes blinked slowly at him. “What do you suggest?”

  “Leave,” Gibson said.

  “Impossible. We have traveled too far. There are no other worlds like yours for many light years.”

  “Seems like we’re at an impasse,” Gibson said.

  More growls sounded, followed by trills and guttural grunts. “Not exactly,” was all the translator said.

  Gibson frowned. “All that for two fucking words?” Suspicion raised the hairs on the back of his neck a split second before he whirled around to see a Crawler standing behind him on two legs. Glassy claws flashed out, gleaming in the gloom. Gibson pulled both triggers just as alien claws shredded through his flak jacket and drew fiery lines across his chest. As he fell, Gibson glimpsed more Crawlers peeling away from the dark, transparent walls of the chamber. Crawlers were translucent, all-but-invisible in the faint light, with noth
ing but the blackness of space shining down on them. Gibson realized his mistake as the Crawler who’d flayed his chest open pinned him to the floor: the Hydras had plenty of weapons—living ones.

  Jagged glass-colored teeth yawned wide. Gibson struggled to free his arms, but the Crawler was too heavy. It hadn’t thought to pin his legs, though. Gibson snapped them up to kick the Crawler off. The monster squealed, and reared back on its hind legs, giving Gibson just the momentary reprieve that he needed to bring his rifles to bear. Bullets roared, and the Crawler shuddered with dozens of impacts before it fell over, twitching and jerking. Gibson sat up, to find another six Crawlers rearing back, just about to spring on top of him. There was only one thing to do.

  Dropping both rifles, he grabbed a frag grenade in each hand, pulled the pins with his teeth, and tossed them over his shoulders.

  The Crawlers sprang into the air, and he had just enough time to grab another two frags. This time he pulled the pins and let the handles spring out to strike the fuse while he held the grenades. Gibson was dimly aware of Hydras trilling and growling at one another in urgent voices just before the Crawlers fell upon him and tore into him with claws and teeth.

  Agony raked Gibson on all sides, but he gritted his teeth and bore it, knowing it wouldn’t last long. The explosion from the first two frags shook the deck and pelted him with debris, and the next one wiped away the raking claws and gnashing teeth with a blinding wave of heat.

  Chapter 65

  When Bill finished his explanation of events, Admiral Shengli regarded him with a dubious frown.

  “The quarantine was a lie, perpetuated by your government in order to maintain control of extraterrestrial technology.”

  “No, sir, it wasn’t,” Bill replied.

  The admiral spread his hands. “Where is your proof? You cannot possibly expect me to take your word for all of this. The only part of your story on which we both agree is that the aliens never left. They are right there.” Admiral Shengli thrust a hand behind him to point out the windows at the night sky.