Alien Storm

by Ken Bebelle

  Sobbing now, her breaths painful, hitching moans, Cam closed her eyes and slipped once more into the shipmind.

  The curving arc of the planet stretched before her. The arcane control symbols fluttered to life before her eyes. Dimly, she felt the coolness of the chair against her back and legs, a soothing, comforting feeling. Still sobbing gently, she thought of her team, lost in the chaos of Segovia. Keenan, who must believe she was dead. Jonesy, whom she had left to an unknown, horrifying fate.

  The shipmind reacted, began streaming images into her mind, like it was shouting to make itself understood. Cam pushed with her mind, trying to stay focused, but it was like screaming into a hurricane. She felt her mind again being buried beneath the onslaught of the shipmind. Cam had never seen a horse being broken, but she imagined now that this must be what it was like, to pit your resolve against a wild force of nature that only knew of the law of survival of the fittest, and that the strong would survive. She felt her mind being flayed, slowly eroded by the onrush of alien thought, and she knew if she succumbed she would lose her mind forever, and curse Jonesy and Keenan, and the rest of her family to suffer at alien hands.

  Her thoughts of Keenan and Jonesy steadied her under the torrent. Cam focused on them and felt her mind become clearer with each passing moment. Her breathing steadied and she forced her arms to relax. She was going to break this horse.

  Cam let her hands hang loose in the restraints, palms down and relaxed. She felt the chair shift again, and the armrests grew, extending themselves until they were under her cupped hands. She grasped these new handgrips, like twisting her hands into a horse’s mane. Her breath was steady now, her heartbeat a steady drum in her neck, her hands. It felt like a beating pulse of power that was driving her will into the ship, beating back the torrent. She paired the rhythmic beat with thoughts of home, of Keenan, Camp Glenn, the Wolves, Reno, mom, dad, everyone, the images flashing through her mind faster and faster. The beat of her heart quickened, now racing as she built the volume up in her mind, to shout down the shipmind and impose her will on this wild thing.

  Her grip on the chair tightened inexorably, she could faintly feel her knuckles aching from the pressure. She felt the cords in her arms and neck standing out as she strained with the effort to tame the ship. The beating rhythm of her heart reached a crescendo and when she thought it would burst she loosed her will on the shipmind, hammering it with all that she had, thinking only of home and family. Cam now pushed with her arms as well, bracing into the back of the chair, releasing the coiled tension in her body, thrusting her arms forward along with her mind, willing the ship to bend to her needs.

  The ship stuttered, bucked, and lurched forward. The waterfall of images slackened, and Cam could feel her own mind cutting a path through the flow, like the prow of a boat through a wave. And behind that prow as the pressure flowed around her, she thrust herself forward and into the shipmind, plunging herself in without regard, committing herself fully to one last, desperate gambit.

  Getting into the shipmind was like breaking through into the eye of a storm. The maelstrom of energy quieted, leaving a controlled chaos that surrounded, but did not affect her. She turned, slowly, in the newly quiet space, and saw with almost painful clarity how she could control the ship, how the Ringheads worked with their technology. She understood it on a level as basic as knowing how to walk. The realization filled her with elation that burst forth from her in a primal yell of triumph. She knew how to use their tech. She could change the face of the whole war.

  Four

  Tortilla Soup and Memories

  Keenan

  After leaving the diner, he and Bells took an auto-cab to northeast Reno, beyond the bustling University of Reno to a serene neighborhood of nearly pastoral homes sporting neatly manicured yards. Waves of unease washed over him as they drove through the tree-lined roads. The world was at war. With aliens. The peaceful domestic tableau jarred his senses, discordant with his life as a soldier.

  Bells remained quiet for much of the ride, and Keenan found himself wishing she would talk and joke to break the tension. He nearly broke the silence himself, and stopped when he saw the look in her eyes as she took in the rows of picturesque homes. He turned to look out the other window, giving her what privacy he could, and wondered if he and Cam would ever have anything domestic like these places in their future.

