Suddenly, I’m acutely aware of the slightest sounds around us. The rush of the wind, sticks breaking beneath my boots, the sound of alien water dripping from the tunnel, birds squawking in the distance.
Pretzel grabs me by my good shoulder. “Stay here.”
He takes the flashlight and limps back into the tunnel. I follow him. I never have been good at obeying adults. There are muffled sounds within the darkened tunnel. It’s as though someone’s screaming into a pillow somewhere in the distance.
“Garcia?” Pretzel’s worry is betrayed by the quiver in his voice.
Rather than rushing back along the sloping, curved path, he reaches out, steadying himself with each step, checking his surroundings, not wanting to move too fast. Darkness surrounds us. Vials and vats continue to stir their muddy ingredients. Spider-machines tend to their experiments, ignoring us. Tiny red and green lights flicker, pulsating with a rhythm like that of a heartbeat. Pretzel hobbles on, rocking on his injured leg.
“There!” I say, pointing at the ceiling.
Pretzel brings his flashlight up and we catch sight of Garcia pinned to the roof of the tunnel some ten feet above us. Chrome-plated snakes entwine themselves around the soldier, wrapping themselves across his arms and legs, coiling over his waist, tightening their grip, constricting his chest. Spider-machines cover his face. There are dozens of them hacking away at him, tearing at his bandages. Loose threads drift to the ground in front of us, floating on the slight breeze within the tunnel.
“No,” Pretzel yells, but we’re no threat and the machines continue their gruesome task. Glints of light reflect off knife blades and whirring saws. Blood drips from the ceiling as Garcia screams, yelling in pain.
“Please, no,” I say, and one of the thick chrome snakes peels away from the ceiling, gliding down through the air toward us.
I can hear Garcia hyperventilating, but I can’t see him, just a writhing, seething mass of alien machines hanging from the ceiling, entombing him in a metallic cocoon.
Pretzel pushes me behind him, stepping back slowly as the segmented snake-like robot twists and contorts before us. A face appears in the blunt mirrored surface that marks its head. At first, it’s like that of a viper, with eyes set on either side of the skull and the faint outline of scales, but the face changes, morphing into that of a bird not unlike an eagle, then a monkey with its gothic, deep-set eyes, long nose, thin lips and gaunt cheeks. Seconds later, the robot’s face distorts to become a gorilla somewhat similar to Tiny, with a dense, thick brow, beady eyes, wrinkled skin and a wide, broad, flat nose, all rendered in stunning chrome. It’s trying to match the pattern before it, trying to find the correct representation of us, as finally a human face appears—male, but African in its silvery appearance.
Even though the robot is highly reflective with its mirrored exterior twisting through various shapes, the face drifting in front of us is not European or Asian—high cheekbones, a broad nose and thick lips, along with a prominent chin and wide eyes stare at us coldly, not revealing any emotion. This looks like one of the villagers, but it’s no one I’ve ever seen.
Pretzel continues stepping back, pushing me away as the metallic face at the end of the segmented alien snake dances through the air before us, swaying like a cobra hanging from the ceiling. Its lips are pursed as though it could speak but won’t. It seems to stare right through me.
We edge back into the devastated jungle and the robot retreats, returning to what’s left of Petty Officer Garcia. Slowly, the moans and mumbling echoing down the tunnel subside. We stumble back into the sunlight, feeling numb.
Pretzel falls to his knees among the broken branches scattered across the ground. Like me, he’s physically and emotionally wrecked. To have my father reduced to an empty shell, and then to have Garcia snatched from us is gut wrenching. Although we always knew coming here could result in tragedy, we never really expected it—at least, I didn’t. Even with my arm in a sling, I felt invulnerable, invincible. We’ve survived so much. It seemed as though nothing could stop us—no explosions tearing through the jungle, no alien walkers towering over the land, no soldiers hunting us down, and yet here we are, reduced to just two.
How long before two becomes one?
And who will that be?
Pretzel or me?
As the sun is high overhead, the shadows are stark. The darkness within the tunnel seems impenetrable. Just when I feel as though nothing can take my focus off the alien platform there’s the distinct sound of a ratchet moving a hammer as it’s pulled back within a handgun, locking in place.
