Giving up isn’t even an option. We have no weapons left, no rope with which to hang ourselves, no knives to slice open veins. Besides, inside the bunkers, it isn’t so bad. Although I’ve been separated from my family and friends, my identity stripped away and replaced with a four-digit tattoo; although my worldly possessions have been taken from me; although we eat the same murky sludge for breakfast, lunch and dinner; although I spend 12 hours a day slogging away at huge printing presses to produce propaganda for the aliens’ use—it isn’t so bad. Because for me, there is still hope.
Today in particular the hope is palpable. It’s approximately 1900 hours, and I’m finishing up work at the press, yanking another hundred or so glossy leaflets proclaiming Ayla IX’s immense power and wisdom in a range of cheesy slogans, to file them away before dinner. Beads of sweat roll down my forehead, collects on my brow, and my arms ache like crazy. And then there is the barrel of the ray gun jammed into the back of my neck every time I slow down.
I barely remember my old temp job, but I think it was relatively stress-free. In an office, a corporation in downtown New York. It is another life away, the idea of handing out mugs of coffee, taking calls, filling out spreadsheets. So far from this dingy printing press in an underground bunker. So far from being controlled by marble-skinned creatures sporting riot shields and guns, with biceps the size of my torso. The Tribe members are huge, the smallest members still hitting six-and-a-half feet tall. Their inner wrists conceal retractable claws, coated with a lethal poison. Each member bears a tattoo indicating their rank—roman numerals ranging from I to XX—on the back of their beefy neck. The guards here are of the second lowest rank or XIX, above only those on the home front, the ones who stay behind to keep the settlements running.
They hadn’t looked so threatening, at first. The Axyla Tribe landed weaponless, defenseless—or so we thought. Civil war destroyed their home planet, nuclear bombs blowing it out of their solar system. They weren’t the victors, they claimed, only the refugees, the sole survivors who had managed to get away before things got messy. We Humans felt sorry for them, welcomed them to Earth with open arms and homemade pie. There had been referendums, conferences, government broadcasts, and men on soapboxes screaming about the world’s imminent demise if we were to accept these “refugees”; but eventually their fleets looked so sad and so desperate that the world leaders decided “to hell with it,” and down they came.
It was peaceful and mutually beneficial, at first. They brought new resources, stocked up our depleted fossil fuels, and came up with new sources of energy, new technologies, and new medical treatments. They cured diseases we thought it impossible to. We gave them sanctuary. Humans lived longer, healthier lives with their influence. Everything was good…
In retrospect, however, their uprising was inevitable. They were more powerful than we were. What began as a peaceful integration, with settlements on the edges of human towns and cities, festered into an all-out war, aliens wrestling the Human race for control of the planet. They brought a reign of torture and terror worse than anything Earth had ever known.
It’s with that in mind that I slip from my cell this night. It’s not difficult to do, not with the overflowing prison population and a cellmate who sleeps like the dead. I check twice to make sure she’s actually sleeping, then sweep my long auburn hair into a simple ponytail at the nape of my neck. A glance in the mirror just confirms what I already know—the past few years have aged me way past me actual age of 27. I could maybe pass for 30 in the right light, but in the wrong light...
It's depressing, this realization that everything I've ever worked for is reduced to the tattered clothes on my back, my haggard appearance. Amy Cross, this is your life! Dark circles ring my eyes, the shadows of my hollow cheekbones accentuating my deathly pale skin. I might have been pretty once, but that’s gone now, stolen by eight years of being imprisoned underground with no hint of sunlight other than whatever manages to leak in through our barred window. My lips rest in a thin, angry line, my hair lies limp against my sweaty forehead. I’m too skinny—it’s difficult to maintain a healthy weight on the prison diet—so the belt around my standard-issue grey jumpsuit is cinched twice around my slender waist. The only things that have retained their youth are my eyes—a phosphorescent jade, bright even in the dim light of the cell. My eyes betray the lingering hope that resides in stubborn abundance in my heart.
