“I repeat, does anyone copy? Over.”
Alex fumbled with the device, slapping it on its side. “This is Alex Wagner. I’m the sole survivor of the Biosphere at Edwards Air Force Base. I’ve been on the run for several days, and I have no idea where the hell I am. I’m being hunted by those things.”
He didn’t care if his voice drew the drone to his location. If he was going to die, he at least wanted someone else to know what had happened to him. He needed to know that someone else had survived. That he wasn’t the last person alive on the planet.
“We heard your message weeks ago, Mr. Wagner. And it’s damned good to know you’re still alive.”
“Yeah, well, I won’t be alive long if I don’t get the hell out of here. Those things are hunting me.”
“Can you tell us your coordinates? We’re a long way from Edwards, but if you sit tight, maybe we can find a way to help you.”
Alex almost laughed as he scanned the beach. Tell them his coordinates? He had no idea where the hell he was. All he knew was that he was on a beach somewhere in California. He doubted that was what the doctor wanted to know.
“Alex, are you still there?”
“Yeah, man, but I don’t know where the hell I am.”
“Just stay calm. We need you to stay alive. We are developing a weapon here. A weapon that can change the course of this war.”
Alex closed his eyes and tried to think. How far had he traveled since escaping the base? What direction had he walked in? The whipping wind and the approaching alien ship made it hard to think. But the ambient sound of the crashing waves was so beautiful, so peaceful. For weeks he had been searching desperately for water. Now a seemingly endless supply was in front of him.
He sat there watching the waves crash against the hull of the boat, and then it hit him.
They have a way of scanning for water.
Blake’s words replayed in Alex’s mind. If the drone was homing in on him because of the water inside his body, then he should be able to evade the craft in the ocean. It should camouflage him long enough to get away.
Dr. Rodriguez repeated his message.
The distant hum of the drone grew closer. Alex’s heart thumped inside his chest. “I’m being fucking hunted! I can’t just sit tight! Hold on,” Alex replied, clipping the radio to his belt.
He could hear Emanuel’s worried voice crackle with protest over the channel as he raced toward the water. The outline of the waves grew larger with every step. He was almost there.
And then the craft was hovering over him, the bright beam from the ship’s underbelly scanning the beach.
He pushed on, his knees creaking and his calves tightening.
He high-jumped over the smaller waves until he was knee-deep in the ocean. In one final thrust, he dove into a monstrous wave and disappeared into the water. Pain from his broken right wrist raced down his arm as he clawed his way through the water.
After he cleared the first wave, he began to front crawl. With every stroke, he could feel the warm salt water trickle into his suit through the tear in its sleeve.
Fuck.
Anxiety paralyzed him as he realized how screwed he really was. This far out, the ocean floor had dropped away from him like a steep, underwater cliff. If he slipped beneath the surface, his suit would fill and he would drown. If he kept his arm above the waves, then the ship would surely capture him.
Neither was a particularly appealing option.
Another wave crashed against his body, sending him tumbling under the water. He screamed in anger, the desperate sound of his own panicked voice filling his helmet.
Reaching down, he tried to cover the gash with his other hand, but it was no use. The water flooded into his armor.
He was going to drown.
He slipped deeper beneath the surface as the torrential current and his water-laden armor pulled him farther down into the abyss. Pawing the water frantically, he kicked toward the surface with every ounce of energy he had left. Dying wasn’t easy. It actually required a lot of work. Or maybe he was just really lucky. Either way, he knew what he needed to do if he wanted to live—he had to shed the armor.
Before the next wave hit, he hunched over to take off his boots. The rest of the suit had to be removed by unfastening several metal clasps. The damned thing was difficult enough to take off on land. It was going to be next to impossible in the water.
But he had to try.
He reached for the neck clasp first. It opened with little resistance and he felt the armor covering his back and chest pop open. Another wave sent him spinning before he had a chance to remove it. By the time his body stopped rotating, he was too dizzy to move.
The taste of salt water spurred him back into motion. He reached for the two clasps on his belt. The one on the right clicked open, but the left wouldn’t budge.
Alex sucked in another deep breath, immediately choking on the water as it continued to fill his helmet.
Get it together!
Alex calmed his breathing. He spit the salt water out of his mouth and reached back down to the other clasp on his belt. This time, it popped open. He grabbed the radio and then kicked out of the bottom half of his armor.
With his body free of its metal prison, he let the current take him again. He had bought himself minutes, just enough time to regain some strength.
When the water in his helmet reached his mouth he closed his eyes and took one last breath through his nostrils before unfastening it and ducking beneath the surface.
And then there was only darkness.
He could feel his body spinning but had no idea in which direction. Ten seconds passed. He could still feel his legs—they were on fire, every inch of muscle burning.
Another couple seconds passed. So did the agonizing pain.
After thirty seconds his eyes snapped open, the salt water burning them immediately. Something had changed.
The beam was gone.
So was the drone.
The irony was not lost on him. He had been camouflaged by the very resource the aliens had come for. In the end, water was what protected him from the alien ship.