“Hello, father,” a distinctly Russian voice says. “Did you miss me?”
Sergei
“Sergei?” Pretzel says, surprised, scrambling to his feet.
“It’s good to see you again, father.”
Sergei holds a handgun outstretched toward us as he clutches at his side. The gun is a fancy chrome-plated revolver with a big barrel and a large hammer at the back, raised high, ready to lash out and strike the primer on a cartridge already loaded into the chamber. His finger twitches on the trigger. Squeeze and a bullet is going to lash out, exploding from the barrel faster than the speed of sound. It’ll tear through one of us before we have time to even register what’s happened.
Sergei’s clothing is burnt and torn from the grenade blast. He’s grabbing at a bloody patch on his uniform, just above his hip, where he was clipped by one of Garcia’s shots. He waves with the barrel of his gun, getting us to move away from the platform. I have my one good arm raised in surrender, holding my hand at shoulder height even though I’m no threat.
Pretzel pleads with him. “What are you doing, Sergei? You must know. You must realize you’re on the wrong side of history.”
“Am I?” Sergei asks with bitterness hanging on his every word. “You’ve been in there, right? You’ve seen the freak show.”
As he speaks, he becomes more animated, consumed with anger, yelling at us. “It’s an abomination! Look at what they’ve done. They’re experimenting on us!”
“Sergei,” Pretzel says with his hands out in front of him, appealing for calm.
“We’re lab rats! We’re nothing more than animals to them—test subjects.”
“They’re trying to understand—”
“That’s bullshit, Pretzel! That’s a lie and you know it. They have no regard for our intelligence. No compassion. No empathy. No ethical concern at all.”
Sergei spits as he yells at us, leaning forward and baring his teeth, flexing every muscle in his body in utter anger.
“I’ll tell you what this is. This is Dr. Josef Mengele at Auschwitz. This is the Nazis experimenting to probe the limits of human suffering, dissecting people, skinning them alive, and you want to talk about First Contact as though it is somehow the height of human endeavors? You’re blind, father. Blind.”
I don’t like the way Sergei’s waving his gun around. He’s using it almost like a pointer against some imaginary blackboard set between us and him. He jabs at the air, drawing sweeping arcs and scribing shapes as though he were madly scrawling some wild equation as he speaks.
“No, Earth must be cleansed of this filth. These atrocities must be stopped. First here, then in orbit. We need to send a message. Earth is off limits. The harvest is over.”
“Sergei,” Pretzel says. “This is a mistake.”
“This is a mistake?” Sergei asks in surprise, pointing the gun behind him, making as though he were about to shoot randomly into the tunnel. Then he swings the pistol around, pointing it at his own chest for a moment, “Or is this a mistake? Which is it, Pretzel?”
“We can’t judge them by the actions of barely 24 hours.”
Veins bulge on Sergei’s neck as he screams, “They’re silent!” He yells in stark contrast to his point, jabbing at us with the gun, making as though he’s about to shoot. “They haven’t said a goddamn word.”
White knuckles flex around the pistol grip. Spittle sits on his beard. Bloodsho
t eyes peer at us with hatred.
“Don’t you get that, father? They’re not talking to us. They spent four months on approach to Earth. Four months during which we knew they were coming. We hailed them in every possible, conceivable manner. Then they moved into orbit with a goddamn asteroid—a fucking planet-killer—and still they won’t talk to us.”
He marches back and forth, pacing as he speaks.
“You think you can do it, don’t you? That’s it, isn’t it? You—the great professor. You’re convinced you can get them to speak when no one else could.
“It’s not going to happen. You can’t ignore this, Pratul. You’ve seen what they’ve done. Do you really think that monstrosity in there is the basis for opening dialogue? Is that what it means to treat us as equals? Do you really believe the world will listen to you when they see images of humans being butchered? Even you can’t spin this. They have violated our trust, our humanity.”