Getting out of the cell requires a simple trick of gum in the lock, practically invisible unless you know what you’re looking for. They don’t have enough guards to keep track of all the locks, and the system is so old—dating back to the early 21st century—that this hole in security fails to show up on the scanners.
I steal down the corridor quickly and silently, sticking to the shadows and watching out for any guard patrols. They’re easy to predict, usually. Every half hour, two of them traipse down our corridor, riot shields held up to beefy chests, guns tucked protectively up to their chins, ready to fire at the slightest sign of trouble. They tend to set their guns to stun mode, reluctant to purposely pick off their workers, but today just might be the day…
Thankfully, it isn’t far to the basement. A small alcove leads to a fire exit, then I jog down stone steps down to the lower levels. I make sure the door doesn’t clang shut and echo down the halls for the guards to hear. Even this slight rush of danger, the sensation of doing something that goes undetected, makes me feel as if I’m aiding the Human forces. Emerging in the basement itself—a cavernous room, empty save for a large wooden table in the center—brings such a feeling of euphoria and achievement that I have to pause to catch my breath.
The basement hasn’t been used in years. I doubt the Axylan guards have ever been down here. The machine I want lies behind a concealed door in the south wall, only accessible via a retinal-biometric scanner hidden behind a faux-stone panel. Taylor installed the panel system a couple years’ back. It is the only modern thing in the entire room. That is, other than the time-travel unit behind it. From what I could glean from the original building blueprints, the basement was originally intended for use as a break-room, back when the architects were drawing up just another run-of-the-mill maximum-security prison. They could never conceive it would be taken over by aliens who had no need for rest and recuperation.
Three of the others are already there, waiting for me. There’s Keith, a stout man in his late 40s, cheap reading glasses perched on the end of his nose while he studies a map spread out on the table. He doesn’t speak much, only to offer single word answers and rather startlingly practical plans of attack. Next is Briana, her long brown hair yanked up into a messy knot atop her head, concentration fixed over Keith’s shoulder, jabbing an insistent index finger to a point on the map. She’s much too young to be involved in such dangerous missions, but this is the end of the world as we know it, people! Age doesn’t stop her. She’s stealthy, uncannily able to track down a target in a crowd and take them down with clinical efficiency. I worry about her, sometimes, remembering a time when I was 17, only interested in driving around with my friends, blasting ignorantly loud music and sneaking vodka into house parties. What I’d give to preserve even a smidgen of that innocence, now…
Last is Taylor, our informal leader. He’s also the friendliest, a young 20-something with blonde curls falling into his eyes, a ready smile and a shoulder to cry on if and when it’s needed. He’s the one who first contacted me, one day in the mess hall, as I stared down into yet another bowl of barely distinguishable porridge. He’d planted a silent tap on my shoulder, shoved a crumpled napkin into my hand and left without a word. Later, I’d unfolded the napkin while lying in my bunk, squinting to read the words by the dim light: 12:45 patrol. East C122, south. HR.
A crude downward pointing arrow was scrawled on the bottom of the napkin. It had taken a couple of minutes of frowning to make out the scribbled words of code on the page, but eventually I’d taken the note to mean that after the post-midnight guard patrols,
I should head east down corridor 122 and then south. I had been invited to join their rebel effort. I hadn’t taken much convincing.
Our plan each night is a simple one: We take the machine back in time, and we weed out the alien settlements before they organize and take over. We’ve taken down a good few so far, with wave after wave of explosions. Fire is the only thing that will destroy the marble-skinned aliens, the only thing that can be counted on to kill them. The bombs we use were ironically stored away by the apocalyptic dooms-day preppers, the people others laughed at as being paranoid back before we even knew there was life outside our planet. We’ve hoarded enough of them in our hideout—a ramshackle shed a couple of miles from where the prison will one day lie—to take out at least 60 percent of the alien population on our continent. The problem is transport. We’re one of about a hundred of the same efforts in what was the United States, ex-military, ex-FBI, ex-CIA, all banded together to stop the attacks before they ever begin. The news channels nine years ago blamed the attacks on random “terrorist organizations”. So far we’ve managed to put a hurt on two settlements closest to the prison, but with only one truck between the five of us when we get back there, it’s impossible for us to split up and take different directions. There's also the matter of timing—if we didn't have to return to the present, we'd be able to cover more ground and make more progress. But the prototype time machines have a limit of 24 hours’ travel. If we don’t get back in that timeframe, we’ll be spontaneously self-destruct—it is how the universe balances itself when you break the laws of nature I figure. We have to allow another 48 hours for the machine to cool down, meaning thrice weekly journeys are all we can manage.