  Gunny’s task for them had been to deliver a folder of documents to the civilian governor of Reno. Keenan wanted to shake his head at the ridiculously anachronistic errand. If Gunny couldn’t use his comms for some reason, he could send a drone to the Governor’s mansion.

  To someone accustomed to the tight quarters of military barracks, the palatial home sprawling in front of him hinted at obscenely large bedrooms gauging by the size of those upper story windows. The auto-cab drove up a long, curved driveway and stopped at the front of the security gates. They waved their gauntlets through the security panel and the elaborate wrought iron gates swung open.

  A massive set of dark wood double doors greeted them. The doors glowed in the fading sunlight, framed by an impressive portico of marble columns.

  Keenan noticed Bells eyeing the tall doors and the face of the building with cool detachment. He suspected that, like him, she was less impressed with the ostentatious display of wealth, and was instead checking for sightlines and exits. Old habits. The sooner they were back on the front, the better.

  If the exterior of the home whispered ostentatious, than the interior screamed positively garish. Velvet couches, gilt scrollwork, cabinets filled with bric-a-brac. Keenan found himself uncomfortable with the tackiness of all this wealth, reluctant to touch anything lest he break it.

  Keenan sat, teetered on the edge of an overstuffed armchair while Bells prowled like a caged cat, pacing in front of a picture window. The waiting grated on Keenan’s nerves like broken fingernails on a chalkboard. He wanted to be back at base, testing out the blaster. Even working under the covetous eyes of Harding was better than this. Gunny had voluntold him and Bells for this errand. He could feel his hackles rising when a petite woman entered the room.

  She was probably mid-forties, Keenan guessed. Well-dressed but subdued, in contrast to the home. He stood and identified himself. She took the folder from Keenan and rifled through it, pausing to read over the first page, her brow knitting. Keenan felt Bells still pacing behind him as he studied this woman. Her clothes had the sheen of costly high quality fabric, but the lines on her face spoke of a hard life, of struggle, and survival. She moved with a surprising quickness, each movement precise. If he had to assign a word to her, it was ‘efficient’.

  Even as she read the paper, Keenan had the impression that this small woman was keeping detailed track of where he and Bells were in the room. The woman’s eyes widened as she reached the end of the paper, and she motioned Keenan and Bells to follow her. Without checking to see if they were coming, she turned on her heel and marched deeper into the house.

  Keenan hustled, catching up to the woman as she went through a swinging door. He went through and found himself in a kitchen the size of his barracks. A spotless vista of gleaming chrome and marble greeted them. Mouth-watering aromas wafted over him from a stove the size of a small car. He found it warm, inviting, and above all else, quiet.

  The woman gestured for them to sit at a long picnic table in the back of the kitchen. She sat opposite them and laid the folder in front of her. “It’s a little easier to talk in here, I think.”

  Bells snorted at Keenan’s side. She wore an annoyed expression on her face, but it changed to curiosity as she glanced over to the stove repeatedly.

  He shook his head in mock-disgust. “Really?”

  Bells shrugged, unapologetic. “What? I have a high metabolism.”

  The woman laughed. Keenan turned back to her. The smile took years off her face, and Keenan got the briefest glimpse of what she might have looked like before years of hard living had taken their toll. She rose from the t
able and moved to the range. Keenan watched with interest as she burned the note he had given her.

  She opened a drawer and pulled out a potholder, then lifted the lid off the pot. As she bustled about the stove, she spoke to them.

  “My name is Rosie, and while I am grateful to you for bringing these to me, they are not the reason I asked Sergeant Mason to see you, Lieutenant.” With the ease of years of practice, she dished two steaming bowls of a red soup. She returned with the bowls, and with the same economy of movement she set out small bowls of tortilla strips, diced onions, cilantro, shredded cheese and lime wedges.

  She settled down again across from them, smiling gently. “There’s always room for soup.”