“No,” Pretzel says softly, although I’m not sure which part of Sergei’s diatribe he’s objecting to. As much as I respect Pretzel, Sergei’s got a point. I may despise Sergei for the death of Dr. O’Brien and Brother Mordecai, but I can’t ignore his logic—that’s my dad in there pinned against the wall, twitching and squirming with yellow goo dripping from his butchered chest.
“No?” Sergei shakes his head. “I knew you were stubborn, but even I didn’t think you were this cold and hardhearted. Your ego. Your ego is... Would you betray even your own kind, dear father?”
Sergei pauses, looking at me and then back at Pretzel. He seems to latch on to my confusion about his use of the term father.
“He hasn’t told you who I am, has he?”
I shake my head.
“You’re not the first one to be swept into orbit around the great Dr. Pratul Arjun Khatri-Lagharin. He does this everywhere he goes, you know. He finds impressionable young girls and boys, teens mostly, and molds them into his own image, sponsoring them through college.
“Oh, it’s all very sweet. He flatters you, grooms you, lures you into his little cult. Before you know it, you’re as passionate as he is and you find yourself dedicating your life to his research, leaving family and friends behind. Then—and only then—will he introduce you to your real family, and you find out there are others, all at different stages, all devoted to the cause.
“His is the ultimate new age religion—worshipping life in outer space.
“Ah, there are no church pews on Sundays, no psalms to sing or tithes to collect, but make no mistake, you are expected to perform. Nothing is as painful as having father withhold affection. Nothing will make you—”
Pretzel snaps. “Leave him the hell out of this, Sergei.”
“Did I strike a raw nerve?” Sergei asks. He turns back to me, saying, “You’ve seen them, right? The specimens on display, the chimeras—part human, part monster, part alien, part machine.”
My lip quivers at the thought of what happened to my father. Sergei pauses. For a moment, it’s as though he’s compassionate, sensing that what happened in there has affected me on a personal level. Then a smile betrays the depths of evil in his heart.
“You knew them, didn’t you? And the American? Oh, wait, is that your father?”
I’m quiet, bowing my head as tears run down my cheeks.
“It is.” He laughs, addressing Pretzel. “Oh, you have outdone yourself.”
I feel hurt, betrayed. My father isn’t some monstrosity to be poked and prodded in a laboratory or displayed like a freak in a museum. It’s cruel, hateful.
Sergei laughs at my heartache, pointing at Pretzel with the gun as he addresses him. “The boy trusted you. He thought you had the answers. He believed in you and look at what happened to his father.
“Can’t you see? There are consequences to your actions. Your bravado sealed his fate. All your bluster—they come in peace, they mean us no harm, this is the start of a new age, a new era unlike any we have seen before—no, this is the beginning of the end, father. The only thing you have started is the apocalypse.”
“You don’t understand,” Pretzel says, pleading with him.
“And what is it I don’t understand?” Sergei asks, holding his arms out wide and bowing slightly, making as though he were seeking audience with some foreign king. “What is it you would teach me, O Great One?”
Pretzel is barely able to contain himself. His lips are pursed, while his jawline is hard and unyielding. I can see anger in his eyes.
“We don’t have enough information. What we do know is incomplete.”
“You’re lying,” Sergei says.
Pretzel is frustrated, searching for the right words. “We assume too much. They came here expecting to find biological life, not sapient life. It is up to us to prove we’re equals in intelligence. And what have we shown them? What have we demonstrated by detonating a thermobaric bomb or by fighting each other in the jungle and out on the plains? What is our intelligence to them? Is it akin to that of a dolphin to us? Or a dog? An octopus or an ant? We’re not making a case to be taken seriously.”
Sergei laughs. “Do you know what I think? I think you can’t admit when you’re wrong. I think pride has blinded your eyes.”
A cloud passes overhead, but it’s dark, heavy with rain waiting to fall, forming a stark contrast with the brilliant light of day and instinctively my eyes cast up. That motion is enough of a distraction to get Sergei to look up as well, although I’m not sure what he expects to see, perhaps one of the alien machines looming overhead. Pretzel seizes the opportunity to attack, lunging forward while the gun is faced haphazardly away from us. He strikes Sergei with his flashlight, hitting him across the face, raking the heavy casing over his cheeks and nose. The gun goes off, breaking like thunder.