It isn’t much, but it’s better than nothing. If we can get their numbers down, we have a fighting chance at forming an uprising of our own in this time line. We could defeat the enemy forces once and for all. Even if it doesn’t happen in my lifetime, even if I’m six feet under by the time the human race is free again, it’ll be worth it.
We haven’t seen much evidence of our efforts yet, but the reduced number of guards at their station is a good sign we think. For as long as I can remember it has been five guards milling about in the daytime, increasing to seven at night. After our last time jump, there were four guards in the day, and only five at night. It’s impossible to say whether this is a direct consequence of our meddling, but it’s encouraging to think it might be.
Roxy is the last to arrive in the basement. Six feet of pure muscle, hair shaved into a buzz-cut…the woman’s a machine. She’s our not-so-secret weapon, able to provide much-needed backup while we sneak behind enemy lines. She can wield a knife like nobody I’ve ever seen before. She’s fearless, and fearsome, with a cutting sense of humor that I am not ashamed to say I’ve fallen prey to a few times.
No words are exchanged as Taylor passes the retinal scan, opens the wall panel and we file one-by-one into the machine. It’s a small contraption, one of the first of its kind. Time travel was only in its infancy during the takeover, although the scientists had high hopes for the machines. Its range is around 20 years, back or forward. If you choose to believe the reports, a group of rebels had tried to stop the aliens from ever arriving on Earth in the first place, but in the process almost started a nuclear war that would have wiped out the entire planet. It was narrowly averted by altering the time-line again.
As we settle into our seats, Roxy yanks the panel back to conceal us and I set the dials to my left. A slow whirring rises in the cockpit as I squeeze myself into my seat, gripping the armrests hard enough to imprint crescent-moon shapes in the upholstery. I am not looking forward to the trip. It isn’t a lot of fun, feeling your body shredded into microscopic pieces and then put back together again. As we begin the jump, my skin feels as though it’s being stretched beyond the limits of my skeleton; my limbs feel 10 feet long. In reality, the pain is merely a blip in the expanse of time, our collective yells lost in the vacuum of a space that both exists and does not, simultaneously.
It’s over before it begins. We slam back to earth, jolted in our seats, panting and perspiring from the exertion. Taylor is the first out of his seat, unbuckling his restraint and throwing the door open. It’s a relief to have fresh air drift into the small space—an even bigger one to step out into it, to allow the moonlight to illuminate my face.
“Everybody clear on the plan?” Taylor asks, hands on hips, standing in the middle of the empty wasteland we always land in. Miserable weeds crawl up from beneath a cracked tarmac, the remnants of an ancient airstrip. There’s nothing but weeds for miles, before the landscape trails off into dense woodland—the location of our stash.
There’s a choric mumble of “yeahs”, in varying levels of enthusiasm. The plan is the same as always. We’ll jog to the shack, where we keep our weapons. If it goes as it always has before, Keith will give up halfway there, complaining of a stitch in his side and clutching his waist for emphasis, valiantly calling for the rest of us to “go on without me” before Roxy will scoop him up and carry him the whole way in a bridal hold. We’ll collect our weapons, then jump into the run-down truck we scavenged and head for the nearest settlement. We took down four of the Tribe members last time, a female in the middle of doing laundry and three young males. I’d narrowly avoided being scratched by their talons on my last trip…
It hadn’t felt so good, our last victory. The female had seemed defenseless—just a mother in the middle of hanging out a batch of damp clothing. Even the males that had gone for me—a little voice in my head had hissed you would have too, it is only self-defense. It takes more effort to quiet the voice, lately. I’d once been ruthless—you have to be ruthless in this strange new world—but seeing terror cross the faces of what might possibly have been innocents didn’t feel like a proactive, protective measure. It had seemed like murder.