He kicked violently upward. Just when his lungs felt like they were going to burst, his head exploded through the surface. Above him, the stars dazzled like a field of orbs, sparkling in the darkness. Somewhere out there was the aliens’ home world.
The current was getting stronger, pulling him farther out to sea. He watched, too tired to swim back against it, as the shoreline diminished until it was just a thin ribbon of yellow sand in the distance. He had been fighting for so long—to escape the Biosphere, to escape the Spiders, to find water. And for what? Everyone he had ever cared about was dead. He didn’t know this Dr. Rodriguez. For all he knew, the man would soon be dead, too.
The water felt cool and warm around him as the waves lapped against his bare skin. Time slowed to a crawl. Maybe he would just float here for a while until the water took him. Float and maybe sleep. He was so tired. It wasn’t such a bad way to go out; his vision slowly fading to darkness, his body simply giving up, his lungs filling with salt water—certainly better than being torn apart by the aliens or turned into an orb. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Yes, he thought. Much better than being turned into an orb.
He was going to join Maria in a place where the monsters couldn’t get him anymore.
CHAPTER 5
SOPHIE splashed water on her face. The liquid immediately cooled her flushed cheeks. She hardly recognized the face in the mirror: a pair of brown eyes sunken and framed with more wrinkles than she ever remembered having. And the worst part? She reached for a long gray hair protruding from her dirty-blond ponytail. She yanked it from her scalp and dropped it into the sink. The hair swirled several times around the drain, as if it knew what awaited it below. Sophie empathized. She knew better th
an anyone—well, anyone besides Alexia—how bad the odds were, and what horrors awaited the survivors outside.
She thought again of the Spider cradling that young boy as it climbed the pole and attached the helpless child to the alien structure. It made her stomach lurch, and she rushed over to the toilet to hurl up the remnants of her dinner. Coughing, she pushed herself away from the toilet seat and back to the sink. Her bloodshot eyes stared back at her from the mirror.
How had it come to this?
Wiping her mouth, she stepped into the hallway and made her way to her room. Collapsing on her bed, she allowed herself a moment to sob into the pillow. The sound of footfalls rang in the hallway outside her room. Please go away, she thought, I just want to be alone.
“Sophie?” Emanuel said from the open doorway.
With a deep breath she sat up and shielded her eyes with her left sleeve, holding out her right hand like a stop sign. “I’m fine, Emanuel. Really. I’m fine.”
Emanuel ignored her lie and rushed to her side. “Sophie,” he said, grabbing her hand. He inched closer, putting his other hand on her back and gently massaging the knotted muscles there. “You can’t keep all this pent up inside. It doesn’t do any good. What we’ve seen can’t be unseen. The best we can do is share the burden. Be there for each other. Without that, what do we have?”
The question lingered in the air. Sophie knew he was right; she needed to confide in him now more than ever. She had isolated herself from the group over the past few days. She couldn’t let that continue; she had to be a leader.
“Maybe Sergeant Overton’s right,” she said. “Maybe we should try and help the survivors now. Take a chance. We’ve done it before.”
He shook his head. “No. Give me a chance to build us a weapon that works. I’m so close, Sophie. Now that I’ve discovered the source of their defenses . . . ” His face filled with excitement.
Sophie laughed, snorting and sniffling in the same moment, a sound that only made her laugh harder. They both chuckled together, and she rested her head against his shoulder, turning away so he couldn’t see her red, puffy eyes. His fingers twined with hers, and a tingle warmed her numb body.
“It’s okay,” Emanuel whispered in her ear. “You made the right choice.”
Sophie nodded, leaning into his grasp. She wanted to feel safe in his arms. But deep down, she knew things would not be okay—deep down, she was losing hope.
* * *
In his quarters, Overton slowly slid a sharp razor over the stubble on his jaw.
It was tradition.
Before he went to war, he shaved. There was something about going into battle with a freshly shaved face and head that made the killing feel more civilized. It was cleaner.
Over the years, he had killed countless men. It had never really disturbed him. Even his first registered kill in San Juan hadn’t bothered him that much. From the beginning of his long career, he had been a recruiter’s dream, the type of man who didn’t need convincing to sign on the dotted line. The type of man the government didn’t need to invest millions of dollars brainwashing.
He was the perfect marine: never questioning orders, never wavering, and, best of all, always following through, even when things got tough. His commitment to the military was also what made him a lousy husband and father.
“Shit!” he hissed as the blade nicked his jaw. A trail of bright red blood began flowing down his chin. He wiped it away with a towel and put pressure on the nick with a finger while continuing to shave with his other hand.
Adrenaline swirled in his bloodstream. He wasn’t sure if it was from the sting of the cut or the thought of saving Thompson and Kiel. Two members of his squad had survived the initial attack after all. And he would be damned if he let them die now, no matter what Sophie had to say.
With one final, swift stroke of the blade he stared into the mirror at his clean face. He was ready again for war.