“Run!” Pretzel yells as Sergei is knocked backwards onto the broken branches scattered across the muddy ground.
Run where?
I scramble into the tunnel with Pretzel following hard behind me. He’s limping, but forcing himself on at almost a running pace, swinging his injured leg madly and grimacing in pain. The flashlight flickers across the walls of the tunnel, not settling on anything, rippling over the various tiers as we rush on.
I’m tempted to dart into one of the small side-tunnels and pause. I come to a halt beside the severed arm hanging from the wall, desperately trying to find somewhere to hide, but Pretzel pushes me on.
“Keep going.”
Sergei yells down the tunnel, “You can’t run from me. I’ll find you.”
The flickering flashlight brings the various specimens mounted on the walls to life. A leopard growls, baring its teeth. Burnt fur and severed hind-legs betray it as an alien automaton. Birds squawk, shrieking in the darkness, their calls are shrill and loud, echoing around us. Monkeys yell as if in response, but there’s no life in here, just mimicry.
We follow the path as it winds higher and turns tighter. Pretzel flicks the flashlight down and into a side-tunnel, tossing it in there while pushing me on up through the main walkway. The flashlight tumbles, rattling along the ground, illuminating the crawlspace leading away from us.
He pulls me to a halt just around the corner. Something claws at my head. Metal fingers touch at my bandaged shoulder. I bat them away, unsure what scares me more, Sergei or the aliens. My heart leaps into my throat. Sweat drips into my eyes, causing them to sting. I blink, rubbing them, desperate to be able to see nothing at all in the darkness.
Suddenly, the side-tunnel goes dim. Sergei is crouching. Pretzel rushes at him from behind, using two fists clenched together to hammer him on the back of the neck. As Sergei is well over six foot in height, while Pretzel is shorter than me, I can see why he lured him toward that narrow crawlspace. He’s trying to negate the height difference.
Sergei collapses under the blow, falling to his knees. Pretzel strikes him again, aiming for the base of his skull, keeping his hands bound as though he were holding the handle of an axe, but he’s frail, humbled by age, unable
to draw on reserves of strength. Over the noise of a dead jungle coming to life, there’s yelling from the two men. Birds screech. Monkeys scream, hollering in the darkness, excited by the fight.
Punches are thrown and blocked. Fists lash out. Heads rock back under crushing blows. Shadows flicker in the half-light. The Russian head-butts Pretzel and he falls into me, pushing me against the narrow wall of the tunnel. Suddenly, the barrel of the gun emerges from the darkness and we both hold still.
“I’ve waited a long time for this,” Sergei says, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, but he doesn’t notice the dark figure dropping silently from the ceiling, landing low and quiet on the ground behind him, still somewhat curled up. Spider-machines clamber across the wall beside us, excited by the conflict. A snake hisses. A wild dog growls, ready to bite if it could. The arms of a dismembered gorilla slap the walls in anger.
From behind Sergei, a familiar voice speaks from the darkness. “Well, I hate to disappoint yah.”
Sergei turns but he’s no match for Petty Officer Garcia. The Navy SEAL is ruthless, grabbing Sergei’s right hand and twisting it up, forcing the gun away from him. Sergei yells in pain as his wrist is bend backwards, but Garcia isn’t finished, slamming him into the wall. The gun clatters to the ground, slipping into the gutter and disappearing beneath the yellow gunk.
Sergei steps back and tries to use his size and weight to his advantage, throwing hay-makers—wide, swinging fists that, should they connect, would knock someone out, but Garcia has spent over a decade in the Navy SEALs preparing for a fight like this. He ducks beneath the punches, hammering his fists into Sergei’s ribs and sternum. Whereas Sergei is like a Panzer tank, Garcia hits with the speed and rhythm of a machine gun. Bones break, cracking like twigs.
Watching Garcia shuffle with his feet, dancing in the shadows thrown out by the flashlight lying on the ground, I get the feeling he’s enjoying this. For him, it’s a training run.
3zekiel (First Contact) Page 23