  Bells tipped a nod to Rosie and dove in, dumping in all the condiments and proceeded to make small, happy crooning noises as she ate. The fragrant squeeze of lime over the chicken tortilla soup flashed him to a happier time, the first time Cam had brought him home. Mrs. Alvarez had bustled about slicing fresh tortillas and frying strips while the Alvarez brothers had tossed back beers and yelled at the football game playing on the vids. He’d marveled that his solemn, serious Cam had grown up in the chaotic and noisy Alvarez household.

  Keenan spooned up the rich broth and while they ate, Rosie related her story of escaping Segovia. Even though he had already heard the story from Mack, Rosie’s account rang somehow both more horrifying, and more human. Keenan felt his chest tighten and his hands go cold when Rosie recounted her run through the desert, leaving Cam and the others to defend their retreat.

  He surprised himself by finishing his bowl. More than filling his stomach, it seemed to have filled some of the emptiness in his chest. He cupped the bowl with his hands, enjoying the fading warmth of the ceramic.

  Rosie dropped her eyes now, staring into her tea as if looking for answers. Her voice lowered, hesitant now. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Lieutenant. I didn’t know her for long, but Lieutenant Alvarez--”

  Keenan interrupted her for the first time. “Cam.” The volume of his voice in the sleepy kitchen startled him.

  Rosie hesitated again. “...yes, Cam. Cam was good, and kind, and brave on that terrible day.”

  Keenan felt his eyes prickle. He steadied his breathing, refusing to blink.

  “She saved us. Me, and Miguel, and Julio.” Rosie’s eyes blinked rapidly, as if heavy with unshed tears now. “If not for her and the others, we would have died there. She died to save us. To save me.”

  She’s not dead. The sheer force of this thought nearly knocked him from the bench. His heart thundered, and a warm flush crept up the back of his neck, standing his hair on end. The ache in his chest returned now with a vengeance. A Cam-shaped hole in his being that sucked him down, pulling him out of the land of the living.

  The sucking sensation used to make him lethargic and stupid. But now it felt like it was fanning a flame inside him, stoking a fire in his belly. His hands tingled with pent up energy and he stood, pushing back the bench. Bells yelped as he nearly pushed the bench out from under her. He had to get up, had to move, or he was going to burst.

  Rosie stood, eyes worried. “Lieutenant?”

  “It’s ok,” Keenan said. “It’s ok. I just have to go. Thank you, for everything. For Cam.” He ran a hand through his short hair. He had to get outside. “I’m sure… I’m sure Cam would have been happy to call you a friend.”

  Tears now fell freely from Rosie’s eyes, and she only nodded, a sad smile on her lips.

  Keenan nodded as well, and turned to go. He stopped, realizing he hadn’t cleared his bowl and spoon but Rosie stood and shooed him away. He bobbed his head. “Thanks.” He turned to Bells, “You mind if we walk back?” Bells looked at him, and in her typical friendly way simply said, “I like to walk.”

  Five

  Contact

  Jonesy

  Jonesy’s day had gone from really shitty to downright catastrophic.

  He was restrained on the Ringhead surgical table again. The putty-like material enveloped him from head to toe, leaving only his eyes and nose exposed. It felt like being wrapped in a gigantic sheet of rubber. He labored to breathe against the pressure on his chest. His lips were crushed against his teeth. The taste of pennies leaked into his mouth.

  The Ringhead looming over him looked like what Cam had described to him as a ‘scientist.’ It lacked the vicious elbow spikes, and was smaller than its Hunter brethren. Even so, it still had plenty of strength to manhandle Jonesy, laying him onto this bed like freshly killed game.

  His struggles under the restraints did him no good, gaining him only his arm stuck under himself. The putty reformed and stuck to him, pinning him in place as he tried to move. Even with the putty around his ears, his implants still picked up a lot. He could tell there were at least three other Ringheads in the room with him, possibly four.

  Jonesy’s heart thudded a staccato bass, threatening to explode into his throat from the force of each rapid beat. Things were a lot simpler when Ringheads just killed soldiers. It meant Jonesy never had to think about more than staying alive. Now four of those monsters were just fucking staring at him. What are they going to do to me? He waited in silence, and a cold sweat began to run down his neck and onto the surface beneath him. Death would have been so much easier than facing this.