Shaking myself out of my guilt-fueled reverie, I change the record: There’s no time for sentimentality now. We’re already running full-pelt to the shack. Taylor yanks up the sheet of rusty corrugated steel that shields the entrance, allowing the rest of us to duck underneath, except for Roxy who leaps into the truck’s driver’s seat and cranks the starter, taming the engine from its initial roar to a purr.
We each grab three weapons from our stock: a flamethrower; a pistol; a stun gun. I feel better once equipped with my armor, as if it not only provides physical protection but emotional protection, too, from the guilt threatening to consume me. My weapons remind me why we’re doing this: for the good of the Human race.
The ride to the settlement isn’t a long one, but it’s far from comfortable. Apart from the jerking, erratic movements of the vehicle, the silence is deafening, filled with words we can’t bring ourselves to utter. There’s so much that hangs in the balance on these missions and so much that could go wrong. It’s entirely possible we could be driving back with a much lighter load than we’re setting off with.
Thankfully, when we exit the vehicle and take up our trek into the soggy grassland surrounding the settlement, the tension is dispersed. We fall into a loose triangular formation, Taylor at the front and Roxy backing us up. I’m clutching my gun so hard on approach that it’s digging red marks into my skin, but the pain doesn’t have time to register—we’re at the settlement.
I split off from the group with Briana to tackle the explosives. We’ve tried to ration it to one bomb per mission. They have a pretty large range. Not wide enough to touch the Human towns that lie nearby, but big enough to take down several Axylan houses at a time. Setting the timer is Briana’s job, while I keep a nervous lookout. The others are providing a pretty big distraction—one sweep of Taylor’s flamethrower takes down two of the Tribe members on the fringes of the town. They have no time to so much as cry out before they’re consumed by bright orange flames licking up their legs, devouring their torsos.
I cringe inside. Seeing the flamethrower in action has always made me squeamish. I’ve tried so hard to make myself immune to this stuff,
to wear the same mask I use to avoid detection at the prison, to conceal my emotions—the tactic I use when the screams echo, when the lights are out and I’m lying in my bunk, unable to sleep.
“Come on, Amy,” Briana hisses, tugging at my elbow. I hadn’t noticed she was done. The bomb sits under the edge of one of the older houses—they were makeshift at first, reclaimed wood or corrugated steel sheets thrown hastily together, easy to destroy. Now they’ve had a chance to settle themselves, the Axylans have built huge iron and steel structures, impossible to set fire to without a little explosive help. The device looks innocuous, somehow, harmless while it sits there, emitting a quiet steady beep. We break into a run, heading straight for the others, who are now engaged in a battle with a smaller Tribe member. The female in question appears to be tangled in her own washing line, writhing and squirming as the flames lick at her ankles. It’s a pitiful sight. Before I can think about it too much, I give her a single blast from my own flamethrower. The alien tumbles backward, arms thrown aloft, keening miserably in that unusual way they have of voicing distress.
“Let’s get out of here!” Taylor yells, and we all turn to run. Beyond the houses lies the forest, and beyond that, denser woodland. We can reach the truck in a few minutes if we push ourselves, and push ourselves we do. My lungs are about to burst and the telltale burning of cramps rises up my calves. I can see the truck…
Something grabs me from behind, an iron grip around my waist. I’m on the ground in seconds, trying to turtle, curl up and away from my captor, but they’re holding fast. I see the others scatter—away from me, away from the settlement, away from everything. I have no voice left with which to cry out, but I don’t miss Taylor’s futile glance backwards, panic lighting his eyes.
Taken by the Alien Warrior: Scifi Romance Page 9