* * *
ENTRY 1891
DESIGNEE: AI ALEXIA
There is no program in my system that can accurately describe what I have observed over the past five weeks. In fact, there may not be an algorithm designed that could explain what has occurred beyond the Biosphere doors. And no matter what program I run, I cannot seem to find a way to explain the fact that Dr. Winston and her team are still alive.
A human might say this is a miracle. I acknowledge that anomalies are inevitable. Isaac Asimov once said, “The saddest aspect of life right now is that science gathers knowledge faster than society gathers wisdom.” As I continue to . . . feel, I suppose is the only proper word for it, I wonder if it is possible that there is more to the team’s survival than what my programs are telling me.
Whatever the case, the results should be fascinating. Whether they live or die, the data will be more important than the Biosphere mission ever would have been. The results will indicate how humans survive in a worldwide post-apocalyptic scenario. The psychological implications will be invaluable, although there may be no human left to analyze the data.
I return to the images the maintenance drone transmitted before being crushed. This information will be vital in explaining how the Organics operate. The aliens have continued to surprise us. The latest video from the human farms depicts an organized and efficient species.
Early-twenty-first-century scientist Stephen Hawking imagined that an alien race might live on massive ships, having used up all the resources from its home planet. He said that such advanced aliens would perhaps become nomads, looking to conquer and colonize whatever planets they could reach.
He was almost right.
Initially, all evidence pointed at an invasion that would leave the Earth devoid of all water. But this latest video demonstrates where Hawking was wrong; it shows the aliens are not merely jumping from world to world. They are much more efficient than that. Instead, they have found a way to sustain the resource they came for by using the biological life-forms they encounter.
It is logical. Farming humans is a way to keep their armies fed while the ships drain the oceans from orbit. However, while fascinating, this development has caused morale among team members to drop substantially.
I believe Sergeant Overton intends to leave the Biosphere to attempt a rescue mission against Dr. Winston’s orders. I’m not certain how Corporal Bouma feels about this, but I presume he will follow whatever orders are given to him.
Overton has a 9.325 percent chance of success.
I wonder if the percentage of success would increase if he waited for Emanuel to finish his weapon. Dr. Rodriguez has already made great progress on modifying the RVM, and he’s calling it the reverse magnetic automatic pulse, or RVAMP.
The alarm from a motion detector outside the blast doors chirps. I pull up Camera 1 to see Sergeant Overton smoking a cigarette on the tarmac outside. His pulse rifle rests against one of the open blast doors.
This is not the first time he has broken protocol. The Biosphere has been infected multiple times by outside toxins from the sergeant’s habit. If it were not for the homemade cocktail of chemicals Dr. Rodriguez has been able to create, the garden biome would be in ruins.
I can predict—and perhaps even understand—Sergeant Overton’s behavior after careful observation. Lecturing him about the potential risks of letting in outside toxins will more than likely fail to produce any desirable result. He has proven time and again that he does not care about the possible hazards. A man with his background might be expected to doubt science, but what I do not understand is his lack of regard for his teammates.
I have observed this selfish behavior increase the past few weeks. Since the death of Private Finley, Sergeant Overton has been increasingly irritable, lashing out at the others for no discernible reason. Part of this is due to being confined to the Biosphere. I have data describing similar situations. From prisoners in solitary confinement to astronauts
in space, not all humans have the ability to deal with confinement.
I observe Sergeant Overton as he jams another cigarette in his mouth and exhales a trail of smoke into the sky. I calculate the odds of his rescue mission one more time. If he leaves the Biosphere, it is likely I will not have to spend hours destroying any toxins he might bring back. If he leaves the Biosphere, he will not be coming back at all.
CHAPTER 6
SERGEANT Overton grabbed his rifle and paced farther out across the empty tarmac. Wedging another cigarette in between his lips, he cupped his hands over the flame from his lighter. Sucking in the sweet smoke, he paused to look at the valley below.
“Hell on earth,” he mumbled. What had once been a lush valley with crystal-clear creeks snaking throughout was now an arid wasteland. The skeletons of pine trees dotted the scorched earth in all directions. Boulders peppered the hills like tiny impact craters. It was no different from a battlefield.
Somewhere out there, most of his squad was dead. The thought burned his already sweltering skin. Three cigarettes and several minutes in, sweat was bleeding down his face. The temperature continued to rise.
Grunting, he swept the horizon for signs of enemy drones. The red sky matched the color of the landscape through his scope, making it difficult to find the horizon. He hadn’t seen a drone or an Organic for several weeks, but if combat had taught him one thing, it was to never let his guard down. He’d seen men survive ninety-five percent of a deployment only to make a careless mistake at the very end. It had cost one of his best friends his legs, and another friend his life.
“Are you going back out there?” asked a young voice behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder to see Jeff propped up against one of the blast doors, his right leg crossing over his left foot. He looked mischievous as he waited for a response.
Shrugging, Overton took another drag on his cigarette and said, “Dr. Winston would not be happy if she knew you were out here.”
Orbs II: Stranded Page 5