  Stalking footsteps told him one of the Hunters was headed for him. It loomed over him now, dead black eyes staring down at him. The Hunter lifted a clawed hand in front of Jonesy’s face and made a tight, trembling fist, bare inches from Jonesy’s face.

  Huh. Some stuff was apparently universal. Literally, universal. Strangely, this made Jonesy feel better. This was a language Jonesy could understand.

  Jonesy tried to glare back at the Hunter. It was harder than he thought it would be, with their odd looking eyes. It was hard to tell when you were making eye contact. Still, if this a-hole was trying to mad-dog him, Jonesy needed to step up as best he could. Even if he was tied down to a dinner plate. And it felt way better than being scared.

  The Scientist waved away the Hunter, and began sifting through the array of implements suspended above the bed.

  Uh-oh.

  Jonesy was out of options. Even if he had both hands, he was still trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. At least Cam had gotten away. He hoped. With her freaky alien enhancements, she had the best shot of all them to fly the damn jumpship out of the hangar.

  On that thought, he remembered Daina. Hell, he didn’t even know what had happened to Daina.

  As if on cue, Daina’s voice began to echo through the room, a steady stream of cursing, and the sounds of a struggle. Her voice drew closer, and he heard a body being wrestled on to the bed to his right. The Scientist looked up and walked to the other bed.

  Daina cried out. “Jones! Jo--mmph!” Her voice cut off as her head was undoubtedly secured by the same restraints that held him. Jonesy craned his head as far as he could, catching sight of Daina just in his field of vision. They had her partially secured to a bed as well, but she had one leg free and was fighting to stay that way.

  One of the Hunters hauled back and swatted her across the cheek. The sound of the strike was like a dry branch snapping. Her head lolled and the fight went out of her. Jonesy’s anger went up a notch, but there was nothing he could do.

  Seemingly satisfied that Daina was secure, the Scientist again waved away the Hunters and turned back to Jonesy. Jonesy tracked his movement with wide eyes as the alien reached to the ceiling and pulled down a particularly nasty looking tool, all sharp edges and gleaming points.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the dwarf-like Mother alien appear at the side of his bed. It might have been comical. Its head barely reached over the top of the bed. Its knobby, clawed hand reached over and cupped his cheeks. The fingers were cold and dry. It squeezed, grasping him by main force, pulling his face to the side and forcing him to look the Mother square in her dead eyes.

  Again, the feeling of alien thoughts intruding into hi
s mind, like there was someone following behind him, someone just out of sight. An icy finger of pain bored into his head as his ocular implant switched on. Jonesy frantically tried to shut it down, but the implant was no longer responding to him.

  A miasma of noxious colors swirled before him, threatening him with vertigo and sensory overload. The Mother’s energy signature was like looking into the sun with his eyelids torn off. It continued to squeeze his face. His jaw popped. It came closer to him. As before the eyes remained, bottomless pools of inky black, twin eyes of a storm of color and energy. The presence over his shoulder drew closer, now it was right behind him, crawling up his spine and directly into his hind brain.

  ::Cockroach::

  Jonesy’s eyes widened, his heart now slamming in his chest. The voice was in his head, but it hadn’t said the word, as much as somehow conveyed the idea. Along with disgust, contempt, and an utter disregard for his life. The pain from his eye was a thorny spike, slowly twisting through his head.

  ::Baby::

  Now he felt small and helpless, like a blind, mewling kitten. Icy, clammy sweat crawled down his forehead, and dripped stinging, into his eyes. The Mother’s intrusion into his mind continued, battering into his consciousness.

  ::Broken::

  A high, whistling whimper escaped him as the pain from his implant spiked, it was now like a burning brand thrust into his eye. The Mother flowed through him now, wearing his mind like an ill-fitting glove. The swirling colors and the blinding pain gave way to a white hot nausea boiling up his throat. Jonesy was contemplating the horrifying idea of vomiting with his mouth clamped shut, when the pain eased to the mere suffering of chewing a mouthful of broken glass.